Nostalgic Pizza

April 21, 2008 at 5:44 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  It’s a good thing I only work at Domino’s one night a week now; so much happens in that one 9-hour shift that I can hardly stand it, much less write about it.  I’m trying to get to other things.

It’s Raining, It’s Pouring–

  It’s raining, and just getting to work is a bitch.  The highway is backed up–I get off as soon as I can, and try to make my way over.  Nigel starts to overheat.  I speak in a Scottish accent to him, because he understands that better.  I end up pullin th fuckin thing o’er an givin him a bit of a respit.
  I get there about 50 minutes late–but in my mind, only 20 minutes late–because I told the fuckers not to even expect me till quarter after, or more like half past.  Just Sam and Dina on the line, and Mike the driver on the ovens.  They are going down–in flames.  In the waiter’s world, I guess this is called "in the weeds."  We call it being slammed.  At least there’s a way out of it:  You just work your fuckin ass off, keep your head down, and keep making pies.
  Most of these fuckin orders are carry-outs.  A row of goddamn pizza boxes from here to the end and stacked on the table as well, and there’s three deliveries in there. Cheap cocksuckin rich bastards.
  And, our little Chinese boy Kevin is gone.  At first, when we got our new supervisor, his careful analysis of the schedule revealed that we NEVER need two CSRs (inside people), so Erica–my little underage Chinese crush–is gone, daddy, gone.  But the new supervisor is aggressive, a go-getter, a pro active cost-running efficiency type–in other words, a grade A asshole.  He decides that we need NO inside people whatsoever.  Sales don’t justify the need.
  Theoretically, he’s right.  But it’s just theory.  I just read this the other day, and it’s applicable here:
  "The difference between theory and practice is that in theory, there’s no difference between theory and practice."
  In our store we need an inside person to take care of the carryout traffic, because we have so much of it and it takes extra time, especially because these same rich fucks who are too cheap to get a delivery are too impatient to wait.  When they darken our door, they want immediate service, a handjob, a foot massage, stock quotes, and their fuckin pizza.  And they want it NOW.
  But today, we have to deal.  We all know our jobs.  I was proud of our boys.  Most of the time we are slow and just fuck off constantly–it’s a nice place to work.  I don’t recall if I said this before or just thought it:  working here (at this location) feels like a Domino’s retirement home.  The pace is alot slower, and I brag about and repeat stories from my glory days.  And I guess I shuffle around muttering to myself and shit my pants?  Did I say that before?  Mayhaps I did–
  For all that I bitch about concerning Domino’s, they know how to handle a rush.  There are processes in place.  Everyone knows what they have to do, and we do it, and keep going.  These guys know there stuff–I didn’t have to worry.  When the rush was over, there were very few if any mistakes.  None that I saw.
  After the rush, Dina was pacing, smoking, and pissed.  Turns out that she was dayshift, and someone else was scheduled to close.  Sam had to leave–family emergency thing–and the guy that was supposed to close the supervisor–
  [–and do I know his name?  Do I give a flying rat’s ass?  Not really.  He could be a nice guy for all I know, just a by-the-book dickhead or ambitious fucker.  Who knows?  I can’t wait to meet him so he knows how unimpressed and unterrified I am of him.. . .But I have become attached to my little ragtag fugitive group here, and whatsoever he doeth unto them, he doeth unto me.  Plus, the fact that he made us get rid of our Little China Girl pisses me off–]
  the supervisor sent him to another store to close that evening.  As a driver.  Is that logical?  Could they not get another driver anywhere?  Ever?  So Dina is supposed to work an open to close–and we close at 2 am.  I found out later that that night was also Earl’s (the previous supervisor) going away party.  I imagine the new supe didn’t like the old one, jealous of his popularity with everyone else.  Earl is a good guy.  Add to that the subtle inference I picked up that there may have been a thing between Earl and Dina in the past.  I’d bet on it.  Like, $2.43.
  She said if no one showed up to cover her by 930, she was closing the store.  Well, maybe I’d get to go home early…..

