Usually the relationship between pizza deliverer and pizza reciever is something like this: “Here’s a dollar, get your car out of my driveway now you worthless ass.”*
Every now and then, not so much.
Currently I work a part time job at DP in a delivery zone servicing a chunk of Baltimore & Hazzard Counties. Previously, I worked for PJ in roughly the same zone. Both stores are across the street from each other, and right down the road from the shopping center there lived a woman, who, when I worked at PJ, used to order almost every night – I only say “almost every” because I don’t know if she ordered or not the few nights I didn’t work.
She’s probably in her late thirties to early forties. Two young kids. A husband who was almost always overseas on vacation. Both she and her husband had British accents – frankly, the only British accent I can recognize is Scottish. They could’ve been English, Welsh, or Irish, and I don’t want to guess.
(Funny story about guessing accents – my last few semesters at Towson, I befriended a girl from eastern Europe. One day sitting on the 2nd floor corridor before class, I made the mistake of telling her I thought she was from Russia. After she slapped me and cursed at me in a foreign yet strangely exotic language I learned she was actually Chek.)
I’m getting distracted again. Anyway, the point is, I worked all the time, she ordered all the time. In addition to being a good tipper, let’s face it, she was hot. And a red head, which might lend weight to the Irish arguement. Anyway, her toddler apparently saw me so much, and his father so little, that he thought I was his father. One day she stopped into the store and to the owner’s bemusement related the tale. I was somewhat torn between “cool” and “ohmygodrunforthehillsanddontcomeback.”
Long story short, I quit working at the restaraunt for a variety of reasons. Mostly because the owner was a real fucker. Eight months later, I was working for DP after a stint managing a pizza shop in Hampden. If I ever mention even the possibility of ever managing again, hit me, or shoot me, or something.
So that was about five months ago. Thirteen months since the last time I delivered to her. And what address was on the dispatch screen tonight? You guessed it: hers. And not only her address, but her first ever order from our store.
She opened the door as I was about halfway up her porch steps. She frowned as she saw me, then recognized me. “You moved.”
“So did we.”
At first I failed to catch the reference because, let’s face it, I’m stupid. “No, no,” she said. “We …”
“Oh, right, yeah.”
“Not having such a good time with service from them.”
Because, of course, no one is because PJ is run by an incompotent moron and his slacker cronies.
Does anyone else think I need to work on my conclusions a bit more?
*Usually this person has to go buy a new mailbox the next day.