From The Pizza Chronicles
Hell is a basement full of pre-pubescent school girls. And in hell (I bet you didn't know this) they blast top-40 R&B at several hundred decibels. Forget all that crap about fire and pitch forks and French people, for I have seen this pain and lived to recount it.
If I would only embrace my pedophiliac side... I would probably be in prison right now.
As the story goes, we got hit with a large party order sometime in the early evening. I was out of the room at the time, so I got stuck with delivering it. Yay for me. Remind me to gnaw my arms and legs off sometime.
We push all the pies out and I get them crammed into my "car." The dozen or so boxes were stacked in the passenger seat, which provided for an interesting and practical physics demonstration each time I hit the brakes. Oh well. Who needs the ability to stop when you have a horn? The battle cry of the pizza delivery driver: If I'm headed straight at you at 80 mph on the wrong side of the road through a red light, you're the one in the wrong place.
Thanks to the bionic implant of a GPS receiver, I quickly found the house --and I didn't even have to call upon Satan to guide me.
There were two adults sitting on the porch smoking cigarettes. I saddled up all the pizzas and made my way over to them.
Cradling a mountain of boxes before me, I told the less dazed looking one the price. Now, I --like many of you out there, I am sure-- have but two functioning hands attached to but two functioning arms. So why, friends, did she try to give me a fistful of bills and coins while I was hefting 40 pounds of hot pizza? Hmmm, well, this is Canton.
I scowled at her and her outstretched hand. "It's a really big order," I say, reminding them of the obvious. "Is there someplace I can put all this stuff?"
"You can leave it right here," the man said with a cigarette between his lips.
"Well, if you want I can take it in for you. I don't mind." Just to be nice, I always offer to take big orders in. Really, I just like to see the weird punishments the universe doles out for my generosity.
The woman led me around the back of the house and down a flight of stairs. Bass lines hit like thunderclaps and, though I could not see above the heap of boxes, I grew more fearful with each step. I heard throngs of shrill, high-pitch voices and knew that fate had fucked me over again. If I was going to die tonight, I told myself, I'm taking as many people with me as I can.
Then the cacophony hit: screeching voices like one thousand ravenous, blood thirsty monkeys. "PIZZA! PIZZA! PIZZA!" Oh god. Remind me to gouge out my eye balls with an ice pick sometime.
I had descended into a basement stacked to the rafters with 13-year-old girls. I held my breath and recited the Litany Against Fear.
The woman led me to a table and I set the stack down. I spun around and there stood a wall of small, disproportionate little girls. The hoard stared at me as we swam in a sea of bad R&B music. My mouth went dry. I have never known terror like I did that day.
Dozen upon terrible dozen of hormone-soaked, too young to look at but still mildly attractive, oh God no don't say that, just look at the floor and try not to fidget too much, girls.
What I still don't understand is that each of them was wearing the exact same thing: shorts and a tank top. The theme was expressed in different colors, but it was unnerving the similitude. Then it came to me: I was in hell. That staircase was kind of long...
The teaming swarm chattered and leered, advanced and retreated. I prayed for spontaneous decapitation, but it didn't come. I got my money and retreated to the soothing air conditioning and techno of my car.
And it only gets worse from there. Much worse. You think you know fear? Wait until you get a prank lewd phone call from four anonymous teenage girls. I only wanted to mop the floor and go home, but I had to be verbally accosted with licentious language. Shameful!
The phone rang and Ian the Donkey Boy took it. "Marco's Pizza, can I help you?"
Sultry teenage girl: "Oooh, yeah. I'd like a large pizza with lots of sauce."
Ian furrowed his brow and blinked. "Um, okay," he said, slowly getting the picture, "what kind of sauce would you like?"
"Mmmm, hot and juicy," she breathed.
Ian scratched his head. "Uh... and what about cheese?"
"Ooo, lots of hot, gooey cheese"
I, mopping, was handed the phone. This would not end well, I told myself.
Anonymous teenage girl: "Hi. Who are you?"
"My name is Jim. What is your name?"
There was giggling in the background. "How old are you?" she asked.
"Uh, I am 19 years old. Pray, where is this line of questioning headed?"
"How long is your cock?" she blurted.
"That's a rather personal, and indeed sophomoric, thing to ask."
Yeah, I'm so Republican. Bite me. Shawn, our trailer-dwelling, sexual harassment defendant, teenage store manager took the phone and traded expletives for a few minutes. The girls hung up, but called back soon after.
"Marco's Pizza. Can I help you?" I asked, fully expecting an unladylike reply.
First she faked an orgasm, then: "Hi. I need someone to come over here and lick my pussy while I rub my clit."
"That's rather crude. You girls have nothing better to do tonight than call pizza places and mock my empty sex life?"
"Yeah. We're having a sleep over."
Another girl took the phone.
"Hi. When do you get off of work?"
"Around 11:00," I said.
"Do you know where Bentley Middle School is?"
"I do."
"Do you want to meet us there when you get off of work?"
"Not really," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm low on duct tape and plumb out of GHB."
Ian and Shawn furthered the folly that these girls actually wanted them, while I went on a delivery.
I parked obnoxiously in the middle of the street and ran up to the house. A girl in her late teens answered and I gave her the pizza. She paid me and, after, the following exchange occurred:
Her: Um, like, it's my birthday to--
I: --Happy birthday.
Her: Yeah. Anyway, it's my birthday today and I'm having a party.
My piercing observational skills had already detected such subtleties as 20-odd cars clogging the street outside, dozens of people milling around to pulsating dance music, and large "Happy birthday Amanda!" placards.
Her: Anyway, my friends bet me $5.00 that I couldn't get your phone number. It doesn't even have to be your number. You can write down anything you want.
I: $5.00, huh? Do I get a cut of that?
So I gave her the number for the store and the name of the franchise owner. He needs a date.
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