The Picture Guy comes in often; one day, he came in three times for a slice, every three hours or so.
He’ll add spinach, olives, jalapenos, asparagus, artichokes, and other crazy toppings, and sit there in the corner with a fork and knife, explaining how it’s just like having a salad on his pizza.
“Gotta get my fiber,” he’ll say. “Keep me regular, ya know?”
Um. Yeah. TMI.
We’ve named him “Picture Guy” because he looks JUST like the man portrayed in a poster we have hanging on the wall:
He usually sits at the table closest to the poster, too.
He’s got an old dog, older than dirt as he says. His dog sits in his car and watches the front door of the restaurant, waiting for him (or me) to come out with some leftovers.
We got to talking one day, and it bummed me out. His wife passed away five years ago, and he says doesn’t know anyone except for his dog.
“When my dog dies,” he told me, “I’ll probably just die along with him.”
How sad is that?
He’s an odd man, but we’ve all been a little nicer to him since then.
Except for when he fell asleep after lunch one day, stretching out on the wall bench. I told him to go home to take a nap, and to come back for dinner if he was still hungry.
I think we’re his only friends.
It makes me sad to think about that.