Sparkles eating calabrese pizza

Ballad of the Heavenly Calabrese

I, who watch atoms dance and galaxies yawn, was particularly entertained by Acacia Street that Tuesday. Not because of any cosmic event of vulgarly human significance, like the discovery of a cure for baldness or world peace (both of which, by the way, depend on a specific type of as-yet-uncataloged moldy cheese). No. My focus was Sparkles. A feline entity of undefined fur with the color of dust and the determination of a black hole when it concerns to his stomach. And Sparkles’ stomach, at that precise moment, was a philosophical abyss questioning the very existence of the concept of “satiety.”

“Hunger,” Sparkles didn’t think, for thinking is a linear activity and Sparkles operated in multiple dimensions of need. It was more of a resonance, a vibrational echo in his gut that said: “Pizza. Now. Or the universe will implode in pepperoni paradoxes.”

The night — cold. Asphalt — smooth.

Dumpster one. Metal. Hollow echo. Empty.

A sigh escaped the omniscient observer (that’s me). So much hope pinned on green plastic.

Sparkles jumped. Light. A shadow.

“The fundamental problem,” pondered a part of his mind dedicated to analysis while his paws did the work, “is distribution. There is pizza. Lots of pizza. But the correlation between superior quality discarded pizza and my immediate spatio-temporal location is annoyingly inconsistent. Would an interdimensional delivery system for deserving felines be too much to ask? Or at least a decent app?”

Lamp post. Yellow light. Insects. Buzz.

Another dumpster. This time — wood. Splinters.

A smell. Promise?

Sparkles sniffed. Nose twitching.

“Fish,” the internal analysis concluded. “Yesterday’s. Probably Monday’s. Mondays always have that aura of old fish and questionable decisions. Unsuitable. The soul cries out for tomato, cheese, and that kind of grease that sings operas on the tongue.”

A figure — large. Another cat. Scar over one eye.

“Territory!” the figure growled. Low. Deep.

Sparkles: skinny, fast, not foolish.

Strategic retreat. Dignity intact (mostly because dignity is an abstract concept and therefore immune to scratches, unlike certain snouts).

Main street. Cars. Headlights. Swift demons.

Sparkles waited. “Patience,” he philosophized to himself, watching a tire whiz by inches from where his tail had been moments before, “is the art of concealing impatience. Or, in my case, of avoiding being turned into a two-dimensional asphalt decoration. Which, let’s face it, would severely limit my future pizzaristic prospects.”

Sidewalk. Storefront. Bakery. Good smell. Bread. Sweet.

Not pizza.

“A cruel distraction,” Sparkles reflected. “Like offering a treatise on the history of Stoic philosophy to a man drowning in molasses. Relevant, perhaps, on some abstract level, but profoundly unsatisfying in the concrete.”

Alley. Dark. Promising.

Piled-up trash. Bags. Boxes.

The aroma.

Aaaah, the aroma!

Not the pungent smell of common garbage, oooh no. This was a complex bouquet. Notes of oregano, a hint of roasted garlic, the robustness of melted cheese, and yes, unmistakably, calabrese. Lightly charred. Perfection.

“Eureka,” Sparkles did not exclaim, as it would be a waste of vocal energy. Instead, his whiskers vibrated with the intensity of a particle detector finding the calabrese-flavored Higgs Boson.

The source: a slightly ajar pizza box, balanced precariously on a trash bag that looked like it had swallowed a small armchair.

The box. White. Stained. Glorious.

Sparkles approached. Cautious. The universe, after all, loves a good practical joke. Especially when one is about to achieve enlightenment in carbohydrate form.

No other cats. No opportunistic rats. No humans with sanitizing intentions.

The area was clear.

A leap. Precise. Elegant.

The box teetered. For a terrible instant, it seemed that the Law of Gravity, that old killjoy, would intervene disastrously. But I, modestly, gave it a nudge with a cosmic breeze. A trifle. A mere puff. To balance things out. Cats deserve their victories.

Inside. Oooh, the splendor.

Half a pizza. Four slices. Four!

Cheese still slightly warm. Calabrese in generous rounds. The crust, that often-neglected entity, looked crisp and inviting.

“It’s almost,” Sparkles mused, as he selected the most promising slice, one that displayed a golden ratio of bubbly cheese to visible sauce, “too much to process. The generosity of the cosmos is, at times, as overwhelming as its indifference. This human who discarded this masterpiece … were they an anonymous philanthropist? A saint of the throwaway society? Or simply someone who ordered a pizza too large, whose eyes were bigger than their stomach — a miscalculation that benefited the feline proletariat?”

First bite.

Texture. Flavor. A whirlwind.

The stretchy cheese. The tangy sauce. The salty, smoky calabrese. The dough, oh, the dough was the perfect vessel — neither too thick nor too thin — a testament to the art of popular baking.

Sparkles ate.

Not with haste. With reverence.

Each chew was a verse. Each swallow, a chorus.

This wasn’t just food. It was the answer.

To what? Sparkles didn’t know. And it didn’t matter.

The only relevant question was: “Another slice?”

And the answer was a resounding, albeit silent: “Yes!”

Second slice. As good as the first. Perhaps better. Realized expectation has its own flavor.

“Interesting,” Sparkles daydreamed between bites, “how happiness can be so … tangible. So round. So covered in cheese. Human philosophers spend centuries debating the nature of joy, wrote tomes, founded schools of thought. Clearly, none of them ever found a calabrese pizza discarded at the peak of its residual perfection.”

Third slice. The pace slowed. Contemplative pleasure.

The belly, once a questioning void, was now a temple of warm satisfaction.

The fourth slice. It looked at Sparkles. Sparkles looked back at the slice.

A tacit understanding. “For later.”

Strategy. Foresight.

With the last crumb of the third slice duly honored, Sparkles descended from the dumpster.

A little heavier. Infinitely happier.

The night was still cold. The asphalt still smooth.

But the universe seemed different. Friendlier. More… flavorful.

I watched Sparkles find a sheltered spot under a staircase, curl up, his full belly emitting a purr that was the purrest form of gratitude. The hunt was over. For now. Tomorrow would be another day, another hunt, other absurd reflections on the meaning of crumbs.

And I smiled. For in the grand and chaotic banquet of existence, sometimes, all it takes to find a little order, a glimmer of meaning, is a determined stray cat and a perfectly discarded slice of pizza. The rest, as they say, is just toppings. Or lack thereof. Depends on luck. And the delivery guy.