The Really Free Pizza

I on my job at the big hotel. They have sent me down to the valet stand out front bearing copies of our new union contract, just ratified. We have left the AFL-CIO. A confederacy against the nativist conservancy of the old guard. We are now a part of UNITE HERE, which is busying itself organizing the sometimes undocumented immigrants that keep the lights burning in Vegas. We are the new, polyglot face of rank-and-file unionism. According to the labor journalists. Except no one down here knows a damn thing about it. The valet staff is loitering out front.
"Here," I say to Hiwot the Ethiopian, handing him a crisply stapled ream.
"Wass diz?" He fumbles with the papers foreignly.
"New union contract."
Hiwot can only read a little at best, like most of his colleagues in the valet department - who fudge the vehicle tickets they are required to fill out.
"Wass diz say righ' here?" he demands abruptly, pointing mid-page.
"That says that the company can't search your locker without your permisson."
"Whuz dat mean?" He squints incomprehensibly.
"It means the company can't search your locker without your permission."
Hiwot nods dismissively, though clearly with no grasp of the jist of this contractual stipulation or its significance to anyone in particular. He turns away from me to bellow sullenly at the doorman.
"Baba! I hungry - when we eat?"
Krikor is scrawling indecipherable hieroglyphics concerning a tan Cadillac onto a blue valet ticket. He wheels around from the driveway and adjusts his spectacles.
"Baby. Please. I have-a to call the some-a place for to get us some-a food. Just wait a little bit okay Papa." Everyone male is Papa to Krikor. A quirk of his extra-Americanness. Krikor is a hustler of the old school. Born in Italy to Armenians, he cut his teeth on the windy and corrupt streets of Chicago. His silver tongue and charming charisma keeps us all from going hungry on the job.
Krikor strolls toward us and cackles theatrically while picking up the receiver of the valet stand phone.
"Yes. Hello baybe." to the hotel operator "Please get me-a the Papa John's please. Oh thank you so much baby." He waits to be connected to the pizza joint on West 7th.
"Hello. Yes. Please can I-a speak with Stacey. Oh thank you so much." Krikor is a fast talker. He lays it on thick when he is wheedling something out of someone. He is put on hold for a moment and hums a foreign modal ditty for the duration. After a few moments the manager gets on the line.
"Oh yes! Hello! Mr. Stacey! So good to a-talk to you! Yes." Krikor lights up like the oversize Christmas tree on Fountain Square. "Well you know I am-a pretty good Sir. Listen though, the people here that stay in-a the hotel. They keep asking us 'how is this new-a pizza the Papa John's they have' and we don't-a know how should we tell them. We have never-a eat this pizza..." Krikor fumbles about on the valet stand, looking for the name of the new menu item. The latest novelty pizza is always advertised on the coupons that the drivers leave with us to encourage our patrons to order from them. He has found the slip his hand was searching for. "...yes, the-a what is it...the new-a chicken-a barbecue. Yes that one. Yes. Oh thank you so much Mr. Stacey. Yes please also bring us some coupons too though. You know we need them. Okay! Thank you!"
He has instantaneously and effortlessly spun a web of lies. We all stand by admiringly and anticipatingly.
Krikor concludes his hustle, returns the phone to its cradle and turns about to face us triuphantly. His scam has worked again.
"Babys" he tells us with Old World paternalism "The pizza is-a on his way."
Hiwot scowls.
"Baba what kind you get?"
"Hiwot you have hear me on-a the phone! Is chicken baby!" Krikor gestures with the expressive exasperation of a worked up Italian with ADHD. Hiwot is a pain in the ass and he pisses off everyone. Some days he all but refuses to park cars at all and the rest of us have to pick up the slack. Hiwot frowns and mumbles about not liking chicken. Krikor swears at him in three languges and spits hatefully on the ground. Just then a hotel guest strolls past and he instantly returns to his massive 300-watt smile and greets her pleasantly.
An hour later we are all louging inside the valet stand, stuffed and sated with this greasy concoction that Krikor has procured. Rando the Estonian warbles words of gratitude through this unintelligably thick accent.
I scratch my belly and take a quick nap in grease-staned futia armchair in the valet stand. Three more hours on this shift.