I don't think that's how it works

Overheard today at Pizza Place:

WAITRESS: Oh, if my mom sees my paycheck stub and sees I spent money on food here, she'll be mad.
COOK: So? You're eighteen, right? It's your money, right? It's, like, five dollars, right?
WAITRESS: No, no, no...
COOK: You can do whatever you want.
WAITRESS: No, I can't be rebellious. If I rebel, I'll get pregnant. It's in my genes.

I suppose it's possible she said jeans instead. That would make about as much sense.

I think he caught a cab

Big Boss told of me of an encounter he had this afternoon. A big, bulky guy wandered into the store and approached the counter. "Have you seen my friend?" the man said, and produced a picture. It was an image of...Jesus.

"I dropped him off here," he said, "I was supposed to pick him up."

Big Boss told him that no, Jesus hadn't been around. The man, looking sad, took his picture and left.

How little you mortals understand time -- must you be so linear, Jean-Luc?

[Sorry for the -- way -- late post. Blogger issues. Two posts today instead; first one now, second one tonight. Deal?]

So: time passes. It moves. Forward, generally. We can agree on that? Good. And we can acknowledge that things change over time -- that the objects around us don't always stay constant as time plods along? Yeah? All right then.

At about 9:30 Saturday night (and you know what that means), we received an angry telephone call from a customer. "I ordered a pizza from you," she said, "and it's cold."

Not outside the realm of possibility. So Big Boss asked for her address, and set about finding the ticket for her order. The way things are set up at Pizza Place, each of the drivers (there are three of us) keeps their tickets in a separate box until they're counted at the end of the shift. Big Boss asked me if I'd taken it, and I hadn't -- nor had Driver #2. Driver #3 wasn't in the building at the time, so Big Boss searched in that box and found it in no time. He looked at the ticket to see the time the order was placed.

See, it's unlikely that the lady had actually received a cold pizza -- as I mentioned in an earlier post, we generally get our orders delivered promptly. Some more exposition for you: the woman lives in an apartment complex less than a block from us. It takes less than forty-five seconds to drive there. (I know: not only do did I deliver pizza there, I lived there for a year.) But a cold pizza can happen, so Big Boss compared the current time to the time the order had been placed. If it was longer than, say, an hour, it was a definite possibility. The current time, as I said, was 9:30. Big Boss read the time the order was taken:

6:26.

Big Boss slowly returned to the phone. "Ma'am, you ordered your pizza at six-thirty."

"Yeah, I did. And it's cold!"

"Uh...yeah, I'm sure it is. That was three hours ago."

More amusing banter followed. Big Boss explained that pizza "doesn't stay warm for twenty-four hours." The woman eventually said that she meant the pizza was cold when she received it.

"Why didn't you call then?" Big Boss said. "Why did you wait three hours?"

"I couldn't find your phone number."

"For three hours?"

"Yeah."

"It's printed on the coupon on the top of the box."

"...Oh."

"And you called it when you placed the order."

"...Well...look, the pizza was cold. Can you bring me another one?"

Big Boss, of course, said no. And the woman, of course, got angry. "Why the hell not? The pizza was cold! I can show it to you!"

"Yes, it's cold now. As I said. But you got it three hours ago. What am I supposed to do about it now?"

The woman then began chirping for a free pizza, which Big Boss denied. "What the hell kind of business are you running?" she yelled.

"The kind where I stay in business," he said. "If I gave free pizzas away to everyone who asked for one, I'd be living under a bridge."

This missive was met with a stream of profanity that would have made David Mamet cringe, ending with the declaration that she would take her business elsewhere. "Fine," Big Boss said. "Take it to the fucking grocery store and buy your fucking pizza there and it won't get fucking cold when you make it in your own fucking oven." *slam*

I asked if he wanted to add her to the Do Not Deliver list. I was already poised to scrawl her apartment number right next to the Katrina victims -- same apartment complex.

"Fuck that," he said. "We're not going to those apartments anymore. We've had too many problems. And Pizza Conglomerate just had a driver get beaten up over there. Fuck it."

And thus, we stopped delivering to an apartment complex with over two hundred apartments.

Thanks for spoiling it for everybody else.

Saturday Night Specials, Part 2: This is what Adam Sandler characters would be like in real life

[Sorry for the lateness. I had some car-related issues that were a distraction, not to mention the enormous amount of time I spent in the Animus, reliving the memories of Altaïr's efforts to end the Crusades. A thousand apologies.]

