 “We have a guy who always calls in and asks for the same thing: a Willard Special. But the man demanding a pizza he has named after himself is out of his mind, living in his own private world. It turns out that what he really wants is simply our deluxe pizza with some slight modifications. The first time he called asking for it, I tried to tell him this, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I gave up and delivered the pizza. He answered the door before I knocked, his eyes vacant and his teeth looking as though he’d ordered rocks on his last pizza. The house was surrounded by waist-high chain-link fence either meant to keep people out or to keep people in—I wasn’t sure which. It was obvious that the house and yard hadn’t been tended in years, and when Willard opened the door I saw a couch that had been, well, crusted over. Above it was a hole bored in the wall where he stored his Sharpies. It was clear that he had no wife or family, clear that the world had forgotten about Willard, and clear that he had little interest in the world—except the bit that makes pizza. Now, when a voice sounding eerily like the Mad Hatter asks for a Willard Special, I just say: ‘Yes, sir. Willard Special. Right away.’”

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