Musical Managers

  Friday is a big money night for me, and that’s why I do it, despite the 2 am bullshit.  Early evening I usually don’t make much, I’m just there.  But overall I make enough that…Well, I know why women become prostitutes.  The money is just too good.  Everyone has a price.  Turns out, mine is four bucks and the change.
  By 830, we’re down to just me driving.  On a Friday, this just seems odd.  In the early 90s at the busy store I worked at, on a Friday we would close with three drivers–And we’d all walk out with 120 to 150 bucks.  Translated to today’s money and allowing for inflation, that’s like….a thousand dollars.  I stand by my calculations.
  Once down to just me, that’s where I’m making money.  We’re busy enough, and I’m in and out of the store.  One of my runs is to the Marriott Hotel, and I thought I would be heading back there again once they saw me, because it looked like there was a Fat White Chick convention going on.  The place was crawling with them.  I almost got accosted in the elevator.  I felt like a rock star.  Or maybe security for the pizza, who was the actual star.  "Hmmm—"  they inhaled deeply and sighed, semi-orgasmic.  Three of them, all part of the same group.  I could tell because they all had nametags that said "My name is [Susan]!  I’m a Fat White Chick, Ask me how!" The bar was full of black guys, waiting to hit on them.
  I come back to the store shortly after 930, and Dina’s not there.  Little Scotty is.  Christ in leaky sidecar.  This guy just fucking annoys me.  I’ve probably mentioned him before.  He’s actually a perfect cartoon caricature of himself.  Skinny, scraggily looking, no chin, and ears that stick out.  Add glasses a goofy fucking demeanor.  He won’t shut up.  Ever.  What makes that worse is that he has nothing to fucking say.  He’s on his cell phone talking to Dina–who left partially to get to Earl’s party and partially to get away from him–who I’m sure is rolling her eyes trying to get off the phone.  He wants to make sure that I know that he’s talking to Dina so that I know that they’re friends and he has someone to talk to.
  Runs on the rack.  I bag them up and go.  I come back, more runs.  Yay.  The less I have to suffer fools–
  There’s two time orders for late night, which I guess (correctly) are for after-prom parties.  Fifteen medium pies for 1115, then another 8 large pies for midnight.  I come back about twenty till eleven, and Scotty is working on the 15 pie order.  Slowly.  I go over to help him, and I watch him as he jealously guards his dough.  I don’t blame him.  These are good looking pies; some of them are almost round.  Every thing he passes on to me I have to fix, mostly without him knowing it.  When they come out, you can tell the mark where I came in and started helping.
  The whole time he doesn’t shut up.  "Sam’s supposed to be here to take over for me so I can go to the party.  But Sam had a thing he had to take care of with his nephew.  I mean, I understand why he’d be running late and all, but I have to open in the morning.  When I talked to Dina she said he’d be here."
  That was the content, which he repeated in various forms a few times, dropping other names to make sure I knew how popular he was.  Finally I said, "Maybe they lied to you.  Maybe Sam isn’t coming in.  They just said that to get you here."
  The effect I have on feeble minds is truly impressive.  I should be a hypnotist, or a dictator.  Or, my first choice–coach woman’s college volleyball.  He started to sputter and shake, freaking out at the possibility.  Why else would I say this, unless there was some truth to it? Surely I wouldn’t talk out of my ass–?  Yes, yes I would.  And don’t call me Shirley.
  "Well–well I’m not closing.  And if I am, then I’m not opening tomorrow, too!  And if I have to, then I better get off on Sunday, or something."  He sputtered like a misfiring two cycle trimmer, and went to go get his phone.  Then he was doing the ultra-hip thing where he talked on the phone while he made pizzas, right next to me.  He wanted me to know how hip he was.  He’d seen other managers do this, so it must be cool.  Because he had to know right NOW.
  Dina wasn’t answering her phone.  Caller ID is indeed a gift from the gods. He made other calls.  While I’m cutting and bagging up this run, he gets in touch with Sam, who is coming in.  Scotty’s all excited, wagging his tail like a puppy.  "I wonder if I should change my clothes now, or wait for Sam to get here.  He said he’d be here in about ten minutes.  I could change my clothes now and save time for getting to party.  But if I get an order an have to make a pizza, I won’t be in uniform."
  He stood looking at me, waiting, smiling his goofy smile,  Surely I would have some input, or at least communicate with him.  He’s like a social vampire.  He just sucks the life out of any social situation.  He has no skilz.  I said, "That certainly is a dilemma," and I leave on the run. 
  I get back, and Scotty is gone, thank God.  Sam is there.  More laconic, which matches my mood tonight.  He did mention that Scotty was anxious to get out of here–and hung around for half an hour talking about it.  What a fucknut.

The Kicker 

  Sam had the order for midnight about ready, as well as another run.  I took the regular run first, and got to the midnight order at midnight.  Big, big house–nothing unusual about that.  After-prom party.  The father let me in, and asked if I could bring them downstairs to the basement.
  A group of about 2 dozen high school kids, boy and girls, greeted me.  They were happy to see me.  They were happy.  The parents provided a party for them, complete with keg.  A couple of the guys insisted I do a beer bong.  I said, "After the day I’ve had?  Let me at it."  I’ve never actually done one, but I thought I got the general idea.  I got on my knees so they could hold it up.  I put my thumb over the end as instructed, and one of them filled the tube and funnel with beer.  Quite alot of beer.  I’m supposed to put it in my mouth and gravity–
  Gravity forces the beer down my throat.  I managed to suck it all down, incredibly.  I was their hero.  Everyone was watching and cheering, and I was recorded on several phones and cameras.  I got high-fived by the dudes, and hugged by some of the sweet young chicks.
  So maybe if you google "domino’s driver does beer bong," other than this entry, maybe the video will be on youtube.
  I made my way over to the father, to get my bag and get the credit card slip signed.  He put an 18-dollar tip on there–pretty fuckin nice–and he shook my hand and said, "You were never here."
  Absolutely.  I was never there.
  Except, you know, for the video.


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