I once had professor in college tell me that I had the talent to write. My problem, this egghead said, was the same problem that most people nowadays have. NO MATTER HOW MUCH TALENT YOU MAY HAVE, IF YOU AIN’T GOT THE DISCIPLINE TO DO IT EVERY DAY, YOU MIGHT AS WELL GIVE IT UP AND GET A MEANINGLESS JOB. I’ll admit that when the professor told me this, right after she gave me my paper back that said “A+ Great Job!” in the right hand corner of the paper, I felt a flush of anger come over me. Who was this Bitch, I thought to myself. Who was this bitch to tell me what I can and can’t do with my abilities as a writer. She’s just jealous because she’s probably never wrote accomplished anything more with her writing career than having one of her haiku’s published on some obscure literary website. Or better yet, having a poem she wrote in college about her first orgasm published on VQR online.
I think this is going to be hard for me. My ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder), or as I like to call it, my sugar-coated diet, makes it hard for me to sit still and concentrate on one thing. Honestly, as I sit here and write this fuckin’ sentence, I’m thinking to myself that I would rather go into my room, rub my girlfriend’s tits to see if I can get her to respond, and go to sleep afterwards. If that didn’t work, I had a Plan B. I would go in the room, rub my girlfriend’s tits, have her tell me to leave her alone, stare in pitch darkness for awhile thinking about how much money I don’t have, and then turn the TV on and see how long it can take before Charlie Sheen and Jon Cryer make me laugh at the same jokes that I’ve heard them say about a thousand times.
It’s not too often that a pizza guy gets a bright idea about sitting down and writing a story. In fact, it’s a rare night indeed when a guy whose delivered pizza for almost twelve years can come home, look at himself in the mirror, and feel anything else but a pounding migraine headache because of a disappointing day at his office, okay not an office, but a day and often in my case, a day and a night of driving all over two different cities in his fucking car trying to avoid idiots who don’t know how to drive any better than he does.
Tonight though, something feels different. I’m not quite sure what it is but, I don’t know. It’s just different.
Let me get something straight with you people, those who are sitting here reading this garbage. I’ve been at this pizza delivery gig for a few years and I’ve never thought about what it would be like to sit down and write about my experiences until recently. It may have crossed my mind a time or two, but to sit down and write all this shit out, ugh really. Besides, I’ve always told myself, who the FUCK would actually care about what the hell happens to a pizza guy. Don’t most people think that pizza delivery drivers are nothing but a bunch of dumbass kids or potheads driving around in our VW Beetles looking to score some more dope? Well, people can think what they want. The truth is however, that I’m one of those pizza delivery jackwads whose done this because he needs to pay his bills and who thinks that this job has been one of the relatively few STABLE ways to earn a living for the last 10-15 years. Anyway, I ramble. I’m going to stop here and take a break (not a fucking pot break) for all you fuckers out there that think this is what I’m saying. I’m gonna take a break and try to figure out how I’m going to start this story and how I’m gonna do it. Be right back.
SO, this one time in band camp…..just kidding.
I guess I’m gonna call this: Shit Rolls With the Boss, An Intro
One day, the boss, while posting the schedule for the upcoming week, came right out in front of everybody and said, “Hey, let’s not all act like this fucker right here (pointing at me), and try to ask for every day off this week.” At that exact moment, I knew my time at Big Texas Pizza was almost up. I wanted to hit my boss in that smug face of his with one of our big Pizza Peels, you might call them spatulas. Once his nose was bleeding, I wanted to then take our sharpest bubble popper and ram it straight into his neck. That would shut that motherfucker up once and for all. The company would be free from this fucking wannabe boss tyrant and those in the company would laud me a hero. They would make me a hero and give me a big promotion, I thought. Yea, they would.
And then, like all heroes to the masses, I would then be arrested and sentenced to life in prison for murder. I would then become the newest bitch to a big fucker with a large “Mom” tattoo on his chest. What a life I would have. All because my asshole boss, Peter Holton, pissed me off for the last time.
Have you ever had your boss tell you to “Fuck Off” while your at work? I did once, and I tell ya, that motherfucker almost got his head kicked in.
I worked for Big Texas Pizza for almost fifteen years. It was never a career choice for me. It was just a job for me while I made my way through school and out in the world trying to make my fortune. About five years ago, I quit Big Texas because I got a job teaching at the University of Houston. The times I had at Big Tex taught me a lot about myself, people, and the way people treat each other. I had a good time, for the most part. The last couple of years though, not so much fun. Frankly, it was a lot of bullshit. I’m glad that I was able to leave that company when I did. I had to get out of there.
