The existence of pizza delivery establishments are proof that evil exists.
A few weeks back, when I still remembered how to transcribe a trackback URL, Velociman discussed the surprisingly influential experience as a pizza delivery boy. Oh gawd, did that bring back memories, and they weren’t the most charming ones, if I do recall correctly.
During my first two years as an undergraduate, I was a pizza delivery girl for a local operation that has since gone out of business. Their pizza was actually pretty damn tasty, but their accounting procedures were beyond remedial, which provided each store’s manager a very easy way to pocket some cash. At least that’s what I assume happened, since the paychecks started bouncing, the managers started “cashing” them through the nightly drawers, and well, that’s when I found a new means of making four bucks an hour plus tips.
Yet I digress, for I witnessed some truly hellish things, though I must give the delivery guys a lot of credit for attempting to shelter me somewhat. If an order came in from one of the several apartment complexes with dangerous reputations, they took those delivery runs. Unfortunately, perverts persist throughout all socioeconomic classes, so yes, I saw more “accidental” nakedness than one would care to admit. What kind of man really answers the door to pizza delivery whilst wearing a thin towel and nothing else? Not to mention the couples just happening to engage in oral sex while the greasy guy answering the door slurs, “How YOU doin, baby…wanna come in and…have a piece?”
Occasionally, one arrives on a doorstep to be greeted by a couple of very excited children, who act as if Santa Claus has arrived. That’s always kinda cool, until the drunken mother steps into the doorway and tosses an obviously hot check in your direction. Then recognizing the hesitation, she hands some bills your way, and pity overrides the entire situation. As luck would have it, on the way back to the car, all smugness disappears when the protective keychain-sized can of pepper spray accidentally discharges in a very inconvenient direction. Crikey.
Like Velociman, I learned that people call for delivery via a myriad of disfunctional motivations. These days, when I call for pizza, I try not to meet glances with the delivery person, lest I learn what they just saw down the road.
