Pushing Daisies

As the temperature in the city rose to a historic high, Carl and his half-charred companion raced against the clock. It was just before noon on the August long-weekend and the insatiable picnic, beachgoer, and birthday party crowds were ringing up for pizza at an alarming rate. Carl had been unexpectedly dispatched by “Pepper’s Only Pizza” on 4^th street and Main.

Mr. Pepper was a proud man who had painstakingly built his pizzeria from the ground up. Throughout the decades his once jet-black hair greyed and his defiant stance settled into a comforting stoop, all in service of becoming a beloved fixture in the community. Locals often gossiped over which customers had become favourites of Mr. Pepper as they’d receive the much sought-after phrase, “Please, call me Giancarlo.”

“Listen, Carl. I like you. You’re a hard worker. But my commercial says ‘From here to your door,–’ say it with me Carl, ‘–in 30 minutes, never more. If we’re late, please come in store, for your… free soda’.” Mr. Pepper paused. Carl could hear faint calculations muttered through the phone. “You’ve cost us twelve free sodas this week alone!”

Carl’s van—something between a hearse and an ice cream truck–groaned as it crested over a large hill. A shimmering haze rose from the road ahead. Carl’s eyes found the rear-view mirror. Red bricks from the old mortuary were swallowed by the rear horizon. Its chimney sunk slowly like a dutiful ship captain, leaving behind dark clouds to bloom across a clear sky. Carl had never seen the mortuary cough up smoke that black before.

“Gian—, sorry, Mr. Pepper. I’m doing my best, you know that. Have I ever failed to deliver one of your incredible pizza pies?” Pinned between his ear and shoulder, Carl’s phone was damp with sweat. His free hand fiddled with the A/C dial already cranked to the coolest setting. A thermometer dangling from the rear-view mirror clinked against the windshield with each bump in the road; it read 42˚ C. The temperature hadn’t stopped climbing.

Carl continued, “Okay, Okay. Yes, sometimes I’m a little late. But you know I cover that cost with my tips. You know that.”

The leather upholstery and metallic interior of Carl’s van had been worn and muted by the years. Bang! The van hit a small pothole in the road and heavy contents in the back hurled dangerously towards Carl before slamming into a metal divider. The gurney locking system had failed.

Mr. Pepper let out a small sigh. “Carl, I built this whole pizzeria with my own two hands. When my father–”

“Oh, come on, please don’t give me the whole speech. Just let me have it, it’s fine.”

“In the end, it’s just a dollar a soda. We sell one pizza and the money comes back, no problem. What pains me is that for every pizza that’s delivered late, it’s my name on the box. It’s my father’s name, it’s my nonno’s name. Each soda’s another broken promise to our customers.”

“Listen, Giancar–,” Carl swore as he looked out his window to the concrete flowerbeds by the sidewalk that blurred past. Yellow daisies keeled over in the relentless sun while opportunistic weeds moved in on the soil bed below. Carl rolled to a stop at the town square just as the clocktower signalled the hour with a cacophony of bells. It was noon exactly.

A pile of torn open envelopes and letters strewn about Carl’s makeshift coffee table flashed in his mind, each increasing in their urgency: “…we have yet to receive payment for—”; “without payment, we are afraid that action must be taken…”. On the passenger seat beneath a post-mortem report lay an unopened envelope. Carl looked over. Across the envelope, stamped in red with all capital letters, ‘FINAL NOTICE’ glared back.

Carl cleared his throat. “Mr. Pepper. Times are tough, you know that. I need this job, I really do.”

In the heavy silence that followed, Carl bit his lip and stopped just short of drawing blood. It was a habit he’d been trying to kick since he picked up a second job.

“I like you, Carl. One last chance. Well, two,” Mr. Pepper conceded. “A call just came in for a large Hawaiian. Grab your order from the store and then pick up Salvatore and help him with his order. And please, no late deliveries today.”

