Here is another pizza delivery man story. I used this setting for a few of the stories because a pizza delivery man has the opportunity to get involved with all sorts of people in all sorts of places.
Plus, when I was younger, I delivered pizzas, so I know the routine!
Once, again, this is another fun story, nothing serious here. This is one of my earliest short stories, and it shows 🙂 Ialways write from the mind of the character. If the character is an ass, then that’s the way he get written. Enjoy.
“Gary you’re up!”
I didn’t feel up.
“Gary!” came another yell from the front of the store.
“I heard you!” I yelled back. Damn, impatient ass. I made my way to the front of the Pizza Shack. “You’ve got the E8 and the F6,” Richard, the manager, said. Richard always referred to deliveries like he was playing Battleship. E8! F4! R2! You sank my battleship!
“A double?” I asked.
I didn’t need to check the map. You been delivering as long as I have, you get to know the area pretty well, like the back of your hand. 216 Maplewood St. Cool, the rich neighborhood.
No. Not the rich. The ultra-wealthy. People with gates around their homes. Hell yes.
The F6 delivery was to Diamond Oaks Apartments. Fine living for under 300 bucks a month. Ya damn right. Diamond Oaks was probably our most ghetto apartments. Funny, usually you don’t get a ghetto run and a money run on the same delivery.
I began to walk out and Mohamed came in the door. (At least I think its Mohamed, maybe its Mohammad, or Mohammed, or Mohammad. Hell, those guys still haven’t made up their minds how to spell that name.)
“Hello Gary,” he said. He had the spent bag from his last delivery tucked under a gangly arm.
“Whaddup, dude,” I said. He was a tall, lanky Sudanese.
I pushed out the door and got into my car, an eighty-two Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, fantastic car to deliver pizzas. I would dare say the perfect car to deliver pizzas. I had tried delivery in an Escort and in a Ranger, but neither was as easy to maneuver as the Cutlass.
In the Cutlass I had my pack of smokes (Marlboros of course) my maps of apartments and streets, and my little silver flask of gin. My friend Burt told me that you couldn’t smell gin on the breath. Boy was he ever right. Thanks, Burt.
I pulled out of the parking lot of the Shack and engaged the traffic. I lit a cigarette and sucked it. The distance between the store, what we employees call the Pizza Shack, and Diamond Croaks was almost two cigarettes. If I got a jump on the first one.
I had gotten into the practice of delivery-by-cigarettes-smoked. Some deliveries were a one cig, and some were a two. Hell some were even a three cigger if you could do it just right. Did I smoke too much? Probably. Somewhere, deep inside I considered cancer, but no, that’d never happen to me.
I pulled into the pothole infested parking lot of the apartment complex. A huge yellow sign with fat black letters said: IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU’D ALREADY BE HOME! What a revolting thought. Old Ford Festivas and beat up Buick Centuries littered the lot. A few pieces of trash blew about the complex in a chase. A gaggle of vatos and esses sat around on an old Chevy, smoking and drinking. The Chevy was lowered to the ground and painted a metallic purple. Real nice, boys. Keep up the good work. You’ll go far in life.
Further down I passed a group of children chasing each other through dirt patches that used to be grass when Diamond Oaks was a new complex. I think that was back in the sixties.
Every single person I drove by stopped and stared at me. In the orange evening sun of the fall, my car-topper was a beacon for the disconsolate and the pedantic. Oh, forgive me. I do ramble at times. I forget the world doesn’t like a man who uses 2-dollar words. Hell, neither do I.
You see, the Pizza Shack, as do all major pizza delivery chains, make you wear what is known as a car topper. They are those big ugly things you see on our cars that sometimes light up at night (If we’re lucky). I have certain distinct feelings about car toppers. Actually I have a bunch. I think they suck shit through a small tube –and so does every other delivery man in these here United States.
Here’s the deal. You put on of those damned toppers on your car, and you are instantly a target. Other people see you like you would see a man whose nuts were cut off. Emasculated. They don’t need to pay attention to you. Hell no! Why? Your working. You’re getting paid. You are, right now, one small step above the convenience store clerk –and people know it. They cut you off, they go super slow, they shoot you the finger, they stare at you, (sometimes, when I am lying in bed, I think that one is the worst), and generally treat you exactly like you would treat someone if you knew you could get away with it.
Kids scream and chase you down the road if they’re playing in the middle of the street, they will not get out of your way. Why should they? You’re just the pizza delivery man. You’re nothing more than a piece of amphibious shit. They know. They all know.