A. just reminded me of this story that happened a couple of years ago.
A new pizza place had just opened in our neighborhood. I was at my friend B’s house, drinking Miller Lites and smoking lovely, lovely cigarettes in his kitchen. A. was on his way back from some practice or something. I’d promised A. I’d pick up a pizza on my way back across town, and that we would meet up in cheesy goodness at home base.
I called this place from B’s and ordered a large half-cheese half-pepperoni. The guy told me twenty minutes until pickup.
Fifteen minutes after I called, I was on my way home and reasonably close to the place when I got a call back from the pizza guy, demanding to know where I was. I told him I was about 10 minutes away and he exploded with rage. He said I was taking too long.
He wanted to change the plans and deliver the pizza instead of me picking it up. I told him nobody was home to pay him. He wanted to know how fast I could get there. I told him ten minutes, and he didn’t like it one bit.
After much back and forth, he kind of softened with defeat. He said quietly, in a thick Middle Eastern accent, “But I just want you pizza to be as most delicious as possible.”
The guy was just lookin’ out for my pizza. And he got all worked up into a wad over it.
We will be dining on their fabulous carry out this evening, and A. will be phoning in the order from the Baby Wipes aisle at the grocery store. Let’s hope he doesn’t get hung up in traffic.