Jack said, later that evening. “Just the way you like it.” He set the pizza box down on the coffee table in front of his landlord, along with a cold six-pack of Schaefer beer. The old man’s rather dingy front room was illuminated only by the flickering blue light of his huge old battleship of a TV. “I like cheese,” Mr. Gardner replied. He held his stomach. “It just don’t like me.” He sighed. “I’m too old to give up all’a life’s pleasures. Speakin’ of which—” He started to push himself up from his battered, duct-taped old La-Z-Boy recliner, but Jack put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “I’ll get it.” Mr. G had difficulty walking these days, not just due to his age but because of a stroke he had suffered back in 2001. The man had once been quite robust, but his illness had stripped away the excess pounds and age had shortened him by several inches; now he looked like a bewildered garden gnome, staring up at the world through Coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses.
