The Pizza Delivery Boy's Tale

By

Parhelion

 

So I was down to the last pie of the run, headed for the Sweet Suites Motel, room nine. I raised my mitt to knock, the door opened, and I was yanked inside. The customer was buck-naked and slammed the door behind us.

"Don't even try to apol—"

Three problems with this picture. The customer was a stud not a sister, I knew him, and he'd started out madder than a wet-rooster. No, four problems. I was obviously not the cat he was expecting to eyeball.

His salutation finished with "-shit."

I checked the ticket. "No, double-meatball and sausage." Now, in 1957, in Mountainside, CA, that order should have clued me in to trouble when I picked it up back at the pizza parlor. Just then, puns were the Himalayas of local collegiate humor and all the boys and girls wanted to scale them.

My oftentimes geology professor, Dr. Stevenson, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them again, and said, "My wallet's in my trousers." After that he turned around and managed a pretty good version of his normal cougar-stalk on the way into the bedroom. I wondered who'd left the scratches on his ass and shoulders.

Then I put his pie down on the kitchenette table and distracted myself by counting out my tips: so-so thus far, but enough at this rate to pay my share of the phone bill by the end of my shift. Speaking of which, Stevenson had returned with trousers on and wallet out, but he cruised past me to pick up the phone. Something about the way he wedged the receiver into his shoulder told me he was still pretty hot. As he was dialing, he waved his wallet at me with the left-over hand.

I said, "Your tab's three-fifty. Large sausage and double-meatball, extra white sauce."

He winced at somebody's notion of a jest, har-de-har, but he was also talking into the phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear.

"Is Gerald Pelham there?"

The name explained it all to me. I didn't even wait for the, "Well, can I leave Gerry a message?" Instead I breezed into the bedroom, took a fast look around while trying to ignore the rumpled sheets, and scooped Stevenson's shirt up off the floor. Then I threw the engine into reverse, breezed back into the living room, and tossed the professor's shirt at him. His eyes widened, he dropped the wallet, and then he caught his Oxford button-down with one hand while hanging up the phone with the other. He'd managed to get the shirt on and the cuffs done up before we both heard the knock I'd been expecting, a heavy-handed, flat-footed kind of pounding on the motel suite's outer door.

I'd shut the bedroom door on the festive remains of the pillow party and scooped up my tips again. You'd think we'd practiced the routine. Dr. Stevenson had opened the door, his shirt all buttoned up, before the second shit-you're-in-trouble-now knock came. It was the city cops, of course.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"We had a report of a fight in this room."

"A fight?" Nice and blank. "A fight." That time, he sounded like he was reacting to my telling him orthoclase was a white rock, not that I would ever be so lame.

"Um," I said, looking past him at the police. Better not to challenge the majesty of the law. I said to Stevenson, "I can break a five, mister," making my voice uncertain.

He turned to look over his shoulder at me. "Take a five out of my wallet, would you please?" Then he turned back to his guests. "Would you like to come in, officers?"

Now, you don't have to let bulls in without a warrant, but, given the set-up, Stevenson didn't really have a choice. As the two cops piled in, I removed the five from Stevenson's wallet and whipped out the receipt book I lugged around but never used. "Okay, sir, one large sausage, double-meatball, extra white sauce, for delivery to the Sweet Suites Motel, room nine."

The cops swapped a look loaded with meaning. Stevenson shook his head and said, "I'm sure I didn't order-oh, well, that's not your fault. Keep the change." Then he added, to the cops, "I'm sorry, you were saying something about a fight?"

"We had an anonymous call reporting a, yeah, fight." Gerry the P. obviously hadn't phoned in to report a fight to the cops. Not even close to a fight, what I'd bet he reported. Right then and there I decided I was going to beat him until he bled buttermilk. The big cop sighed hugely. "Stupid punks and their pranks again, and on a busy Friday night. I'll need to see some identification, sir."

Lucky for the professor, he'd brought a pile of textbooks and his briefcase along to the motel with him, so the living room looked respectable. The other cop, the skinny one, drifted over and eyeballed a few titles, pursing his lips at them. You might as well expect a possum to be subtle as a street cop to be shy. I finished writing out the receipt, handed it to Stevenson, and said, still with a wary eye on our men in blue, "Thanks for ordering from Vito's Fine Pizza Pies. Can I go now?"

"Of course," said Stevenson and "Take off," said the big cop.

