Gideon’s Bible

August 1, 2008 at 1:10 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  It was a dark and stormy night…kind of.
  Actually, it was still light out, but raining.  Too dark to wear sunglasses, but there was a glare that made it too bright to see comfortably without them.  Here I am again, delivering.  I finally made it to the store, because rain and poor decisions result in fun traffic.
  I get in, and we’re busy, oddly enough.  All the drivers were in store, so the rush must have *just* happened.  Good timing–if you’re late, you miss alot of unnecessary crap.  That is the motto I live by.  I roll in, clock in, and slide to the line, and bump Steve off.
  "You can go now.  A real pie maker is here."  He gladly left.  Together, Dina and I undo the asskicking she got.  Of course, the top oven she had taken apart for cleaning, not expecting this kind of rush.  We were using one oven, which is standard for a normal Wednesday, but we could have used two.  We had it backed up, and pies were waiting to go in.
  Everyone else is before me, so I get left with a single…and a funtastic re-deliver.  Mike went there once and there was no one home.  No answer on the phone.  It was going to the same apartment complex I was going to, so let’s try and deliver it again, shall we?  That’s how they fuck you.  I take the other one first, then go to the re-deliver. 
  Well, it certainly looks like someone is home now.  I said, "Did you order pizza?"
  "Yes we did.  Please come in, out of the rain."
  As I entered, I said, "Okay, because someone else tried to deliver this once and no one was home."
  "Well that’s odd because we were here the whole time," she lied.
  Lied, I said.  Because two teens come upstairs at that time, and must not have heard that conversation.  One of them said, "It was nice of you to wait until we got home."
  Fucking lying bitch.  And she looked like someone’s grandma.  But I got the tip, so–fuck em.  This was the same apartment complex that–when I bitch about apartment complexes, it’s usually this one–I had an unusual experience the previous Friday.
  I get to the approximate location, and resign myself to looking for the address.  This place is laid out in such a stupid, illogical–nevermind.  I wander aimlessly trying to find something close to the number.  No such luck.  How close was I?  Well, the number I’m looking for is four digits, but all I see are five digit numbers.  So I went back to the truck and called them on my cell.  I speak to several Mexicans before one that knows some English picks up.  "Look, I can’t find your address.  I am parked right here by the street sign.  That’s where I am.  You are going to have to come to me.  I can’t find you.  Comprende?"
  So I wait.   Meanwhile, the raccoon that I saw when I first pulled into the lot has eyed me and the pizza.  He gave up on the dumpster, smelling fresh food.  He was by the tire underneath the car across from me.  I had my back turned, and he scampered up to the truck, just on the other side of it from me.  I turned quickly.  Where was that little fucker?
  I ran around the side of the truck, and almost walked over him.  He hissed and got up on his back legs.  I backed up, and he went about his business, which was surveying the area to figure out how to get the pizza away from me, out of the bag, out of the box, back to his den, and into a microwave to heat it up because this might take awhile and it would be cold by then.  Plus, did I bring any beer with?
  From a safer distance–about six to eight feet–I made threatening postures, and he ran back to the car and watched. Waiting for me to turn my back.  When I did, he scampered up again.  I made him run off, he would, then he would wait, then he would scamper up again.  We played this game for quite some time.  Rocky Raccoon was determined to get these pizzas.
  Meanwhile, no Mexicans.  I call again on my phone.  "Hey, is someone coming out here?  I’ve been waiting.  If no one is coming I’m going back to the store."  Of course, it took several attempts at communication to get that out before getting–look, if only one of you assholes speaks English, that should be the first or second dickhead I talk to, not the seventh.
  I mean, unless one of them picks up the phone, realizes it’s not someone they know speaking Spanish, and then says to someone else.  "Not Spanish.  Sounds like Croatian.  Who do we know that’s Croatian?"  "Let me talk to them, I know Croatian."  After talking to them for a minute, he says to someone else, "It’s not Croatian.  It could be French.  Miguel, you speak French."  Again.  "Nope, not French.  Perhaps it’s Farsi?  Maria?"  Until we get to the one illegal Mexican in the house here in the United Goddamn States of Fucking America that speaks the mother fucking tongue, fuckers.  You’d think that maybe, just maybe, English might be the first fucking choice–
  I communicate (if that’s the word) with one of them, and he agrees that maybe he should come out after all.  While I wait, I continue to fend off the raccoon.  The guy comes out and he does tip me well.  But still–if the fucking raccoon had money, I would have sold it to him first.  Take it, just take it.

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