Spacious Skies

poem

---

In 1986, I delivered two
pizzas to an iffy motel
on Third Avenue in

Spokane. A black man
answered the door. 
A few other black men

sat around the room.
Spokane has never
been a diverse city

so the black men were
a cool surprise, especially
since they were the kind

of dudes who wore bright
and tailored clothes
that you never saw

in Eastern Washington. 
I remember that one skinny
man wore an emerald shirt

with matching pants. Back
in those days, it seemed
that only Indians wore

sparkling colors and only
as part of their regalia
at powwow and ceremonies.

I was wearing a blue polo shirt
with the C.J. Pizza logo—
a shirt that I'd probably

handwashed in my kitchen
sink with an Ivory soap bar
because I was too poor

to afford a laundromat.
The tops of my arms
and hands were burned

from reaching into
the ovens and brushing
against the hot walls.

And I'm sure that I stunk
of pepperoni and body
odor. I felt inferior

to those black men but
that was my life—I was
a pizza man who felt

inferior to everybody
and often encountered 
people who went out

of their way to make me
feel more inferior. O, the ass-
holes who said, "Keep

the change" when they
handed you a ten-dollar bill
for a $9.75 pizza and Coke.

But I must admit it wasn't
all bad. Some customers 
overtipped. And I enjoyed

the adventures of delivering
to sex workers standing on
street corners. They flirted

and embarrased me. "Kid,"
they said. "You're too skinny.
You gain some muscle

and you'll be a handsome man."
I delivered to parties where
the pot smoke gave me instant

contact highs. I delivered
to exhibitionist men and women
who wore very little when

they greeted me. I was robbed
twice. I once drove for two
miles while my cash bag

somehow clung to the roof
and didn't fall and lose me
one hundred bucks. I ran from

mean dogs and attack cats.
Best of all, many customers
were ecstatic to see me.

They loved pizza men
because we were nomadic
pilgrims handing them greasy

sacraments. The best pizzas
taste like forgiveness. 
I was approaching the end

of my shift when I handed
the sausage and onion pies
to that stylish black man

at that terrible motel.
I was so exhausted. 
that I wanted to cry.

But that man's kind eyes
cheered me when he asked
if I knew who they were.

He called me little brother.
I was dark from the summer
sun, probably darker than

anybody else they saw
that day in Spokane.
They probably thought

that I was Mexican. 
"Do you know who
we are?" the man asked

again. "No," I said.
He laughed and said,
"We're Ray Charles'

band and we're playing
a show with him
tomorrow night

at some place called
the Opera House."
Why, I thought, is Ray

Charles' band staying
at a terrible motel?
And then the man

answered the question
that I hadn't asked aloud.
"Yeah, Ray is sleeping

in some hotel
penthouse while
he crowded us

into this funky-ass
shit-box." He laughed
again, shook my hand

with elaborate
and unfollowable finger,
palm, and knuckle

moves, laughed one
more time, gave me
a twenty-dollar tip,

and said, "Ray is
a cheap bastard who
pays us nothing

but that motherfucker
can play." I was happy
when I walked away

from that motel.
Then I climbed into
the delivery car—a heap

that you had to start
with the screwdriver
wedged into the ignition

on the steering column,
I spent that tip money
on groceries but I might've

bought a Ray Charles
cassette if I'd happened
to pass by a music store.

Was Ray Charles a cheap
bastard? I don't know
and I don't care. 

He was certainly a genius
who turned every song
into a holy hymn.

Hey, America is only
intermittently beautiful
but Ray transforms me

into a patriot whenever
I hear him play the piano
and sing that song about

the purple mountain majesty
above the fruited plain.
He makes this Indian boy—

this former pizza man, this
dude with the minimum-wage
past, this guy who used

to possess minimal chances,
this poor thing turned
unskinny poet—want

to light illegal fireworks
and parade with every
last American hearse.