I didn't loiter. It would have looked weird. Besides, I'd had five classes with Stevenson, including my senior summer field lab, so I knew he could think on his feet.

When I got back to Vito's Fred scowled at me and said, "Some university guy called for you. What the hell did I tell you about taking personal phone calls at work?"

I shrugged. I was the best cat in this job they'd had in a while; you had to haul, being the only delivery boy for Vito's, and I knew how to move smooth. So Fred wasn't going to bust my chops over a call. He was just copping attitude.

"There's another run of pies waiting. Get going."

Too bad I wouldn't get to hear Stevenson's sob-story when he tried to explain his naked tutorial to me, but that's life. I grabbed the pies for the next run and headed for my jalopy.

But the following run included a medium Hawaiian with garlic bread side, destined for the Sweet Suites, room nine. I juggled the routing around, although it meant taking a tricky short-cut through some of the U.C. parking lots, and ended up at the motel. This time, when Stevenson opened the door, he had some threads on.

"How much, Dave?"

"Two bucks, a grift. You should have asked for the dinner time special; then your garlic bread's free and you get a coke."

"I hate soda, remember?" He opened the box like it was a pile of freshman homework, took out a piece, and bit. After he'd chewed and swallowed, he said, "At least the pizza's good." With a sigh, he slung the slice back into the box.

"Second-best in town." I'd parked my butt on the arm of the couch, waiting for him to get down to business.

He pulled his wallet back out. "I take it, from the way you reacted to Gerald's name, that I've been being an idiot?"

"Gerry's poison, yeah. You should have heard the story that oozed around campus last year about the joke he pulled with his steady girlfriend's panties. The kitten ended up losing her scholarship, dumping school, and heading back to Bakersfield."

When I'd said girlfriend, he'd winced. Given that Gerry was a business major who would never swallow any more geology after Rocks for Jocks last semester, and given what Stevenson apparently believed about Gerry's tastes, seems the Prof had been the do-right man and Gerry had been the rat fink. No big surprise to me. So I added, "And Gerry doesn't only pull the long and fancy pranks. He likes jokes too. Hillbilly humor, for example." My folks were Okies and, even though I was born outside of Fresno, I have their accent. "We're not real tight, Mister G. and I."

"I should have known. Damn it, I'm usually wide-open and vulnerable the semester after I teach summer field lab, and this last summer-in any case, I should have known." He sighed. "You say the two of you are not real tight. Given what's now obvious, I'm surprised he has any friends at all." About halfway through singing his blues, Stevenson had folded his arms across his chest. The gesture looked strange on a big, burly cat like him, but he'd earned it. He'd had a near-miss since he was too fresh to have tenure yet. Being busted on a morals charge, genus homo, would have burned both his university position and any possibility of getting another gig anywhere in the U.S. of A. Not to mention, jail. He'd have a better chance as a card-carrying Commie.

"Gerry's fraternity still loves him a lot. By their high standards, the clown's hilarious." I cleared my throat. "Hey, sir, don't worry about the set-up here. I get the fact this is your scene. I'm cool with it."

He snorted, real deep. "I'm not. If I leave here right now, I'll hunt Gerald down and shoot him." Not if I got to Gerry first, Stevenson wouldn't. "That's why you're currently hearing me say I'm not going through this door until I've graded the entire set of second midterms I have with me. It's what I should have been doing tonight in the first place, instead of—"

"Sitting around at your romantic rendezvous with a brace of blue balls, waiting for Gerry to come back from his emergency errand and take his turn in the barrel?"

"Precisely." Then, getting what he'd just admitted, he cleared his throat and changed the channel, fast. "Look, Dave, I know you didn't like me even before this evening's screw-up - Lord knows, if you're still calling me sir after eight weeks of field geology in the Mojave desert, that's clear enough - but I have to know. Why, in God's name, are you spending a nice Friday evening in May delivering pizzas? You have a job."

"Over at the hydrology lab, yeah. This is my other job."

"But I heard you'd been hired on to do watershed analysis over at the Department of Water and Power, starting the week after you graduate."

I shrugged. Then I decided he deserved more of an answer than a shrug. His letters of recommendation had been solid senders, or so my interviewers told me. "Yeah, I surely got my gig. But I need some straight threads for the office part of it, suits and ties and suchlike squared-off stuff. And I have bills. Playing lab assistant only pays off textbooks and rent." I gave him a stare. "I'm answering your query, not asking for grease to keep quiet about tonight."

"Have I ever given you reason to believe I'd think you'd be interested in blackmail?"