The man's name is Shindledecker. We know this because it shows up on the caller ID. I'm sure he has a first name, but we've long since forgotten it. He occupies a special place on our "no delivery" list -- separate from all other names, in its own section, reads a quick, dirty scrawl:

SHINDLEDECKER
[his phone number]
NO DELIVERY
NO PICKUP
"GET THE FUCK OUT"

"If he comes in here again," Mini Boss told us all, "that's what I want you to say to him: get the fuck out of here. Exactly those words."

Late one Saturday night, the phone rang. One of our servers answered the phone, as Mini Boss and I were in the dining room discussing something on the television. I saw her talking on the phone for a minute, scribbling onto an order pad. She looked puzzled for a moment, then put the customer on hold. To me, she said, "An extra large pizza is $9.99?"

"For one topping, yeah."

"How much for an extra topping?"

"Two dollars."

"What if it's just on half?"

"Still two dollars." This is Pizza Place policy. I don't know if it works like that everywhere else -- Mini Boss and Big Boss assure me that it does, and I don't care enough to find out. But in any event, it's mandated by Pizza Place corporate, so there's nothing we can do about it. Is it unfair? Maybe. But it's also a friggin' dollar we're talking about. This is important later.

She picked the phone back up. I watched her talk for a few more moments. She listened for a second, and then flinched -- like she'd been physically struck. She pulled the receiver away from her face and looked at it like she'd never seen one before, and then -- gingerly -- hung it up.

The way she relayed the story to us, the customer she was talking to -- this guy Shindledecker -- ordered an extra large pizza with extra cheese, and pepperoni on half. When given his total, he balked and demanded explanation. So she double-checked the cost of an extra topping with me, and confirmed it with him.

"But I'm only getting it on half," he said.

"It's still two dollars," our server said.

He repeated his original protest, and our server repeated her side. "I'm sorry," she offered.

Shindledecker scoffed. "Whatever, bitch," he said. "Just make the fucking pizza." *click*

Now, Mini Boss is not a man without his flaws. When bored -- and he bores easily -- he generally turns his wicked sense of humor on his own employees, and can get pretty nasty. This server in particular was a frequent target for ridicule, with her drug-laden past and psychotic life story. (My favorite part: her ex-husband once went crazy and tried to kill her...with a sword.)

But the one thing he absolutely will not tolerate under any circumstances is someone talking like that to one of us. (Perhaps he feels they're encroaching on his turf.) Give any Pizza Place employee any crap, and you will find Mini Boss in your face in a matter of seconds.

So after Shindledecker's unkind comments to our server, Mini Boss was no mood to placate the man. He made the pizza, exactly as ordered, and we waited.

There's an episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine where Worf is put on trial for accidentally destroying a civilian passenger carrier during a fight with Klingons. Quark is called as a witness, and reflects on a conversation he shared with Worf before he left on the mission -- Quark asked about the possibility of a Klingon attack. "Then he got his really weird look on his face, and he said...'I hope they do.'"

Mini Boss had that look on his face.

Ten minutes later, Shindledecker arrived. We recognized him -- he'd come in quite a few times before, we just didn't know his name. Calmly, politely, he stepped to the counter and asked for his pizza. Mini Boss gave him his total -- the same total the server had told him.

"But I'm only getting the pepperoni on half," Shindledecker said -- again, calmly.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, sir, but it's still--"

"FUCK YOU!!!" Shindledecker screamed. He pounded his fist on the counter, then spun on his heel and marched to the door. "THIS IS FUCKING BULLSHIT!! FUCK YOU FUCKERS!! AAAHH!!!"

He threw open the front door, stepped outside, and slammed the thing shut -- slammed it so hard the impact reverberated through all the other windows in the building, and came pretty close to breaking it altogether.

Mini Boss -- who had been waiting for an outburst, but nothing like that -- reached under the counter and grabbed his gun. Who knew if this crazy fucker was coming back in?

We saw the crazy man get in his car, still yelling (to himself) about this injustice. Mini Boss ran out after him and yelled, "Don't you ever fucking come in here again!" Shindledecker made as if he was coming out of the car, but saw the gun in Mini Boss's hand and drove away instead. Mini Boss came back in, stowed his firearm, and made the aforementioned note on our no service list.

