Old World StoutOctober 30, 2008 at 9:39 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
And Myron is a clown, too. I discovered that I don’t like him. I can tolerate him, barely. He just has ways about him that piss me off, because I am a logical person and he is dumbass. I may have gone over some of the reasons before, about how petty he is about the money. ‘Member?
But there’s another thing too, and this technical, so stay with me, here: when a normal person takes a pizza delivery, they hold the pizzas (or the bag) from underneath, supporting it much the way a server would hold a tray. This is a time-honored, tried and true method, used because it works. There is a logic to it. When you hold it like that, you have maneuverability, you can adjust the bag to your line of sight, and easily access the bag with the other hand to pull the pizzas out. These are the most obvious reasons, and I’m sure if I thought about it I could come up with more.
But a certain retard named Myron walks out the door every time–every time! with the pizza bag resting on his hip and supporting it on the outside with his limp wrist, like a gay basketball player.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But dammit, there is something wrong with it! You don’t fucking hold a pizza bag that way. It’s lazy and at the same time, incredibly inefficient. Just think about something in your job that you do a certain way–whatever it is. You’ve been trained to do it that way, everyone does it that way, it’s the right way–and then some assclown comes along and wants to do it the wrong way.
I’m torn between correcting him because it grates on my nerves and letting it go because I don’t even want to talk to him. I wonder if show and tell would work…
Myron picks up the bag containing his run, rests it on his hip, and begins to sashay out the door–because with a pizza on your hip, the only thing you can do is sashay.
Bryan cringed, then shook it off. He approaches Myron. Myron looks at him with a dull questioning look that Bryan realizes is his normal expression. Bryan applies a quick and dirty bitch slap to Myron. He drops the pizza bag and holds his tender cheek. A single tear flows down his cheek.
Bryan picks up the pizza bag, turns it over the right way, grabs Myron’s hand and pulls it out. His wrist hangs limply. Bryan stares daggers at Myron, and he gains a slow understanding, and rediscovers the ligaments in his wrist. Bryan places the bag on his hand. Myron starts to lower it to move it to his hip–
And gets the shit slapped out of him again.
This sequence is repeated for roughly half an hour until Myron starts to not want to get slapped anymore. Bryan shows him by example how to hold it, then passes it to Myron and nods to him. Finally–finally the retard gets it. He smiles at his accomplishment. He now has the pizza securely in the bag and balanced on top of his hand after it has been slapped off of his hip approximately 17 times. He’s going to deliver it now. He heads towards the exit.
And smacks his face and the pizza flat against the glass. Now Bryan has to teach him how to use the door. Bryan looks around for his flame thrower, because it would solve this problem.
[dream sequence end]
But last night, Mike needed off at 5, so Myron and Paro worked. Now, I like Paro. Not big on English, but communication is over-rated. Paro closed for Mike.
Working with Mike is–draining. He’s about my age. And he’s a hyper son-of-a-bitch. He will not sit still. We’re outside "relaxing" and having a smoke, and he will not sit still. And he talks. And talks. And talks. Constantly. More than a woman. I want some quiet time to read a book, and he comes in and sits down and just starts talking. Loudly.
I’ve learned to read when he is on a delivery.
I do like him, but I think he is just bizarre. But it’s good working with Mike, and we have a routine. And sometimes, after 9pm or so, part of that routine is some beer. Yeah, I know–Domino’s Pizza, drinking beer on the job, delivering, blah blah blah.
Well, I don’t care. First, Mike is having one or two at the most, definitely not enough to make him drunk or even impair him. Secondly, the company isn’t paying me to work hard–or arguably even work at all; I figure they pay to show up and that’s about it–so they get what they pay for. Plus, late at night, like between 9pm and midnight, on a Monday if I get 4 calls that’s alot. I have time to get everything done, read, and drink a beer.
And last night was slower than usual, although we had some lates early during dinner. Meaning late deliveries. Not that we were busy, but because I had Myron and Paro. They are both decent drivers, I guess. Paro is decent. Myron is barely functional. Mike good, really good. Good enough that he barely needs help on Monday, and Myron qualifies as "barely help."
But Paro and Myron–Paro is okay, but there is a language barrier that slows him down, plus he drives like old people fuck. Myron couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a GPS. And yeah, he uses his GPS. So he hasn’t bothered to learn the area at all. After almost a year of completely relying on the GPS, he has little to no practical knowledge of the area.
If you look at the map, and have to figure out how to get there, YOU WILL REMEMBER IT. He takes the lazy way out and refuses to learn. Just like, after almost a year, he still can’t take a phone call without fucking it up somehow. He’s ready at the drop of a hat to just hand the receiver to someone else and let them straighten out his mess. He doesn’t want to learn.
Or he’s incapable.
Either way, I don’t give a shit except to the extent that I work with him and he annoys me.
So last night, Paro closes with me. We were slow, and I went out for a smoke. Paro goes to his car, comes back with a beer for me. I figured his Bulgarian background would give him a sophisticated palette as far as beer is concerned. He gives me…a Milwaukee’s Best.
In his thick accent he says, "Is stout. I like."
I guess I don’t have a sophisticated palette like he does. It tasted like cold piss that was no longer carbonated. I guess it’s an acquired taste…