June 2005

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Yet Another Letter From A Fan

Filed under: Imported

This email landed in my inbox the other day.
The sender, identified only as "bb", doesn't seem to be big on punctuation.

"This is the most incredibly inane website I have ever read thanks for making
my life worth living Good luck with the Lottery thing and thanks for delivering the mediocre"


Dear bb,

You're welcome, jackass.

love,
The Pizzaman

Posted by The Pizza Man at June 30, 2005 12:36 PM

 

I, Robot

Filed under: Imported

As you may or may not have noticed, I haven't posted for a long time.
I've heard the rumors on the Streets:
-"He's on the Michael Jackson jury"
-"He had a lung removed"
-"He's in Europe"
-"His National Guard unit has been called up"

But the real reason is, I've been depressed. For the last few months I've been driving that black bus of despair. Business has been down somewhat and tips have been way down, so I've had to work nearly every damn day just to make ends meet. I only had two days off in April and three in May. Plus, the shitty weather this Spring has been killing me. Not the weather itself, but the way that Pizzalovers have been reacting to it and how they all seem to take it out on me. Now I'm used to people getting weird, depressed and downright mean during February and March, but the protracted shitty Spring we experienced really brought out something in my fellow Minneapolitans that I've never experienced. It seemed as if every other delivery was to a Pizzalover that made my life a living Hell. After several weeks of abuse, I started to "turn off", the Streets became rote, my head wasn't in the game. I started to feel like a robot, read address - drive to address - deliver pizza - take it in the ass - get paid - "thank you", as though I might as well be putting lugnuts on Chevy's. And the last thing I wanted to do when I got home was re-live the experience on the internet. The dirty looks, the shitty tips, the front door spaz-outs of Pizzalovers... Christ, it felt like I was slowly marching towards a death "by service industry".

The breaking point came one night when I delivered a cheese wheel to a pain in the ass regular that always complains about the fact that she has to write a second phone number on her check. (store policy) I rang the bell, she answered, handed me the check and we went through the same routine we go through every time I grave her doorstep:

"Could I get another phone number on this check, please?"
"I order all the time"
"I know, I just need another phone-"
"I've never had to do that before"
In my head, I'm thinking "Sure you have... EVERY SINGLE FUCKING TIME I'VE
DELIVERED TO YOUR HOUSE"
I stay cool, I've been through this before.
"Ma'am, if I could just get another pho-"
"I can't believe this! This is embarrassing! I'm calling your manager!"
Blah, blah, blah.

It was at this very moment, while this woman was going apeshit, that my mind kind of slipped away. I started looking at this big airplane moving across the sky. Oh, how I wish I was on that plane going somewhere, anywhere... anywhere was better than there at that moment. "I don't write bad checks! I can't believe this!" I imagined myself getting off the plane in some tropical land where they place a umbrella'd drink in your hand the moment you step onto the tarmac. Ah yes, that would be beautiful but... "I'm not writing another number on here! Do I look like I write bad checks?" With my mind gripping that icy, tropical drink in St Barts, my lips in Minneapolis formed-"Ma'am, it's store policy. I just need..." Then she really started to go ballistic. She started screaming at me "I don't write bad checks!"

Now, most of the time, when it gets to this level of ridiculousness, I just walk away.
But this time I was so mentally removed from the situation that I just stared at the plane, wishing. My food service anus so calloused from the repeated verbal ass-fucking I'd endured that I barely noticed the woman still yelling at me. Finally, she said "I don't want it! I'm never ordering from you again!" (she ordered three days later) She slammed the door in my face.
I walked back to the car and turned on Dark Star. I was a couple of blocks away before I even realized what really happened. I had just stood there and taken it, my wink reflex long gone. After work, I went home, got into bed, pulled the covers over my head and I've been piloting the black bus ever since.

But fuck it.
I'm back.
I'll be posting again real soon-like with a few tales of drunken right-wing nutjobs, pissed off cyclists, shut-in old ladies and stoned-out root beer lovers.

Send letters, notes, and the number of a good therapist to:
pizzaman@citypages.com

Posted by The Pizza Man at June 27, 2005 3:05 PM

 

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