Dinner and a show

      Sometimes I’m a surprise to customers when I deliver pizza to them, because they forgot they even ordered!One night, I approached a house with a big picture window that  revealed darkness. Before I had the opportunity to knock, I saw a naked women run across the room. I slightly grinned, and proceeded to knock on the door. Finally, after what felt like forever, a decent looking man with his shirt half unbuttoned and his belt unbuckled answered the door. He instantaneously said, “Sorry, I was giving it to my old lady, how much?” I laugh and tell him the price. He smiles and closes the door.

Stone-Age

The color green comes to mind, in more ways than one, when I deliver pizza to these customers. I pull up to the house and begin to walk towards the steps. The shades are pulled down shut and the smell of marijuana is creeping through every crack of the door. Proceeding my knock, I hear shuffling, and several people inside saying “aw man” “shhh” “who is it?” followed by laughter. Now, my automatic response, “It is the pizza guy”. The door opens and a man over average height opens the door with a joint in his hand. The living room comes into focus and it feels as if I had stepped back into the 1960’s, men and women filled with misconceptions and black holes. The walls are covered in fuzzy glow posters, beaded entry ways. I reply, “The pizza is sixteen dollars.” He hands me a twenty dollar bill and says, “Keep the change.” While I am walking away I hear cackling hyenas tear into the pizza as if it is their last meal.

Apartment 66

Happy, sad, angry, or delusional, I see it all. The customers I have are a mix of all ages, race, and class with various interpretations of ethics, morality and just the plain weird. When I knock on the door, it’s a mutual exchange, cash for product. That’s right; I am talking about pizza delivery. A looking glass into what I do on a daily basis. My blog will be a consistent theme of pizza delivery stories and the unusual things I see.

For my first story I would like to talk about the man in apartment 66. He’s a man of few words, but always leaves me thinking. I knock on the door, a faint “One minute” echoes from the other side. The aroma of must, mold, and cheese make an interesting combination. I hear the clatter of five dead bolts. A withered man, 5’9” with a snow white beard, and a military tattoo right above his heart greets me. He smiles, as his hands tremble while holding a twenty dollar bill. Right before I turn to leave, he says, “The sun rises only once a day and falls. The time in between should be lived to the fullest.” He smiles once more and closes the door. His insightful advice  always leaves me with something to think about.