Sunday

Driving home from the movie theater, I hit a zebra. This happened somewhere around the corner of Lincoln and Partridge. The zebra seemed to just appear out of nowhere. My car wasn't even scratched. The zebra was fucked. I got out of my car and sorta kicked at the zebra with my foot and said, "Yo zebra, you dead?" but I knew the zebra was dead. Its eyes were wide open and blood dribbled from the side of its mouth. There were zebra teeth all over the place. I had to be careful when I walked because I was wearing my old flip-flops.

So after I spent a little while mulling over this dead zebra, a short balding man in a very expensive-looking suit came up to me and gestured towards the zebra. "You killed that zebra pretty good," he said. "Thanks," I said, "it was my first one." I wasn't yanking his chain or nothing either, that really was my first dead zebra. So the two of us stood there together mulling over the dead zebra a little while. The short balding man offered me a bite of his pepperoni pizza slice and I accepted, since thinking about that dead zebra had made me work up something of an appetite.

At about that time, Sunday got out of my car. Sunday was a cute little brunette I used to call "Sunday" because she was who I usually hung out with on Sundays. She was a good girl. Sunday must have seen me eating pizza and I guess she got a little hungry what with us hanging around and making a fuss over that dead zebra. She got out of my car, stood sorta close, and started making eyes at me. And then at the pizza. And then back at me. So I looked at my new buddy the short guy as if to say, "Sorry, dude," and I handed Sunday the pizza slice he had shared with me.

"So what do people generally do about this sort of thing around here?" I asked my buddy the short guy. I really had no idea as I was pretty new to town. But Shorty didn't respond. He was glaring at Sunday as she wolfed down the last of his pepperoni pizza slice. I felt bad about handing that slice over, especially since I knew damn well how much Sunday enjoys her pepperoni pizza, but I didn't know Shorty so well and keeping Sunday happy was usually a good idea. So while he was giving Sunday his "I'll never let anyone take a bite of my pizza again" look, I busted out my cell phone and dialed information.

"Yes. Yes, ma'am. I'm on Lincoln and Partridge and I have a dead zebra. Yes. Yes, I hit the zebra while driving my automobile. Yes. Yes. Als-. Yes. (508) 596-1042. Yes. 5-0-8. Yes, 5-9-6-1-0-4-2. Y-Als-. Yeah. That would be great. Also do you guys have any pizza? Yes. Pepperoni? Yeah? Hmmm… mushroom would be cool. Yeah. Yeah, Sunday here just ate my buddy Shorty's last slice of pizza and I feel sorta bad about it. Yeah. Could ya? Fantastic. Excellent. Alright. Okay. Thank you. Yeah sure. Th-Thanks. Take it easy."

I told Shorty and Sunday that dead zebra dispatch had been contacted and they'd be sending people over any minute and I also told them I got us a pepperoni and mushroom pizza coming. Shorty was silent for a little while after hearing about the pizza. I thought maybe he was allergic to mushrooms or something and I was about to call back to change my order but then the guy just bursts out in tears saying how no one has ever bought him a pizza before and this is the happiest day of his life. He went to grab me to give me a hug or whatever but I managed to dodge the weepy bastard and Sunday ends up getting tackled by a wailing Shorty.

So when dead zebra dispatch arrived Shorty was on top of Sunday weeping like a schoolgirl. Two men in yellow jumpsuits with black stripes leaped from the sliding door of a beat-up sky-blue minivan. On the side of the minivan was an upside-down zebra with black X's where its eyes should normally be. The two men very gravely observed the scene. I was then approached by what appeared to be the older of the two: a square-jawed gentleman with a few days stubble, crew cut, and manly handshake. "You kill that zebra?" he asked. "Sure did," I replied, stroking the hood of my car tenderly, "although my automobile here should really get most of the credit."

"Excellent," he said. "We'll take it from here." So he and the other guy, a man of similar appearance aside from a slightly younger face, squatted down on either side of the zebra and nodded to one another. They did this for maybe five minutes. Shorty, meanwhile, got over his hysterics. He was on the hood of my car blowing his nose and Sunday's perched right next to him patting the little guy on the head and looking bored. Then I remembered the pizza I ordered.

I made my way alongside the older of the two dead-zebra-disposal technicians and squatted down, nodding in the same way they were. "Say!" I announced in a very sly fashion as if the thought had just occurred to me. "You guys didn't happen to bring a pepperoni and mushroom pizza along, didya?" The older zebra-disposal technician turned his expressionless head towards me very, very, very, very slowly, which then exploded into a grin as he shouted "Yes!" while pointing a massive finger skyward. Shortly thereafter the man got up, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled towards his minivan, "Ma. Hey, ma. Bring out the pizza. And the chainsaws. And a couple of beers, please. Thanks." To which the younger of the zebra-disposal technicians quickly added, "Hey ma, think you could toss my tape in the radio too? Thanks, ma."

Several moments later, with Guns N' Roses blaring from the sky-blue zebra-disposal minivan, a five-hundred-pound woman wearing a purple spandex jumpsuit and yellow ski goggles emerged from the driver's-side door. She rolled herself right up to us and out of her seemingly endless girth produced, as if by magic, a pizza, two chainsaws, and a plastic cooler with a dozen or so cold ones. "Thanks, ma," said the older zebra disposal technician. The reply bubbled up from deep within the cavernous mound of flesh that was the zebra disposal technician's five-hundred-pound mother. "nO prOBlem boYs." She then oozed back into the van.

So me, Shorty, and Sunday sat around drinking beer and eating pizza while the disposal guys hacked up that dead zebra, listening to Guns N' Roses and tossing its parts in the sliding door of their minivan. Eventually, the zebra having been properly cleaved and reduced to nothing more than some teeth, tail, and stain, the zebra-disposal unit packed their chainsaws back into the minivan and drank a beer with us. Sunday had them sign her chest with a magic marker. Then their tunes finished up and they were gone. Shorty burst into tears again. He wasn't very good with goodbyes.

So while Shorty was all weepy, me and Sunday took off in my car. She started talking about something but I didn't listen too much. I never really did. I already couldn't remember what movie we had gone to see and that pizza and beer was starting to give me some nasty heartburn, so I asked if she was cool with going home and turning in early. She was. A few days later she left town and I never heard from her again. Nowadays on Sundays I get drunk with my friends and we set garbage cans on fire. It's fun, I guess. But I miss Sunday. She was a good girl.

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