Pizza Confidential

Michael Williams

            By the time I had reached her front door, I was pretty much second-guessing my decision—initially based on the ridiculous deliciousness of their chicken parm sandwich. I haven’t read many biographies, yet I’m pretty sure great careers have begun from far less. Either way, at one point working at Westport Pizza had sounded like possibly the greatest job on Earth.

There’s not a single computer in this throwback pizza joint which could be found in anytown USA, yet this one is found in one of the most affluent towns in the USA. We take all of our orders by hand and I have to take out a road map to find the delivery stops.  And our breed of folks enjoy thinking that they live in the woods so there are precious few street lamps and I swear streets are only marked behind trees and other camouflage. 

I rang the doorbell with my heart pounding.  A short woman finally opened the door.  An awkward silence immediately ensued.  I expected her to say something and while I contemplated her silence, I realized I hadn’t said anything either.  Finally, a warm and welcoming smile crept across the woman’s face as she invited me into her house. To my utter surprise she asked, “Could I get you a cold cup of pink lemonade?”  I wasn’t expecting that.  And I soon learned that I would never know what to expect.

            In fact, I have endured a regrettable amount of rude behavior. About ten minutes after we were supposed to take the last delivery, a call came in from our local grocery, and since I was bored on a slow night, I decided to stay late and take this last one in an attempt to make some money.  I specifically told the customer the price - $39.60.  When I got to the Stop and Shop, the people at customer service didn’t know who had ordered the pizza.  After a full 20 minutes, the caller was located, but claimed to have no idea it was so much money. He handed me two twenties, a forty cent tip. 

            Change has become a recurring motif in my life as a delivery guy.  I’ve been paid in all change.  I’ve counted a bag of $25.00 in mixed change on the stoop of house to be sure it was all there.  And I’ve been given a handful of change as a tip when kids came up short and just reached into a change jar claiming it was “like six bucks, man”

            Unfortunately, sometimes I don’t just get bad tips—I get miserable customers. My single most awful day at work was solely due to a certain lady on Catbriar Road. Around 6p.m. the orders began to stack up.  We were understaffed so I had to take four or five orders and come back as quickly as possible for more.  On my way to the fourth, I decided to call to make sure I arrived in a timely manner.  I wanted to confirm that her road was off West Godfrey, and she told me East Godfrey.  Shortly after, I turned onto East Godfrey and began scanning a brutally hilly and winding road.  I simply could not find this road and decided that I would call the woman again to ask for help.  I tried to dial her a few times, but there was no cell service out there.  I traveled the street a few more times until my gas light went on.  I tried calling the lady yet again and my phone started beeping, telling me the battery was dying.  I began to panic.  I pulled over and flagged down two other cars to ask for directions, both of which had never even heard of the street. My cell phone died...  I decided that I might as well check West Godfrey before I headed back to town and there it was. An angry woman sarcastically asked: “Did it take you long enough to get here?”  I started to explain to her how she had given me the wrong directions, but I was cut off: “Don’t you know how to do your job?”  She demanded the cold pizza I had in my car as well as a fresh pizza, free of charge, of course. I still get angry at this lady just thinking about that trip, yet my worst delivery was yet to come

On another trip out into that woodsy neighboring town, I had a decent-sized delivery so I was hoping the tip would at least pay for my gas there and back.  I approached the seemingly tranquil and peaceful residence hearing the usual “Pizza’s here!” call to the kids, accompanied by a “Don’t let the dog out!”  I found out why when the dog started towards me, jumped up, and bit me in my thigh, ripping my jeans, and drawing blood.  The owner came to the door pronouncing: “I hate that dog so much: my husband wont let us get rid of it.”  Despite her dog biting me, breaking my skin, and ripping my jeans, I received no apology and a $3 tip on a $45 order.

Thankfully, the cost of my pants was recovered through another more caring woman. On that delivery, I opened the door to be accosted with questions about the public high school.  This seemingly nice woman just kept blurting out questions about whether the high school would be good enough for her “prodigy children who were rotting away in the public middle schools.” She asked if the courses were challenging enough, or if she would be better off with her children at “far superior” boarding schools such as Exeter, Deerfield, and Andover which “feed directly into the only schools that offer a decent education, like Harvard, Yale, and Stanford.”  Quite appalled by the things this woman was saying, I decided it would just be easier and more fun to just agree with what she was saying and play along to experience the full extent of that world she had created in her head: it was clear that she just wanted to talk more than hear any advice. She asked for my name and phone number and I made up each of them.  However, she handsomely rewarded me for my time with a $100 tip.

            I never would have thought that a chicken parm would wind up teaching me so much about myself and others. I have learned that I cannot judge people by the size of their houses or the cars they drive.  Nice houses don’t make nice people and bad houses don’t make bad people. I was hired on the spot, put on the spot, and now with a few miles and a few decent stories under my belt I can take the heat of the kitchen.