Margherita

I

Lucas Baker is the most boring guy you'll ever meet.

So boring, you probably don’t even want to meet him at all.

Listen to the name alone. Feel it on your tongue. Round and sticky like a chewed gum. And just as plain in flavour. You'll meet a hundred Lucas and you'll meet a hundred Bakers as well. How common does this guy want to be? Do you see how boring he is?

Lucas Baker lives in one of the white shoe-box houses on Oak Street. A brown door, about six apartments. Lucas Baker lives on the first floor, of course.

The most interesting thing happening in his neighbourhood is probably when two of the garden-owners discuss if their mowing-border was taken seriously. It wasn't. One of them clearly does not mow enough, but who am I to judge? I just happen to stand here, overlooking the place. And waiting for him. Waiting for the moment he finally appears behind the glass.

You think I'm a stalker? What are you assuming? I just know a lot about him. But nothing interesting. In the end, he even ordered me here. So, I have every right to be watching him. To try to look through the window which definitely needs a clean-up. Still, he's visible enough. Donning his brown cord jacket. Probably to go outside and look if his pizza has arrived already. It has. And at the same time, it hasn't.

You know, Lucas Baker can't cook. And I don't judge. I'm just saying. That's why he orders pizza. Every day. Maybe you can even guess his order? I bet you can by now.

Every single day Lucas Baker orders a margherita pizza, medium in size. At exactly two p.m. the order comes printed out of the register in our kitchen. The moment the box is closed, I pack the bike and begin the journey. Every day, I get to see a little of him.

Of course, the delivery takes a little. Every day I wait a little longer than before. There needs to be a little inconsistency, right? I'm not boring, am I?

So, I get to see more of him every time. His kitchen from the window. Used cups in the sink. All white furniture and products from brands everyone buys nowadays.

Or I can see him doing his after-shower routine. With his very white towel, drying his hair. That's it. A bit too little to be called a routine, to be honest.

When he goes to sleep at 11 p.m. I'm always the last one to see his light, and when I notice it going out, I'm finally able to go to sleep as well. Not that Lucas Baker orders pizza at night, nobody like him would do such thing. But other than him, I’m not bound by routines.

But when he does order his standard every afternoon, I'm happy when he opens the door. Mostly, he's in a white shirt and a bright pair of jeans, looking quite fresh on him. But, also plain, a little pale like a corpse.

Maybe he died out of boredom.

Still, I smile at him. My typical service-smile. Not that I use it exclusively for tips. I mean, I understand if you do. Tips are beautiful, they feel even more earned than the actual payment. But also, I think every customer deserves to be smiled at. At least as long as they don't mess it all up. Lucas Baker doesn't. He's too boring to do so.

His gaze drifts down my body. From the usual cap, with my ponytail tucked through the back to my work polo shirt and the jeans. I wait for his eyes to muster and hope he doesn't recognize me. But probably not with my different hair.

One medium pizza, I call out. Bon Appetit. My voice must be a little higher than usual. Can't explain that, actually. But Lucas Baker just smiles one of his bright and kind of beautiful, yet of course quite forced and boring smile. He's waited forty minutes for his delivery, might as well be earned. I hold the carton closed with my hand as I slide it over. I know that Lucas Baker always opens the box first to look if his order got made correctly. But when I took the pizza, I already checked it, so why bother with it again? Doesn't Lucas Baker trust me? Come on, not trusting others is so outdated.

Since Lucas Baker already paid online, there is no need to further engage with him. I wish him another Bon Appetit and head off. On the way to my bicycle I throw another glance towards his window. Kitchen, again. And there he stands. Suddenly, his eyes are locked on mine. Ice prickles my veins as I freeze in position. Look away, my dear.

II

- somewhere between two telephones –

Hello

Hi, this is Pizza Parlour. My name is Mandy Brown, how can I help you?

My name is Lucas Baker-Templested and I've ordered quite a few times in the last couple of weeks.

