Restless Leg Syndrome

March 6, 2009 at 10:53 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  It occurred to me (as things are oft to do) that not everything I write is that interesting.  Sometimes I force them to be interesting by making them a rant, or squeeze the funny out of them, or sodomize them in some way. 
  And sometimes, I just tell the truth, the way it happened.  This is to show that Artistic License is necessary.  The following isn’t that interesting, but it happened, so I’m writing about it.  You may also ask, what do these things have to do with the title?  Why, nothing.  Are they supposed to be related?

  On Friday last week, Dina called me to ask if I could work that night.  I was actually on my way to the store to pick up my check.  I knew that Detroit was working that night so I said sure, no problem.  They just needed help during dinner.
  And yes, they did.  We had several big timed orders–45 pizzas for 645, 23 pizzas for 630, another 12 for 645 going somewhere else, and 16 pizzas for 715.  All of that in addition to our regular Friday night business.  And we only had two drivers.
  But we managed to jam out the pizzas, and the drivers managed okay.  Another thing that helped was that Stan was sick, and so instead of wandering around not making pizzas and staring at the computer screen to try to figure out how to route things (which was both none of his business and already taken care of) he stayed in one place, at the dough table, and made pizzas.
  That left me in charge on the makeline, in the hole.  From there I was able to direct all the action, control the speed, and get things rolling, and make sure everything went smoothly.  Dina had left shortly after I got there to run to another store to get some badly needed supplies (like Dough and pepperoni), and when she got back I had things going.  She got on the oven.
  I communicate with Stan about what I need, and I communicate with Dina about what she can expect coming out.  Everything went smoothly.  No mismakes, no extra pizzas.  No missing pizzas.  Part of this was due to the fact that I kept Stan focused on the dough, and told him what I needed, not giving him a chance to try to think about it.  After the rush, Dina remarked, "Good job on the communication, guys!  I like it.  We kept the flow going."
  And I know she said "guys" but I also know she meant *ME* because I’m the one who did it.  She’s smart enough to know.  When Stan runs the line, we frequently are missing a pizza, and have to make one in a hurry and get it in because it’s missing from an order, or he’ll have an extra pizza and not know why, or he’ll have a pizza that is missing something, and he’ll put some mushrooms in a pan and run it partially through the oven to heat them up and throw them on a pizza. 
  Now, I’m not saying it doesn’t happen to me.  What I’m saying is, it’s pretty rare because after 22 years I know what the fuck I’m doing.  But with Stan it’s a regular occurrence.

  Saturday night I’m a bit late because I don’t care.  I mean, I have some excuses if you’d like to hear them, but that’s the truth of the matter.  I laid down to take a nap because I had a headache and it wouldn’t go away.  I hit the snooze several times, and there I am showing up at 540 instead of my usual 515 (Yeah, I’m probably scheduled at 500, or sometimes 530.  I make a real effort to get there about 515.  Ish.)  Stan is getting his ass handed to him.  Only two drivers again tonight, but this time it’s just me and Stan on the inside, not Dina. 
  With two people, we make pretty quick work of the backed up pizzas to make.  But the rush keeps coming.  We handle, we deal, and we back up and regroup.  At one point Stan tells me to go ahead and take a couple of runs.  I didn’t think it was a good idea at the time, but now I think he was right–what’s the use of making all of these if there’s no one to deliver them?  I take a double, come back, and take another one. 
  By that time it had started to cool down.  I got us caught up, and the two drivers managed to take the rest.  As Stan was getting ready to leave, I asked him–what happened to Myron (you know, the pain-in-the-ass driver that no one likes), who was supposed to work that night?
  He said, "Myron…fired himself."
  Myron just recently got a day job, and wanted to cut down to one day a week here.  That’s fine with us–we don’t like him.  But he has been here for a year and still doesn’t get certain things.  I have a list of his odd behaviors:
  * If his delivery is up, he will leave, no matter how much stuff is coming out of the oven.  He won’t say anything, he’ll just leave.  (In our store, ALL of the drivers know to tend the oven, and to communicate with someone if they have to leave and there are pies coming out.  Usually, however, they will just stay and take care of whatever else is coming out.  It’s what we call "courtesy.")
  * Once he has a delivery, it’s all he concentrates on, forgetting anything else in the store.  He ceases to help, and stands at the map, looking for Waldo. 
  * Why he bothers I don’t know, because he has GPS in his car, and spends several minutes programming each delivery into it.
  * He’s been here a year, and still has trouble taking an order on the phone.  And if his delivery is up, he wants to pass the phone call he is in the middle of off to someone else.
  * If it’s time to go for the evening, but there is a delivery in the store, he bitches and whines to take "just one more."  ALL THE TIME.
  * He is so petty about money (I know I wrote about it previously and I don’t feel like repeating it now) that I just want to slap him like a bitch.
  * He has recently gotten busted a few times for TELLING the customer they have to tip him.  They have called back to complain.
  The night he quit, he had only been there for 15 minutes.  We start getting busy–every one else answers a phone before he does.  Then he acts like he can’t take an order.  Then he keeps pointing to his delivery on the rack, indicating, "I have to take it!  It’s a run!  I have to take it!  I can’t concentrate because there’s a run up!"  Even the carry out customer shakes his head, seeing how he is acting.
  Stan makes him finish taking the order because he is busy making pizzas–making lots of pizzas, by the way–and when Myron gets off the phone, he says, "You want me to just take orders for you all night?"
  The asshole took one phone order.  Stan told him that.  "Maybe I should just go home then."  Stan agreed.  Then Myron told him "Fuck you."  I believe it was with that statement that he tendered his resignation.  Good riddance.
  And I missed it all because I was late.  Probably a good thing, because I would have made him cry before he left.  Does anyone doubt that I would?

  Later that evening, it’s just me and Mike.  It’s perhaps 1030 or 11, and the big excitement is over.  Mike takes a carryout order on the phone.  He said, "Sounds like she’s drunk."  Almost an hour later, she shows up.
  She’s a young black chick, and she is drunk.  First she tries to pay with some kind of card that doesn’t have her name or expiration date on it.  It doesn’t fly.  She doesn’t have another card.  She wonders should she go to an ATM and get cash or just go home, and get a check.
  I swear, this is all I said:  It’d probably be quicker to just run home for a check–finding an ATM out on Olive would be hit or miss and you’d waste alot of time.
  By what happened next, it is OBVIOUS she misunderstood me.  Remember, she escalated first. 
  She said, "Don’t you condescend to me, motherfucker!  I ain’t the one working the counter at a Domino’s!  I’m going to law school next year."
  What the fuck does that have to do with the price of a handjob in Chinatown?  She starts to storm out the door.  The door is open, however, and she hears me when I say, "Suck my dick."
  I know she heard me because she turned around to look at me.  I pointed at my crotch to make sure the meaning wasn’t lost on her, because sometimes I can be too subtle.
  The thing is, earlier in our conversation, when she was trying out how to pay me with a bogus card, I was being condescending to her stupid, drunk ass.  Sarcasm is dish best served right in your face.  She, however, didn’t get it.  Maybe she is going to law school next year, but she isn’t going to Harvard.
  The conversation in which she *thought* I was talking down to her I was actually trying to help her out.  So–fuck her.
  For a while I thought she might come back with cash to pay for the pizza…because I’m an optimist.


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