Carl raced through the final second of a yellow light.

…

A crowd stood like groundhogs around an old sycamore tree, just off the sidewalk. They squeezed in together under the shade of the green canopy, mostly motionless, save for oscillations between the tree and nearby commotion. Carl parked two blocks down and glanced at the time. Five minutes had passed since he sprinted into the pizzeria, grabbed his order, and threw it into the van without inspecting it. His delivery had to wait, finding Salvatore was the priority now.

A steady gale of A/C feathered through Carl’s thick moustache as he scanned the scene. The sun was overhead now with no clouds to soften its harsh rays. A bright red sportscar was flipped sideways against the sycamore’s trunk, sinking the driver’s door partway into the grass. Broken glass sparkled all around.

Standing out from the crowd was a man with slicked hair that shone like an oil spill. Despite the heat, he appeared animated under a sweat-stained tank top that clung to a small pot belly. Carl watched the man wave his hands as if the pair of paramedics before him were his orchestra, and he the drenched conductor. The pair conferred to one another before jotting something down and driving off.

Soon after, a tow-truck drove past Carl towards the commotion, drawing the portly man’s attention. With a mischievous grin, the man pointed at Carl, climbed onto the sideways car, reached into the backseat, and pulled out two medium pizza boxes. The crowd Ooh’d and Ahh’d.

The passenger door opened, and Carl pounced on his documents before stuffing them into the glovebox. The man watched with a raised eyebrow. With a shrug, he chucked both pizza boxes into the van, where one landed flat and the other tumbled onto its side.  

“You must be the famous Carl, huh? I’m Sal.” He hocked a loogie, wiped his chin, and then extended a moist hand. Five sausages adorned with gaudy rings wriggled expectantly. Carl smiled weakly and reluctantly gave Sal’s hand a shake.

“How much time is left on your delivery?” Asked Carl while watching the tow-truck driver inspect the crashed sportscar. His head was bursting with questions.

By his feet, Sal placed his pizza boxes on top of Carl’s order of a single large pizza. He then fiddled with his seat position until his headrest touched the metal divider behind him.

“What the hell kinda car you driving anyway? This some sort of ambulance? Some kinda pizza doctor, are ya?” He laughed at the thought before adding, “You’re even late like a doctor, too.” Sal broke eye contact when he saw Carl’s stony expression. “Whoa, alright. I’m not on trial here. You got here late and now you got about­” —Sal glanced at his gold watch— “maybe 10 minutes before it’s free soda o’clock. Look out world, ‘Carbonated Carl’ comin’ in with another late delivery!” Sal cackled. “And don’t even think about kicking me out. I gotta make sure you don’t pull a fast one on us.”

Carl slammed the dashboard. Sal’s inquisitive hands retreated from the glovebox, and he held them up. He then tore off the receipt from one of his pizza boxes and pantomimed waving a white flag. Wordlessly, Carl took the receipt: “Deliver to: ‘Mrs. Ginger’ - Medium Pepperoni Pizza x2.” He shifted into drive and rolled out past the collision.

Sal looked out the window to his totalled car and shook his head, muttering to himself.

“After the stop sign, take the next left,” said Sal without looking back.

…

As they drove, Carl’s attention alternated between Sal and the odd wheezing noise coming from his A/C. Receiving directions from Sal proved to be more of a crapshoot than panning for gold. Carl only managed to strike valuable information between Sal’s rapid-fire of questions.

“Why do you have medical stuff everywhere?”

“I don’t.”

“Oh yeah? What about all those latex gloves and hand sanitizer? You scared of tomato sauce or something?”

“No,” said Carl, tapping the brakes. “Left or right?”

“What’re you hiding in the back, huh? A pile of­ dead bodies?”

Sal’s thumb jutted to the right and Carl swerved the van at the last second, slamming the contents in the back against the metal side. A loud Thud reverberated throughout the vehicle. Sal’s eyes widened and he pointed frantically to the metal divider.