Pause

I wanted to acknowledge that the last times I ordered, there were some mistakes with my delivery.

What kind of mistakes are you talking about?

I ordered a different pizza every time, since I wanted to try out the whole menu. But every time it was just a pizza with sauce and cheese I got. And I could clearly see that the other ingredients had been on the pizza, but were removed before it came to me.

That's a very weird thing to happen. (chuckles lightly)

(Laughs) Yes that's what I thought as well. But it happened a few times already. Just today I ordered a broccoli Pizza. But when I got it, there were clear imprints of broccoli in the cheese, but no other ingredients.

Sir, I can promise you that in our kitchen we precisely check every pizza being made. Still, I believe you in your issue. Do you know which deliverer was serving you?

(Pause) If I remember it correctly, her name was Miranda Starwood. Brown hair, in a ponytail under her cap. Maybe 5’11. But I didn’t really look at her this closely.

Miranda… I’m not aware of any worker here called Miranda. Your description also doesn’t really match any of the staff here. Are you positive you’ve reached for the right pizza place?

I’m totally sure.

Well, I’m very sorry for your inconvenience as well as for the fact that we might not help you any further at the moment. If you quickly tell us your email we will send you a voucher for your next order, which we will, of course, prove extra-carefully.

That’s a kind offer, thank you.

III

Oh, sorry, dear. You were never meant to overhear that. Did you listen to what I said? Yes, you did? Well, didn’t I do great? I even hid the embarrassment when Lucas admitted he didn’t really pay attention to me.

It’s not hard imitating another voice. My mother was an audio book narrator and having her read me a story as a child was always the best part of going to bed. Together we would imitate the voices of the different characters.

So, when I got sick, I became Lola the heroine, who could easily endure any difficulties. When I started school, I became Florence Summerlocks, who everyone loved. And when Lucas called Pizza Parlour, I became Mandy Brown, who knows nobody and nothing. Who has another common, boring name, just like him.

When my mother died, I didn’t know who to become.

All of the characters in her head were happy and lived their best lives. There was no character who could show me how to deal with grief. How to find back to the roots of my life. All the other characters still had mothers and fathers.

I had to write myself a new story.

Alone, on my desk, I drew the outlines of her – of me. Miranda Starwood – a beautiful woman, whose past just makes her stronger. Like a DnD-Character I gave her strengths and weaknesses. I forged her weapons and gave her the spells I badly needed. On New Years Eve, one day before the funeral, I became her. Tragically, I threw the character sheet in the fireplace, only to later regret it, since now there was no physical reminder of who I was. What I could do. But no character needs a sheet. It’s always the player using a sheet.

My mother was buried on such a cold day, I feared this moment would freeze into my brain. Actually, I just wanted to get it over with. Until I saw him.

He was a little taller than me. His light brown eyes reminded me of the summer I so much yearned for – not only in season, but in life as well. With his gentle motions, he patted the grave. Who was this guy and what did he do on my mother’s funeral?

Over the pizza at the end of the day I asked him for his number. I got his name and life situation already. Enough to know what a great character he would make next to Miranda Starwood.

That was before he said a funeral would be not the right place for such things. And so, he took his spinach pizza and left. Did he think he was special eating something else than margherita? Did he enjoy himself a little too much? When he went to his Mercedes, I decided to turn him into someone else. Lucas Baker, the guy who was so boring, he was not good enough for Miranda Starwood. He would drive a boring Toyota (no Mercedes), eat margherita pizza and would just be such a boring person that he had to invent problems to finally be somewhat interesting.

He would invent a stalker in front of his house.

He would invent someone disrupting his pizza order.

Miranda Starwood would not be interested in him at all.

You know men can’t be trusted, right?

---

And somewhere on Marc-Oakberry-Lane, in a small front yard, birds would gather and pick up the remains of corn, broccoli, spinach and everything else that would lie between the pebbles and small plants. Only the large, rectangular plastic card they couldn’t carry in their small beaks. Neither could they read that it had a name written on it:

Mandy Brown