Peter Holton was one of the main reasons why. My boss, Peter Holton, or as I liked to call him, “dumbass,” because that’s the best name I can give him right now, who liked to fuck with his employees. He was a good worker and he knew his stuff, don’t get me wrong, he just liked to mess with people in a way that pissed people off. Personally, I think it made him feel good about the fact that he wasn’t get laid at home.
Peter had a reputation throughout the company of being an asshole. It was very well known throughout the company that soon after Peter was placed in charge of a new department or group in the company, people under him who had worked for the company for years, would soon ask to be transferred, quit for no reason, or in some cases, find themselves fired after a “run-in” with Peter the Dumbass. The story was that Peter had literally pissed everyone off at the corporate headquarters and the “geniuses” that made the big decisions decided that the best way to use Peter’s talents was to send him out into the field to the different retail outlets to “clean out” the undesirables that questioned the decisions handed down by the corporate office. That was the rumor that those of us, myself included, who had been with the company for a long time and who had friends all around the company, had heard. Peter had arrived at our store about six months ago and within a week, he had shook up the management staff. Two good managers, one who had been with the company for almost ten years, left suddenly for new jobs, usually with competitors, after confrontations with Peter.
Once the management at our local store had been ripped to shreds, Peter turned his attention to the regular staff.
I didn’t know what the big deal was with people hating Peter. I did my best to get along with him and he seemed receptive to my attempts at mutual respect among manager and employee. One day, about a month ago, things started to change.
I don’t know how or why it happened. All I know is, that on a delivery, Peter insisted that I split the pizza delivery tip with him. I said, we’ve never done that at the store, and that I wouldn’t do that.
He gave me a “what the hell did you just say” look and said in a raised voice, “In all the other stores that I’ve worked at, we do tip sharing all the time, especially on big orders.”
“Look man,” I said, “I’m sorry but that’s not cool. I’ve never heard of that and I’ve been doing this for over a decade. Tips received inside the store, that’s one thing. But tips given to drivers, that’s something else entirely.” I had been in the pizza delivery game for a while. In all the years I had worked
Peter stood up and placed his arms to his side. Since he was about two inches taller than me and about fifty pounds heavier, I stepped back a half a step and subconsciously my internal defense system suddenly sprang into action. It was my military training taking over my body’s reflexes without me even having time to respond to what was happening. I looked at Peter. I could tell his face was starting to redden. I quickly glanced at his hands.
Were they balled into fists? Is this guy really going to punch me?
Peter glared at me. I had a funny thought come to my mind as we stood there for that brief five seconds looking at each other. Briefly, I pictured the whistling sound from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. And then the camera going back and forth between his eyes and mine while our eyes raced from side to side trying to see if something was going to happen to either one of us from the side. I smirked and whistled the tune at Peter.
Peter was in no mood to joke. “Fuck off,” Peter said, “the tip will be shared. You don’t like it. Quit.” He walked off.
I knew deep down, that it was now my time to be fucked with. My stomach turned in knots as I thought about what the next couple of days, weeks, months, or even years had in store for me. “Fuck,” I exhaled out.
So here we are. A month later.
Peter posted the schedule for the upcoming week. When he tacked it onto the board, he said in front of everybody, “Hey, let’s not all act like this fucker right here (pointing at me), and try to ask for every day off this week.”
After I fought off my initial reaction of punching my boss right in his skinny fucking nose for calling me out in front of the staff, I turned to look at my place on the schedule.
David Collins
Monday — Off
Tuesday — 10-5pm
Wednesday — 10-6pm
Thursday — 10-5pm
Friday — 10-5pm
Saturday — 10-8pm
Sunday — Off
Total — 39 Hours
Confused, I thought, that can’t be right.
I knew better because of what Dumbass just said to everyone right in front of me. But still, I blinked, and looked at the schedule again.
I looked back at Peter. That grin, that shit-eating grin, that everyone in the store knew well. I’m the boss, and that’s the way it is. That’s how I decided to schedule everyone this week. There ain’t nothing you can fucking do about it. You don’t like it? Quit. I don’t give a fuck.
That shit-eating grin that had given Peter his reputation as one of the biggest assholes in the company. right at him, my face and neck throbbing with heat and newly-formed as I tried to maintain my composure, looked the boss square in the face and said, “What are you talking about man? You and I talked about this a month ago. I have to go and see my kid graduate. You said yes. What’s the problem?”
Peter looked at me as if I just called his mother a bitch. “You and I didn’t talk about shit, Mr. Man,” he said.
This time, my fists were the ones that started to clench.
I will keep this up tomorrow………………..Thanks for the read everyone
North of the Bayou 