I would take food to this man’s house a couple blocks past Echodale, south, deeper into the city. He was a young guy, in his twenties and he had a gorgeous wife. She was a strawberry red hair, angel faced—beautiful—mid height, maybe five-eight, taller than your average woman, great breast, ass, the whole package. This guy was fucking lucky. They would order pizza on a regular basis. This guy was an auto-mechanic. They were real nice people. They had three kids, young kids.

I come there one night in December, the day before this Mayan calendar bullshit was supposed to happen. He was in there drunk as shit and he offers for me to come in and have beer with him. He’s drinking Bud ice and I say, “Yeah, sure.”

So I go in and drink Bud ice with him. He was all fucked up and was real upset, saying the world was going to come to an end. I guess in his mind, when the world is coming to an end you get the family pizza and subs.

He gives me a 30-dollar tip on top of the cost of the food. I said, “Thank you,” and he’s says, “Don’t worry about it. You’re not going to get to spend it, the world is about to end,” and he starts to explain this Mayan calendar bullshit to me. I finish my beer while smiling at his wife and got the hell out of there before he changed his mind and wanted his 30-dollars back.

I got the last laugh. The world didn’t end.