This photo is so laughably sad. Despite
the fact that it's not much to look at, it still remains one of my
favorites to this day due to the emotion caught on film. It's also
one of the reasons I created this section. Every time someone looks
through one of my album's and sees this picture, they inevitably ask:
"What happened here?" Well, I'll tell you.
During the spring and summer of 2001,
I was transferred from Baxter Ave. over to the Village Eight to serve as
the theatre's general manager while the presiding manager went on
maternity leave. When her return was forthcoming and my stewardship
near its end, some of the employees decided to throw me a "Going Away
Party." One of those events that managed to melt a thin layer
of ice from around my heart.
The festivities were held at the
apartment of Brandon Jackson (seen dead center). He wanted to host
the event since he had just moved into the apartment a couple of weeks
earlier. We didn't get at his place until about 1:00 AM and soon found
that all the pizza delivery services in the area were closed for the night.
So, in an effort to impress those present with his new abode, Brandon left
in search of a grocery store so he could obtain some frozen pizzas for
us.
When he returned, he struggled with
the stove, admitting he hadn't used the oven portion of it yet and wasn't
sure if it worked properly. Evidently it didn't because the results
are displayed above. The pizza was horribly burnt to a crisp on one
side, blackened beyond recognition. However, the other half was
barely defrosted and was still sopping wet and frigidly cold. It was
as if the pizza had managed to defy the laws of physics in cooking.
Still we ate it, not wanting Brandon to feel too horrible. Granted
it was some of the worst pizza I've ever eaten, but his heart was in the
right place. Still, I think the crowning touch of the photo is the
burning cigarette in Brandon's hand. The shame of the culinary
disaster was great, but not overwhelming enough to make him drop his
cigarette.
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