Friday, January 2, 2009

Half Cheese, Half Hawaiian


Being a pizza delivery person must be terrible.
Not because of the driving, not because of the late hours, not because of the bad pay, but because off all the people you see.
It must be such a mental trip.
One minute you're delivering five pizzas to a seven-year old's birthday party. There are bright balloons and streamers, children running through the family's yard laughing and yelling, parents gathered around talking, and the birthday child grinning from ear to ear. You walk in the door to meet a mom or dad who, though flustered, smiles and thanks you, handing you a tip. The next minute you're back in your car again, driving to the next house with two pizzas. Someone answers the door, their eyes are puffy from old tears, they're still in pajamas, they're alone. You know they're going to eat both by themselves, they tip twice as much as anyone else would because they think that don't have anything better to use the money on.
Next stop: a family of four, the table is set, they're getting ready to sit down together, unlike the next house where a teenage kid answers the door, shoves a twenty at you, and closes the door as muffled screaming, crashing, and yelling escapes.
And that is only a few situations. this isn't even mentioning the football games, the college parties, the sleepovers, the bulimic, the lonely person that would love to have someone to share it with.
So many different people.

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