Floyd Kelly

My brother Jason is a fun artist, and his stage is our apartment here in Queens Village. His routine, which he performs with the dedication of a method actor, is called “Pizza Emergency.” He pulled his prank on me once, but I caught on the second time. Now, I just watch the show.

The problem is, Jason can only fool people once, so our living room over the past years has seen a parade of random folks. A group of Amish he somehow convinced to leave their buggy and come inside, three dudes from the CUNY Magic Club who tried to cast spells on his hiccups, cabbies on their breaks, and even peeps from the Uber Tall Society, all of whom had to duck to get through our door.

Last Monday, he brought home a confused-looking clown he’d apparently met by blowing a dog whistle. He had the clown comfortably seated, watching the pregame show.

Jason’s routine is specific. At exactly 5:17 p.m., the first hiccup starts. For the next eleven minutes, he puts on an act that seems alarmingly critical, at precisely 5:28, he explains that there is only one cure in the world for his problem, 1 Large Supreme Pizza, he needs it desperately. He pulls out his phone.

“Here,” handing it to the clown. “The number’s already dialed. Tell them it’s the usual emergency!”

The clown yelled into the phone, “Hello? It’s an emergency! We need 1 Large Supreme Pizza ASAP!”

At 5:58, two minutes before kickoff, the pizza arrives. The clown pays. As soon as the pizza is in the room, Jason sniffs the air with a dramatic flair, grabs a slice, takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, his eyes closed, and becomes totally relaxed. And just like that, his hiccups are gone.

“It worked,” He then grabbed the entire pizza, plopped down in front of the TV right at kickoff, and completely tuned out the world, leaving a very confused clown standing in our living room. The usual routine played out once again.

Once, Jason was at the store when a woman he scammed last year cornered him by the cereal.

“Hey,” she said, her arms crossed. “You! Hiccup guy. You know, I think you’re faking it for the pizza.”

Jason looked at her, let out a single, perfect hic. Then two. He clutched his chest, he pulled out his phone, ready to hand it to her. Jason stopped, a confident grin across his face.

“You know what? You’re right,” he said with a sense of pride.

The woman was stunned. “I knew it! So you ARE faking it!”

“Faking it? No. I’m succeeding!” Jason said. “Let’s see… seventeen games a year, for the past three years. That’s… fifty-one free pizzas. And you’re the first person who’s ever actually complained. I’d call that a stunning success rate, wouldn’t you? So, success! I’m a true artist admiring my work!”