Everybody Gets Theirs

November 8, 2008 at 3:35 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  I got a call Thursday from The Storm–my Baby Momma.  Miranda got hurt at school.  She left work and took her to the doctor, and the doctor wanted to send her to an orthopedic specialists.
  She explains to me about all of her driving around, blah-blah-blah, the orthopedic was back over by where she works (actually closer to me), couldn’t afford the gas because I haven’t paid this month’s child support yet.  Whatever–it’s the 6th.  I always get it to her in the first half of the month.  She wants to know if I would take her.  I said sure.
  Sure, I would leave my day job early, drive the 40 miles up to get her, then drive back this way another 45 miles.  Take her to the doctor.  Then drive her the 45 miles back home, and then drive another 40 some-odd miles back this way to go to my night job at Domino’s, which I am going to be late for.
  It’s a lot of driving, but it’s also a legitimate reason to play hookie, so I’m in, without alot of thought.  Plus, of course, I get to see my daughter.  I was supposed to see her this last weekend, but the truck was down and I had to deal with that.
  Off I go.  As I drive, I call Detroit and fill her in.  She said something about "As long as SHE isn’t there and planning on going with you–"  I’m not sure what that means.  Some thinly veiled jealousy?  I think we recently mentioned in passing some things from the past that made her think of this stuff…except I have no claim to any knowledge about how a woman’s mind works.  It could just be that she didn’t want me to waste my time, money, and gas on something that my ex could more easily do herself, or a third as-yet unnamed reason I haven’t thought of that is completely obvious to her.
  As for the jealousy–
  I get that.  But not only do I not have any–what would you call it?–romantic?  Sexual?  Not only do I not have any of those feelings at all about my ex, I see her more as an obstacle to my happiness…much as she was during our marriage.  I cringe when she calls, I avoid talking to her whenever I can, and the sooner she is out of my credit history the better.
  ~~ANYWAY~~
  I also call Dina at Domino’s and let her know.  By my estimate, it will be close to 6pm by the time I get there, which means it will be closer to seven, I’m sure.  She mumbled something about this day just getting better and better–
  I go pick up my daughter, drive back into St Louis and finally get to the doctor’s office, which looks oddly familiar.  I’m trying to remember who I’ve had to bring here before.  We fill out the forms and wait.  But let me say something about the forms.
  It’s insidious the way all these doctor’s offices do this, and maybe their excuse is "Oh, we’re just using old forms."  But they ask for personal information that they just don’t need.  For instance, my insurance card no longer uses my social security number as my ID–smart, and I might add "finally."  Like your driver’s license, they realize the need for personal security, and if they don’t need that number, they don’t use it.  Hell, I remember having my social printed on my checks.
  I remember checks…
  But the doctor’s office does not need your social security number, and there is a spot for it on all forms.  I leave it blank.  You should too.  ALL of you should leave that line blank.  If they dare to come to you to ask for it, I imagine most people cave.  Don’t do it.  Make them explain why they need it, and their answer had better be better than "we need it to complete the file."  Maybe they want it to track you better for medical collections–that’s their problem, not mine, and I don’t like being accused before the fact of not paying my bill.
  In general, I leave anything blank that I don’t understand, don’t care about, or think is too personal.  If they really need to know, they will come and ask me.
  They rarely do.
 
  As it turns out, my daughter only sprained her knee.  Nothing broken, nothing torn.  They put her in a knee brace, give her a note for school, and sent us on our merry way.  I drive her back home, and then head back again, towards Domino’s.  It’s six o’clock now, and it’s a 45 minute drive.
  After I get there, I find out what the deal is.  Mike worked dayshift to be off that night, for his wife’s birthday.  His brother Steve was going to work that night.  Steve was sick, and Mike had to stay.  He was screwed–he got his.
  The new guy, Derek, had car trouble and couldn’t come in.  Mike definitely had to stay, so he was still screwed.  Plus, this gave Dina just two drivers on a Thursday.  She was screwed now–she got hers.
  And then I had my thing going on, leaving her to fend for herself during a busy dinner rush.  She was screwed some more.  I get there at the tail-end of the rush, and Dina leaves, and I get Mike out of there.  Me and Paro.  The place died, like the audience at an Al Franken event.  In the very last of the evening, we had about an hour and a half of no calls whatsoever.
  We close at midnight, and we have everything done.  The floor is even mopped, and most things are put away.  We are just waiting for the fat lady to sing so I can count the money and get out of there.  About a quarter till, we get a call.
  Shit.
  Then, when I go up front to make them, a bunch of young chicks come in and want to order.  Fuck.  After they order, I get another call.  It’s now 11:52.  Son of a bitch.  Two minutes later, another call.  Fuck me.  It’s now 5 till close, and I have about 8 pizzas and some other miscellaneous other shit to make.  This was going to add an hour onto the time it takes form me to get home.  So me and Paro, we got ours.
  The conversation with the last caller went a little like this:
  "Domino’s Pizza."
  "Yeah, you guys still open?"
  "Barely."
  Taken aback by my honesty, he asks, "Can I still place an order?"
  Heavy sigh.  "I suppose so."  I could tell from his tone that he wanted to call me out.  Give me some line about "Customer service" or some similar bullshit, about how I should care.  Or that he could complain and get me fired, and then where would I be?  I should show the proper respect!
  But in the same way I sensed that in his voice, I guess he sensed in mine.  I’m guessing he sensed that, for a handful of mixed change and pocket lint, I would walk out.  If he wanted a pizza, he needed to keep his pie hole shut.
  Or else he would get his.
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