Pizza Delivery

You are doing your pizza deliveries. You have been to three houses this evening; they are far apart today. You are tired. On yesterday’s rounds you hit a speed bump the wrong way on your bicycle and became intimate with the pavement. Today you are feeling the consequences. You only have four more deliveries to get through though, so you will probably manage alright. Tomorrow is Sunday and you have the day off.

You roll up to a simple, neat bungalow, flip down your bike’s parking stand, and carefully remove your helmet. You had to customise it so that your antlers could fit through the slits. The house bears the numbers 111 in oxidised copper. You like that.

You slide two pizzas from their cubicle on the back of your bike. They aren’t exactly fresh any more, but they are still hot. Medium Greek with no olives for the lady, large three-cheese with sardines and salami for the man and the cats.

You walk up the front path and ring the doorbell. Woody the Woodpecker’s laugh resonates inside. “I’ll get it honey,” says a man. The door opens. The man is in his late 30s but looks youthful, a neat haircut and well-formed features the cherry on top of an expensive white dress shirt and black pinstriped pants. He looks like his house, you think.

“Who the fuck are you?” he yelps, taking a step back into the house and half shutting the door in your face. He is alarmed by the lack of your clothes, you surmise. You simply feel more comfortable wearing only tighty whities. You give him a smile that is supposed to be reassuring but when paired with your huge eyes just looks crazed.

“Pizza delivery!”

“You have the wrong house, sir,” says the man, swallowing excessively and adjusting an imaginary tie.

“Medium Greek with no olives for the lady; large three-cheese with sardines and salami for you and the cats,” you say, popping the lid of the top box open.

With this statement and accompanying demonstration of goods, the man’s face transforms. You imagine a miniature worker inside the man’s brain flipping a switch labelled Pizza to “On.” You smile toothily. The man smiles back.

“Honey,” he calls into the house. “Can you come to the door for a second?”

“Who is it?” replies a female voice. Shuffling and depositing of dishes on counters is followed by a light tread on the hallway carpet, which evolves into a young woman, equally as neat and pretty as the man and their house. As soon as she sees you, she shrieks and grabs at her husband’s arm.

“What the fuck is going on?” she cries.

“It’s okay, honey,” says the man in his Calming-My-Wife voice, turning to her and stroking her hair gently.

“Is it!?” she rebukes, brushing his hand from her hair in agitation. “There is a hairy, freakish man standing on our doorstep wearing nothing but tighty whities and antlers and you call that OKAY!?!” She tries to push past her husband to close the door, but he blocks her way.

“He’s just the pizza delivery guy,” he says.

His wife stares at him, uncomprehending.

“He’s just delivering our pizzas,” the man reiterates.

His wife continues to stare, then takes a breath. “But we haven’t ordered any pizzas.”

The man gives you a small confidential nod. You take the hint.

“Medium Greek with no olives for the lady. Large three-cheese with sardines and salami for the gentleman. And the cats,” you announce.

“And the cats,” repeats the man.

The woman looks from you to her husband and back, her eyes open wide. Her mouth parts in a soft “Oh,” then she retreats into the house. The man looks at you and shrugs. You both stand at the doorstep in silence, shifting from one foot to the other. You can see pairs of shoes scattered in the entryway. A long-haired calico brushes past your leg and slinks down the hallway. They always know.

The woman returns to the door, some bills in her hand. “How much?”

You shrug awkwardly. You don’t like this part. The best things in life are free.

“Whatever you think they’re worth.” You offer her the top box and she takes a slice. The first bite enters her mouth and as if by reflex, her eyes slowly close, and her whole body sinks into the taste and texture sensations.

Her husband observes her reaction, and reaches for the box himself. You intercept him. His pizza is the one underneath.

As soon as the man’s pizza box is opened, you are swarmed with cats. There are only three of them, but they have a zebra-like quality: you cannot tell where one ends and the next begins. The man removes a piece of pizza for himself, then you put one on the doorstep for the cats, who immediately leave off coddling you and become their lion-selves, tearing at the cheese and bread.

Meanwhile, the woman has finished her slice and is licking the oil from her fingers. She takes the pizza boxes from your arms, and removes another triangle for herself. Pizza halfway to her mouth, she remembers the bills still in her hand. She thrusts them at you. Two red twenties. You separate them from each other, and hold one in each hand, puzzled.

You hand one of the bills back to the woman, but she shakes her head vigorously. You thrust it towards her, but she shakes her head again. You are concerned it will come off if she isn’t careful.

“It isn’t worth this much,” you say desperately.

She nods, and hastily swallows to counter, “I want you to have it. The extra is your tip.” She glances at her husband for his acquiescence. There are tears sliding down his face, like elegant rivers of bliss. You want to leave.

You give the woman a last smile, place one of the bills gingerly on the doorstep, and walk back down the front path to your bicycle. You carefully slot your helmet over your antlers and do up the chinstrap. You give your bike’s kickstand a nudge, and it swings upward.

As you mount your bicycle, you hear the woman cry, “Where is this pizza from? What’s the address of your restaurant?”

You shake your head. It doesn’t work like that.

Three more to go.


Based off this fellow