“I knew it! You’re hiding something back there and I bet that’s why you’re always late,” Sal said triumphantly. “Tell you what, I’ll get you to the delivery address on time, for once, and in exchange, you show me what’s in the back. Deal?”

With only a few minutes before he was late, Carl was running out of options.

…

Earlier that morning, Carl woke to Maria’s breathless call. Despite the panic in her voice, just hearing her speak brought a sleepy smile to his face.

Maria had followed in her father’s footsteps to become heir to the town’s mortuary monopoly. She even spearheaded the purchase of their new mortuary located on the south side of town, complete with a brand-new retort.

Maria’s father had resisted, arguing that, “bodies have been burnt the same way since the discovery of fire. I’m sorry, but I’m going to need a damn good reason to justify sinking all our money into this.” Unfortunately for Maria and her father, justification rose up phoenix-like that morning: Mr. Lytton, beloved ex-mayor, lay half-crisped in the non-functional combustion chamber of the old retort. His once-kind face had been darkened and singed, yet an eerie smile remained as if he were simply napping in shadow. 

Maria took a second to steady her breathing. “Mr. Lytton’s daughters are dropping by the old mortuary in the afternoon with the press. They’re writing some piece about their father’s ‘lasting legacy’ on the town and want some pictures with his ashes. If the press gets wind of this, we’ll get dragged through the mud and Dad’s going to have a heart attack.”

Still on the phone, Carl tumbled off his sweat-stained bedsheets. The sun had barely risen, and it was already 35˚ C.

Maria continued, “Dad’s going to sneak Mr. Lytton out in a body bag and then stall them. I need you to deliver that corpse to the south mortuary location as fast as you can. I’ll be there getting the new retort up-and-running so I can, respectfully, finish roasting this guy. I think I can get the retort fired up by 1 pm. Can you do it?” In a sweet half-whisper, she added, “You’re the only one I can trust Carl, please.”

…

In front of a squat, white house, a baby-faced man paced along a rickety porch. He was swivelling his head between his watch and the driveway. Two blonde children, one in a flowy dress, the other in shorts and a bucket hat, followed their father closely. By the road, a woman under a wide brim sunhat and goggle-like sunglasses leaned against a mailbox that read “Kale” in peeling paint.

With a minute left before the 12:40 pm deadline, the Kale’s called out the passing seconds. They were halfway done when Carl turned onto their street. He shot Sal an angry look when he realized that Sal had led him past this street earlier. Sal shrugged with his feet up on the dashboard.

Carl was nearly out the door before he remembered to shift the van into park. He raced over to Mrs. Kale while the kids shrieked out, “Six! Five! Four!”. Mrs. Kale’s mouth went wide. She turned and ran, stumbling to their porch. “Two! One! Free soda!” Mr. Kale scooped up his kids and they all cheered.

Breathless, Carl said, “Hello, I have a delivery for Ginger. Please, there’s been a mistake. I was here right on time. Your kids were still chanting seconds when I was on your lawn.”

“First of all, it’s ‘Mrs. Kale’ to you, young man,” she said, tapping her foot. “Secondly, are you calling us liars? I’m not so sure Giancarlo would like to hear that, now, would he?”

Carl opened his mouth in protest, but no words came out. Defeated, he chewed his lip absentmindedly and completed the delivery. Mr. Kale’s baby face was scrunched up in a tiny sneer while both kids stuck out their tongues and giggled. Behind Carl, a clanging filled the air as Sal tried in vain to bust open the back of the van.

“Wait a minute, what if I covered the sodas myself? I have about, uh—” Carl reached into his pockets and produced a gum wrapper and some lint. He looked up sheepishly at Mrs. Kale on the porch, looming several steps above him. “One second!” Carl placed the pizza boxes on a step and sprinted back to the van. As he ran, he didn’t notice Sal sitting halfway out the passenger door and beside him, an open glovebox.