He hasn't come back since. I guess he wasn't willing to risk getting shot.

Over a dollar.

Saturday Night Specials, Part 1: The Malaysia Man

The crazies come out on Saturday night.

I don't know why. But our final hour of business on Saturday nights is inevitably filled with lunatics. We'll be well on our way to closing up -- cooks are putting away the food, I'm washing dishes, the servers are cleaning the dining room, Mini Boss or Big Boss is counting the money -- and the door will open to grant entrance to a living, breathing stack of crazy.

These next few entries will detail some of those special people. And we'll start with the most special of them all: the Malaysia Man.

It was about thirty minutes before closing time. I don't remember having a cook -- he may have already been sent home. But I was there, along with Mini Boss and a waitress.

The Malaysia Man entered, shuffling his feet, eyes darting back and forth. He was short, overweight, and balding. White guy, late fifties, early sixties. I think he had a hat. He made his way to the counter. The Malaysia Man smiled, a wide grin. Mini Boss greeted him.

"Can I help you?"
"YESYUCANGEMMEPEETZAWIDEMBBBBBBBBRRRAK-AK-AK!!"
"...?!"

We quickly learned that the Malaysia Man had a few...problems.

First, once he started talking to you, he couldn't seem to stop. Just constant, babble babble babble. This wouldn't be that much of an issue, really, except that he slurred every word together into an unintelligible slop, like a verbal garbage disposal. Again, that wouldn't be much a problem, either, except that he didn't really talk -- he shouted. At the top of his old man lungs.

And then, for seasoning, he'd throw a violent tic in at random intervals, just to keep you on your toes. It's almost impossible to capture in text -- the closest I can manage is bbbbbrak-ak-ak! And while he'd do that, he'd twitch his left shoulder and scrunch up his face like he was holding back a sneeze.

"GEMMEPEZAEVRTHANGGEMELOTSACHEEZBBBRAK-AK-AK!!"

I was supposed to be washing the dishes, but instead I hid behind the soda machine, watching Mini Boss try to take this guy's order. It took him about ten minutes -- and all he ordered was one pizza.

Mini Boss told the guy it'd be about fifteen minutes, and quickly retreated back to make the pizza, relieved to get away from the noise. We shared a look.

What the fuck?

But while Mini Boss had an out -- "Gotta make the pizza!" -- our poor waitress had no such escape route. She was stuck cleaning the dining room, and so had to listen to the Malaysia Man's cacophonous onslaught. I pitied her. Until I realized I would have to go out there to put some dishes away. Would I be caught as well? I grabbed the plates and eased my way out. Maybe he'd be distracted yelling at her and wouldn't see me.

No such luck -- she wasn't there. Cleaning somewhere else, I supposed. So when I stepped into the dining room, the Malaysia Man aimed and fired.

"GOTSAPEETZATAGLAFIRAETECASABBBBRRRAK-AK-AK!!"
"Uh...you bet."

Now, here's my problem: I'm unfailingly polite to the customers. So when this guy started talking to me, I didn't want to just walk away. Instead, I stood and waited for him to finish. Seven minutes later, he hadn't stopped for air. I interrupted him, telling him I had dishes to do, and slipped away before he could get going again. As I retreated, I saw Mini Boss laughing at me.

I stayed in the back, washing dishes and letting them pile up -- I could put them away after he left. No way was I getting stuck in that again. All the while, I could hear him shouting in the background -- someone was certainly getting an earful.

While I waited for a dishwashing cycle to finish, I stepped away from the machine, back to the hall that leads to the kitchen. At the other end of the restaurant, I saw Mini Boss wiping down a counter. He saw me...and froze. His face twisted in confusion. I lifted my hands, palms up -- a "What's up?" gesture.

Mini Boss crept -- slowly, ever so slowly -- from his place by the oven to where I stood. "I thought you were in the dining room," he whispered.

"No," I said. I whispered, too, but only because he had. "I've been washing dishes. Why?"

Mini Boss jerked a thumb toward the front of the building. "If you've been back here, who the fuck is he talking to?"

We were silent. We both heard him -- still shouting an unbroken stream of syllables. Together, we tiptoed back to the front, careful to make no noise. We reached the entrance to the dining room and looked out.

