The Sh*t L*st

Halloween was a night of pizza delivery horrors. I was originally supposed to play poker, but that got cancelled because of the fires. So I invited a few friends over to watch Shadows and Fog. An hour-and-a-half before they were to arrived, I called Papa John's to order two large pizzas. (I had a coupon!) When I gave the girl taking my order my address, she said hold on, she had to get manager authorization to deliver my pizzas because it was outside their regular delivery area. I told the girl I could pick it up if it were too much trouble. She said that her manager had said it was ok, so either way. I asked her if she could have the delivery delayed for about an hour-and-a-half. She said that she couldn't make any guarantees because Halloween is the busiest pizza night of the year (I would have thought Valentine's Day), but she would list it for 6:50pm. That sounded perfect. I asked her if she needed directions. She said they had my phone number and the driver would call if he needed directions.

At 7pm, my friends started arriving. The pizza hadn't arrived. By 7:15 almost everyone had showed up, but still no pizza. The phone rang. It was the pizza delivery guy. He said that he couldn't find my street. He said that he had driven all the way down the major street off which my complex is located and ticked off the streets he had seen. I told him that the entrance to my complex was just past the last one he mentioned. He sounded pretty exasperated, and I'd probably feel the same if I had just been sent on a wild goose chase. But I thought the shithead was supposed to call if he needed directions. I asked him where he was now, thinking I could air-traffic-controller him in. But he was back at headquarters. So I told him again where I was located with reference to the street he had named and to call me if he got lost. He said yeah whatever, he'd be taking off shortly. Ok, I said, see you soon.

7:45, no pizza. Now all my friends have arrived and we're getting hungry. One of my friends tells me I had better call back. I give it another five minutes and then succumb to the pressure. This time I'm immediately passed off to some curt woman I imagine powdered up to her eyebrows in flour and in an apron splattered with tomato sauce. I tell her who I am. She says, yeah, my pizzas are cooling back there at the shop. I ask when might I expect them to be delivered. She says that they can't be delivered -- I'm outside the delivery zone and they've already made two failed attempts. Outside the delivery zone? Two failed attempts? I was told that the driver would phone me if he needed directions. And I had given the guy who had called express coordinates for locating me. She says they can't deliver. Jesus fucking Christ, I think. It's not that fucking hard. Here, look:

Map from Papa John's to My Apartment

The woman -- who I take for the big cheese -- insists they can't deliver the pizzas. She says that I can come and pick them up. I tell her I've got a roomful of people at my place and that I've already paid for them with my credit card. She says that she'll credit back the charge to my card. "So you're really not gonna deliver those pizzas?" "No, you're outside our delivery area." It's like 3 miles away and when I first called you told me you would deliver it, not to worry! The girl even got authorization! I should have asked whether she had given the authorization. Instead I told her to make sure my card was credited and hung up. I asked my friends if they really wanted pizza. They said the needed something. Someone had brought a salad, but that wasn't going to be enough. So I said, fuck it, hold on. I jumped out of my Superman costume, grabbed my keys, and headed for my car.

It takes me five fucking minutes to get to the pizza place. Five minutes! And that's after missing half the lights. I get in there and some doughboy is slapping their computer reservation system upside the head. Another guy is rearranging boxes. An older guy and a girl (the one I suspect who originally took my order) are playing slap ass with some breadsticks. Finally, after dipshit at the counter wanders away, the guy rearranging the boxes makes eye contact. I tell him I'm here to pick up my pizzas. He asks me my name. Just than a pudgy brat-spanker in a tomato-sauce-splattered apron and up to her eyebrows in flour appears from a back room. Before she even opens her mouth, I recognize her for the woman I talked to on the phone. "Out with anger, in with pizza," I think, and try to be as civil as possible. Then she tells me that they don't have my pizzas -- they were thrown away. Thrown away!? I just talked to you five minutes ago! She says that I hadn't told her that I was coming to pick them up -- which is true. But I hadn't told that I wasn't picking them up. She says that the last thing I said was to credit back my card. So she threw them away.

Fucking unbelievable. It's fucking unbelievable. I can't fucking believe it. I haven't been this stewed since the downstairs neighbor at my last apartment went away for the week and left her alarm clock set. I'm not yelling, just because what's the point? How do you get angry at a high school equivalency graduate whose future contentment will hinge almost entirely on Walmart's ability to out-discount her diminishing purchasing power? She says that if I want the pizzas she'll have to make some new ones. I ask how long that will take. She says ten minutes. I tell her I have a house full of guests and don't have ten minutes. As I head for the door, she says, wait, she'll give me some free gift certificates. I ask her why the hell would I want that -- you won't deliver them to my home and if I try to pick them up, there's a strong possibility they'll have been thrown out. I'm kinda surpised I'm not throwing around their white plastic chairs by this point, or weeping. But I'm so incredulous it's like I'm meditating. I'm thinking, if I'm in this bitch's shoes, I'm telling me that I'll make the pizzas, I'll wrap them in a gold ribbon, and I'll Fed-Ex 'em over to me the moment their done. And here's a free two-liter bottle of coke because we're fucking idiots. I pause at the door, look at her, and give her one more chance for a customer service epiphany. When she looks at me blankly, I throw up my arms and tell her to just make sure that my credit card is re-credited for the charge. Then I head to the nearest grocery store, where I have to cross a picket-line to buy a freeze-dried DiGiorno pizza.

Papa John, you asshole. You make great pizza. Too bad you can't find the Cuban pediatricians to deliver them. And that's why I'm putting a fucking voodoo e. coli curse on your whole franchise.