Carl threw himself into the driver’s seat and pilfered through every nook and cranny before noticing that the van felt like an oven. A small gasp escaped his lips as he thrust his hands to the dashboard air vents. Nothing. He grabbed at the hanging thermometer: 46 ˚ C. His heart dropped; Mr. Lytton was going to liquefy.

“Sal! Sal, when did the A/C blow?”

Sal didn’t reply. Littered on the floor of the van was shreds from an envelope with an unmistakable red stamp. Carl’s blood boiled. He lunged for the back of Sal’s shirt but was just a hair too slow. Sal shot out from his seat and onto the sidewalk before tripping and landing on the Kale’s lawn. Fluttering onto the grass beside him was the post-mortem report and an eviction notice.

Sal didn’t have time to get up before Carl was on him. Pinned down, Sal kicked up his feet as he laughed.

“You’re done, Carl! It’s over man, the pizza’s gone cold!”

Carl gripped Sal’s collar and shook him. He felt like screaming but he didn’t know what to say. Near Sal’s hyena-like expression, a wilted daisy drew Carl’s attention. Below its yellow petals, Carl laid eyes on the word “eviction” for the first time and his anger dissipated into a weightless mist. He released Sal and sat down, clutching his knees to his chest.

“I can’t wait ‘till pops hears about this! Two late pizzas and a dead guy in the back. Jesus! I mean, I could never get you fired before, but now I find out you’re hauling around actual corpses like some kinda crypt keeper. Pops is gonna freak!” Sal exclaimed, holding his hands to his cheeks in disbelief.

In the middle of the town, the clocktower bells rang out. Carl’s eyes fell onto the back of his van, and in an instant, he was back on his feet. Sal’s self-satisfied grin evaporated as Carl swung his hand towards him. Peeking through his fingers, Sal watched Carl pocket his documents and rush back to the van. Melted cheese and pepperoni grease lined the mouths of the Kale family while they took in the scene on their front lawn.

When Carl slammed the glovebox shut, he noticed Sal had torn off the receipt for his order. It didn’t matter anymore anyway. As Carl drove off, the town’s temperature approached the half-century mark.

…

It took less than ten minutes for Carl to get to Maria’s new mortuary. He took careful note of the skylights in the sloped roof before rushing to Mr. Lytton. Just as the padlock was unfastened from the van’s rear doors, Maria appeared, squinting under the bright sun. She matched Carl in both jumpsuit and latex gloves.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said Carl, pulling at the flipped over gurney. Then, nervously, “You know, I really like the skylights. Nice touch.”

They exchanged quick pleasantries while reorienting the body bag and rolling the gurney into the air-conditioned relief of the mortuary. The building was brand new and filled only with the smell of fresh paint and concrete. That is, except for the fired-up retort in a back corner. Once the body reached the corner, Carl’s job was done. Little was said while Maria worked under the steady drone of venting fans. During the process, Maria glanced over at Carl from time to time. He was drenched in sweat and covered in grass stains. Since arriving, only once did he meet her eyeline.

When Maria had finished, Mr. Lytton’s body was allowed to resume its journey towards the undiscovered country where his spirit was no doubt lying in wait. Soon, his half-charred smile gave way to embers and a new sleep took him.

“You’re late,” Maria finally said. She took off her gloves and then went to check the retort gauges.

Carl felt overwhelmingly heavy as he watched her walk off. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture in the building, so Carl sat on the cool concrete and pulled his knees in close.

“I guess I’m always late,” said Carl, rubbing his shins. He gave a hollow laugh. “You know, I used to run a lot as a kid. All the kids in my neighbourhood did. And you know, I never won once. Never. But I finished every race I ever started. I guess I always thought that’d count for something.” Carl looked up at the skylights, glad to be out of the heat.

Maria turned to face Carl. “Oh, really? Every race?” She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “Then why am I not holding a large Hawaiian pizza right now?”