Huh. Weird.
I mean, it’s not like I need this. I’m a legend. I starred in “Saturday Night Fever.” I fly planes, for God’s sake. I don’t crave attention.
Just here for a couple slices.
Still, look at that kid. Staring at his iPhone like Danny friggin’ Zuko didn’t just walk in. Hello? “Greased Lightning,” anybody? Don’t tell me he’s too young to have seen “Grease.”
His mom would be freaking out right now.
But, like I said, it’s no big deal. There are only two things on my mind right now: sausage and mushrooms!
Yep.
Seriously, though, what’s with the guy in the corner? He’s got to be in his fifties. Grew up right in my prime. Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t realize that slice of Sicilian was so mind-numbingly delicious that it’d keep you from recognizing one of the last half century’s biggest sex symbols—that it’d stop you from walking up to him, telling him you admire his work, asking for an autograph, thanking him profusely, and apologizing for taking up his time.
My mistake.
O.K., John boy, cool off. You’re here for pizza, remember? Delicious pizza. Hey, look at that, a fresh Hawaiian!
You know, sometimes it’s actually nice not having to deal with strangers pestering you for photos and so forth. It’s easy to forget, but, at the end of the day, international icons are regular people. We like being able to stroll into our local pizza joint without everyone asking how honored we are to have been nominated for two Oscars.
Nineteen-ninety-five was my year. Fucking Tom Hanks.
O.K., deep breath. Hey, maybe a white slice would be good. With spinach. That’d shake things up. Who says tomato sauce is the only way?
Thank God, here comes a fan. Young guy in a “Pulp Fiction” T-shirt. The one with me and Samuel L. Jackson pointing our guns at the camera. (Not the one of me dancing with Uma Thurman. Because that one also exists.) Man, this is going to make his week.
What am I saying? It’ll make his year.
He’s checking out the pizza behind the glass. Fair enough. He’s probably hungry, and it’s not like he walked in expecting to see his favorite actor of all time. He just wanted a slice of pepperoni. Maybe some olives on there. There are lots of good choices. Looks like he’s still deciding.
Still deciding.
All right, he just looked at me. Not for long, but there was definite eye contact. And still nothing.
I once saw a science documentary that said that when you first lay eyes on something unbelievable, your brain may not even recognize that it’s there. Something about the magnitude of what you’re viewing being too intense to register. Apparently, this happened when Columbus landed in America. The natives couldn’t see his ships’ sails. It’s not that the sails were invisible, per se; it’s that they were such an awesome shock that the people were incapable of seeing them at first.
Maybe that’s what’s going on here.
He’s paying. He’s paying and he’s about to leave. That’s it, I’m saying it.
“I’m John Travolta.”
Too quiet.
“I am John Travolta!”
There. They’re finally looking. Probably getting ready to whip out their phones to record a celebrity meltdown. Well, have at it, folks. Lord knows, it’s the closest you’ll come to making any sort of meaningful imprint on the world. You dare not recognize me? I am Travolta. I have danced the disco; I am the Man Who Pretends to Be Others. My faces are many, my name but one. And you shall know it—you teeming masses who squirm and squabble to suck at the benevolent teat of Hollywood, seeking naught but a brief escape from the hellish quotidian that is your lives. Pizza? Ha! There is no refuge for you, none save a fun and spontaneous selfie with me, Travolta. With this talisman, you will spin out the rest of your days and cross the threshold into the afterlife, basking in the radiant glow of an actor who has never needed a “comeback,” for when the final ledger of man is writ, it shall be known that he never left.
“Two slices of cheese, please.”
Why mess with a classic?
