THE FIRST TIME I EVER HAD A SUBWAY FLATIZZABy BabeWell, it was one of those days -- not much to doI was chillin downtown, with my old school crewI went into a store -- to buy a slice of pizzaAnd bumped into a girl, her name was Mona -- what?Mona Lisa (what?) Mona Lisa, so men made you.YouknowhatI'msayin? So I said, "Excuse me, dearMy gosh, you look nice!Put away your moneyI'll buy that slice!"---Slick Rick on the SUBWAY Flatizza in his song, Mona Lisa

Several months ago, a friend of mine named Daniel Wrapp first told me about the SUBWAY Flatizza. Of course, I had seen the television ads and heard about the ingenious culinary creation, but I hadnt truly heard about the SUBWAY Flatizza. Not the mythology, the hidden legends and obscure folklore surrounding the celestial sustenance. I remember the way he described the Flatizza, as if it were the pinnacle of human expression:The smoothest pizza money can buy, he would tell me. Guaranteed to be at least 98% digital. The only pizza that Slick Rick will ever purchase or consume. No other pizza could possibly measure up to the SUBWAY Flatizza.These were bold assertions. Audacious claims. I was skeptical, I admit. How could I not be? One doesnt just throw around allegations about Slick Ricks dietary loyalties. I had to see for myself. I had to join in on the fervent scorpacciata. Flatizza Fever. Alas, the SUBWAY in the LaFortune Student Center at Notre Dame didnt serve Flatizzas. Probably didnt have the technology. Or the manpower. Or the wherewithal. Whatever the reason, I was trapped in a desolate Flatizza-less wasteland, searching hopelessly for an oasis. I wouldnt find one until relocating to Nashville, Tennessee. Music City.It was a clear Thursday evening. Hot and humid. A little before 6:30, after most of the workforce was flushed out of the downtown area. I had business at a UPS Store after work, and I had some beer and bourbon to pick up at the liquor store across the street. Then I return to my car. Time to drive back to East Nashville, back to my summer home, back to watch the Rangers in Game 3 of the NHL Eastern Conference Finals. As I reach down to unlock the door of my 1989 Plymouth Horizon, I look up at the building I parked in front of and the glowing letters stare me down like a disappointed father: SUBWAY. Where have you been, my prodigal son. Why have you forsaken me.My heart stops. I catch my breath. Its right here. Just past this elegant red brick exterior. Right inside these smoky, translucent double doors. The SUBWAY Flatizza. I muster up the courage to place my beer and bourbon inside the sweltering heat of the Horizon and lock my door once again. One more deep breath. Then I enter.The SUBWAY is completely empty except for the employee behind the counter. Waiting for me. Observing me. Expecting me. I feel like Indiana Jones entering the chamber of the Holy Grail. I know I will choose correctly. There is but one choice. The SUBWAY Flatizza. I slowly approach the counter. The keeper of the Flatizzas waits patiently behind it. Not patient like a well-behaved child. Patient like a gator lurking just below the murky swamp water, waiting for his prey to make one wrong move, waiting to pounce at a moments notice. Waiting. Ready. He is maybe 50 years old, wise beyond his years, his arms but skin and bone, covered in a thick luscious layer of hair. He stands over five feet tall but looks like he weighs maybe 80 pounds, his thin wiry frame covered by a black collared SUBWAY shirt a few sizes too big, perfectly matching his black SUBWAY baseball cap. The neck of the baggy shirt sags to reveal more dense jet-black hair over his surreptitiously powerful chest. His countenance is reminiscent of that of a long-time methamphetamine addict: his enormously wide ears support a taut, lanky face adorned by a thin but commanding goatee. Just inches above his firmly groomed facial hair rest his skinny round glasses, delicately perched upon his acutely angled nose. His presence emanates a distinct fatigue: his slouching posture indicates the end of a long shift yet his eyes show the weariness of a mind that holds too much knowledge and responsibility for one lifetime to contain. What wisdom was held just past these eyes. What furtive power stored in these reedy limbs. I look for a nametag in vain. Of course he does not wear one. The Man with No Name. As I arrive to the counter, this clandestine wizard springs into action with the agility of a young gazelle. What can I get for you?I try to hide my nervousness as I order a pepperoni Flatizza with bacon. My lips tingle as this rehearsed verse exits my lungs. I have done it. The rest is up to the Man with No Name. He swipes a pinch of the pepperoni with such speed it takes me by surprise. I feel lightheaded as he dexterously slices these large, flat discs of processed Italian-ish meat into more manageable strips. More manageable for me. The Man with No Name has no need to make these ingredients more manageable, it is I who cant handle the raw power of an untamed SUBWAY Flatizza. So he tames it for me. He wrangles the wild power of the Flatizza and deftly puts it in a form I can handle.He wasted no time in building his Masterpiece. Flatbread, sauce, pepperoni, bacon, cheese. He places it in the toaster and waits. The flurry of activity, of nimble assembly, suddenly comes to a soundless halt. Time comes to a standstill as he silently wipes down his counter, his canvas upon which he paints his Mona (what?) -- Mona Lisa. So men made you.The timer finally beeps. He removes the immaculate creation from the toaster oven.For here or to go?He places the Flatizza into a small pizza box for me to carry wherever I please. He closes it, sealing the smoothest pizza can buy into its home. Its ark. The ark of the covenant of the SUBWAY Flatizza.Chips and a drink?No. Just the Flatizza. No chips will taint the palate that will take upon Slick Ricks pizza of choice, and in the 89 Horizon waits twelve Pabst Blue Ribbonsthe beer so delicious it has won the blue ribbon for 171 straight years. A shimmer of agreement in his eye as he begins to enter my order into the cash register monitor.No thats not what I want. I dont want the dangThe Man with No Name becomes angry at this sub-par machine.The Flatizza aint even on here.He is losing patience. I become keenly aware of how dangerously unstable this SUBWAY has become. Be cool, I think to myself. Panicking will only enrage him further. Irritated, he wheels around to view the bright glowing menu broadcasting the delicious SUBWAY Flatizza. He punches more buttons on the screen. He does what he has to do.$4.64.This is a lower price than the lighted sign broadcasts. They just updated to a new system and they make you go through three different windows instead o havin everything on one screen and the Flatizza aint even on there! I had to ring it up as somethin else. The Man with No Name cracks into a smile. My heart melts as I hand him my debit card.I receive the box that contain the SUBWAY Flatizzamy SUBWAY Flatizza. Merely holding it in my hand satisfies me, and I feel powerful enough to fraternize with the Man with No Name. The Flatizza is too new. Theyre makin you jump through too many dang hoops!He chuckles. Thank God I have intelligence! He exclaims. Some of these other people He doesnt finish his sentence. He doesnt have to. I have witnessed firsthand his knowledge, his wisdom, his intelligence. I exit those smoky translucent double doors into the humid parking lot. I unlock the door to my 89 Horizon and step inside. I immediately start sweating in the cars heat. I crank down the window. I cant wait until the end of the drive. I must take a bite. Now. I open the box and behold its beauty. I pick up one of those perfectly square, greasy, digital slices and take a courageous bite. Mother of God, I think. Daniel Wrapp was right. I admire the piece in my hand as I chew. I know. I can tell: 99.7% digital. Damn. Truly the smoothest pizza money can buy.