Truly, delivering pizzas is not for the faint of heart. Had you said this to me a mere two years ago, I would have laughed in your stoned face and told you to go buy a fucking CD player if you were that upset that Phish doesn't get any airplay. But, after having willfully immersed myself into the belly of this easy money beast, I have come to the conclusion that, while superficially, it is a blow-off job with many perks likely only attractive to those with such a devil-may-care attitude as the one that I possess(or, shall I say, possesses me?), there are certain elements that you, the delivery pizza consumer, are not privvy to. I shall regale you with a tale that happened to me, not but a week ago.. Your ears, sirs:
It happened that I, whilst still quite unfamiliar with the territory covered by my new job's delivery area, found myself in a quite hilly, near mountainous!, area of Ft. Worth, TX, that I freely admit I was wholly unaware of. The houses in this particular neighborhood are not at all like the plebeian dwellings that surround my house, but indeed, those of modern magistrates, powerful witches, and deadly knights! These, of course, are the very places a pieman wants to be, as more often than not, the residents here are quite generous and giving with their tips. They are known, truly, to throw their money around as liberally as they throw their dicks around secretaries, or their wives down stairs. Beware, however! These same people do not run their lives on the same time that you and I, the sufferers, do. No, theirs is a life of leisure, and while you must grant them extra time to get to the front door of their imposing abodes, you must also know that waiting five minutes at the door of one of these gas-lit-front-porch-light residences is never out of the question.
And this, friends, is the position I found myself in that very night. Holding the pizzas in hand, I marvelled at the intricate wood and metal work on the expansive redwood door. I glanced behind me, shielding my vision from the softening sunset, occassionally searing my eyes as the weeping willows across the street swayed ever so gently in the warm, southwesterly breeze, allowing the sun brief moments of sadistic pleasure. I momentarily watched the illegal immigrants in white painter's uniforms sweep paint chips, rake leaves, and cut blades of grass. I think one of them smiled at me. 'Brothers in arms,' I thought aloud. I turned again to face the door, beginning now to tap my foot impatiently to the rhythm of the song that was stuck in my head, progressively louder, and louder still, as though my tappings might call to attention the gluttons inside my presence outside, as a beaver's tail to impending danger.
At that moment, had I been a comic strip, there would have been a panel of silence, me simply standing there, growing older, followed by the same panel- only this time, an asterisk would have been placed directly above my head. A brief thought alit in my wandering mind. I heard a sound behind me. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a sound. What if...?
I turned around. I am not deceiving you, good people, when I tell you, in truth, that the very thought that raced for but a mere second through my head was exactly the scenario that I now found my very self in! Alas! My car was rolling away, driverless, down a hill, towards a sports car, towards a jail sentence! Truthfully, at first, I did not believe my eyes. Verily, I thought, 'This isn't happening. I'm just imagining this. I just had this thought. I'm just seeing things. It'll stop on its' own. It's not stopping on its' own. It's actually gaining speed. Fuck. Should I throw down the pizzas to make this situation more dramatic, or should I just set 'em down, 'cause it won't take that much extra time to just, kinda, gently set 'em down than it would to raise them up over my head and slam 'em down or throw them dramatically over my shoulder into the door as I run down the driveway? I should throw 'em. Nah. Well...' I bent down, compromisingly dropped the pizzas from about knee height and raced down the driveway to my aberrant vehicle. As I reached the street, I noticed hundreds of small, yellow leaves that lined the edge of the street by the curb. I noticed them because just as I reached my ever-accelerating car, I slipped on this demon foliage and was nearly pulled right under my car, leaving my legs and torso open to a tire thrashing I was not, am not, ready to receive! Luckily, my catlike reflexes saved me yet again from a severe accident involving moving vehicles and tires with my blood on them (see Oahu Excursion: The Standard Issue Chronicles. (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1999 pp. 129- 146)), as I deftly grabbed the top of my open door, and effortlessly slung my adrenaline infused body into the driver's seat, and yanked up the emergency brake that, while engaged, was not in full enough activation to contend with the grades of the land in this particular neighborhood.
The car was stopped. I jumped out of the miscreant scourge of technology a mere thirty feet from where the adventure had begun, though it felt like thirty miles. I ran back up the driveway to the house, making note to jump over the river of greased leaves, and filing a snapshot of the arbor-spawned would-be-murderers into my memory banks for future cautionary warnings to loved ones, and hopeful non-warnings to people I despise. As I arrived back to the steps of the front door, I heard children and man fumbling with the lock of the wooden gate to wealth. I bounded up the three faux-cottage cobblestone steps and picked up the pizzas just as the door opened, and just before their eyes took in any information that might make them think that anything might be awry in the perfect world, made moreso now by the delivery of gourmet food, served by a bearded master of cunning, that they have surrounded themselves with. I collected payment for the products I delivered, as well as a somewhat frugal three dollar tip, and made my way back down to my vehicle, smiling. Just as I opened the door to get in, I slipped on those goddamn leaves and smashed my shin right into the doorjamb of my car.