The Malaysia Man stood in the center of the room, leaning on a table, shouting at no one. No one at all.

"I thought he was talking to you," Mini Boss said.

"I thought he was talking to the waitress," I said.

"She went home five minutes ago," he said, and we each saw the horror on the face of the other.

It's a rare thing, to come face-to-face with actual lunacy. We use the word "crazy" casually, but when you actually see it -- actually see an old man shouting nonsense to his imaginary friend -- it's pretty frightening. And, to be honest, inexplicably hilarious.

About that time, his pizza came out of the oven. Mini Boss boxed it and presented to the man, and you could tell he was glad to be rid of him.

While paying for his order, the old man noticed the manufacturer's stamp on the cash register. Why? Who the hell knows. But he did, and he babble something about the company that made it. He also noticed a sentence printed below the logo: Made in Malaysia.

He seemed to rejoice then, and started telling us about the time he lived in Malaysia. (At least, I think that's what he was saying -- if you listened to him long enough, you could almost pick the words out. Almost.) For another two or three minutes, Mini Boss and I nodded politely and waited for him to leave.

Finally, the Malaysia Man picked up his pizza and told us he'd have to be off. He shouted that he'd love to stay, but his wife was waiting for him in the car -- she loves our pizza, that's why he always comes here. Of course, we'd never seen the guy before, but who's counting?

He turned and headed for the door. Mini Boss and I shared another look, the both of us coming to the same realization at the same time.

His wife?

We swung around to the dining room, scampering for the door, trying to get a glimpse and this lunatic's wife. We saw the man reach his car, saw him open the door and climb inside. And his wife? Well, you can answer that, can't you?

The Malaysia Man turned in his seat, still talking, and offered the pizza to his passenger: nobody. No one.

As we watched, he continued to talk. He put the pizza in the empty seat (did he think his wife was holding it?), and started the car. He kept talking, and as we watched, his speech became more animated. He started gesturing violently with one hand, and then we realized -- he was arguing. With no one.

The Malaysia Man screamed in defiance at his hypothetical companion for a few more minutes, and then -- finally-- put his car in gear and drove away.

Mini Boss and I watched in silence for a moment. We turned to one another.

"What the fuck?" he said.

And then we just couldn't stop laughing.

You've got to be shitting me

[I missed a day. Sorry about that. I'll make up for it on Monday, when I post my favorite story ever. In the meantime: a poop story.]

A couple ate dinner at Pizza Place. They paid for their food and left with nary a comment or complaint.

Fifteen minutes later, the man called us. Mini Boss answered the phone. The man presented us with an...interesting problem.

"Yeah, I'm over at the video store next door to you guys right now, and...my wife just shit all over herself."
"...Um, what?"
"Yeah, she just shit everywhere. She is very embarrassed. Now, I think maybe the Italian sausage was bad. She said it tasted funny, I mean, I tasted it myself, but..."
"..."
"...So..."

The man goes on to imply that she's stricken with food poisoning thanks to our rancid Italian sausage. Mini Boss proceeds to offer the following:

1. No one else who ate the Italian sausage has reported being ill.
2. Food poisoning generally takes longer than fifteen minutes to set in.

Though I'm sure he was thinking it, he didn't bother asking, "If it tasted funny, why did you keep eating it? And why didn't you say anything to us at the time?"

The man asks us to refund his money. "I mean, if you wanna do that, we can settle this that way." Mini Boss refuses -- if you knew Mini Boss, you'd know better than that. The man threatens to call a lawyer, and Mini Boss invites him to do just that. The man claims he will.

Never heard from him again.

...?

The phone rings.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yes, do you have Chinese food?"
"Um, this is Pizza Place."
"Yes. Do you have Chinese food?"
"...No."
"Really? Dammit." *hangs up*

He was just checking

We open at 11 a.m. Of course, people have to get there before we open -- set up the pizza-making table, turn on the ovens, lay out the salad bar.

Mini Boss arrived at Pizza Place one Sunday last year shortly before eleven. He found a old man sitting in his car outside, waiting for us to open. Mini Boss went inside and started setting things up.

Come eleven, Mini Boss strolled over to our front window. Sure enough, the old man was still sitting outside, waiting. Mini Boss made eye contact with him for a moment, then turned on the open sign.

And the old man promptly...started his car, shifted into reverse, and drove away.

We never saw him again.