"Just so we're clear." I pocketed my folding green. "Time for me to cut out. Enjoy your pie."

Our yammer session had been short enough that I made it back to Vito's without anyone getting that I'd loitered along the way. After that, things returned to normal for a Friday night, and my next two runs went smooth. On the pick-up after that, though, there were five pies destined for Delta Gamma Sigma. The doghouse was Gerry's fraternity. He probably wanted to check if I'd been carted off by the cops, and lay some humor on me if I hadn't. I picked up the receipt for the pies and made like an angel, resisting temptation for maybe thirty seconds. Then I asked, "Hey, Fred?"

He scowled at me. "What?"

"These pies? They're going to the same House of Lame that wanted all the fancy toppings two weeks ago and then claimed we screwed up their order."

"Oh, yeah?" His eyes narrowed. He walked over to the open doorway to the back alley, pulled his pack of Camels out of the rolled-up sleeve of his white t-shirt, and tapped a single smoke up to where he could catch it with his teeth. "I remember those clowns," he said around it. "They tripped the delivery guy we had before you while he was lugging two large pepperonis and a Vito's Deluxe up their stairs." He matched the smoke. "Real funny." Taking a deep drag, he came to a decision. "Do you remember what I showed you about the oven?"

"Yeah, man."

"Okay." He threw the cigarette out into the alley and yelled, "Gino!"

"What?" A massive form stood up from behind the shelves, clutching a wooden pizza paddle in one, huge fist.

"Turn over the oven to Nick. Davey, here, will give him a hand and do the counter. You and I are going to go deliver some pies."

Like my Ma always said, don't use soap when you need lye. Much as I'd groove on taking Gerry down myself, Fred had been a paratrooper in the Big One. And Gino got a combat citation with his marine platoon in Korea. In fact, at one point the man was his marine platoon, all by his lonesome. If anyone could clean out the doghouse, they could. So I stripped down to my t-shirt and looked around for a white paper hat.

About an hour on, Fred and Gino came back together, laughing. Fred had way less attitude than when he'd left. He eyeballed me and said, "Hey, kid, you were right. One slob lets us in and another little fucker yells out, not even looking away from their TV set, "So, pizza boy, did you two suck that spicy sausage hard?"

Like I said, puns were real hot on campus that year. Gino, who'd followed Fred back in, just grinned and cracked his knuckles. I noticed his white t-shirt had a few more tomato-colored stains on it than when he'd left.

"They can afford to replace a television," Fred observed, his voice cool. "That's what the bulls they called in told them, anyhow. Seems they'd cheesed off the cops, too. Their dumb-ass jokes have been making a lot of work for the town police lately. Little rich punks." He went to wash his dukes in the sink. Gino held out one mitt for his paddle, which I returned to him. Fred called back to me, "It's almost quitting time. Make yourself a pie and put it in. Then you can take it home with you when you get back from the last run."

So I chose Hawaiian.

When I counted my clams at the end of the evening, I'd not only made enough for the telephone bill, but the electricity, too: a righteous night. Then I climbed back into the jalopy and headed for the Sweet Suites one last time.

Stevenson looked surprised when he opened the door. "Dave. Is something wrong?" Then he got a load of what I was carrying. "Damn it, not again."

"This is mine." I stepped forward and he moved back. "It's my payoff for giving my boss the dope that the Delta Gamma dogs were getting funny with their pizza orders again. He and big Gino went over to reason with them. Those frat-boy Jims don't know when to quit using the same joke. Especially Gerry."

He gave me a wide-eyed look that was chased away by a big, broad grin. Then, getting that his satisfaction was showing, he tried to lay on the disapproval, instead. When that didn't work, he snorted and said, "Well, I wanted to talk with you anyhow. I called up Dr. Gillman at home, and, with finals looming, he needs a grader. You can work for him and stop running around delivering pizzas if you'd like."

I dug that he didn't assume I'd drop my job at his say-so. But being a grader would give me that last chunk of change I needed for a deposit on my own apartment. I nodded.

He sighed. "I do hope you understand I would have arranged this even if I'd found out about your financial problems in a more conventional way. I swear, Dave, I'd never suspect you of black—" Stevenson stopped. "Wait a minute."

I hoisted my lips up at him. Took him long enough to get wise.

"How the hell did you know Gerry had left me in the lurch after receiving his blow-job?"

"Just the way you're thinking, dude, back in my sophomore year. Like I said about the pizzas, Gerrykins uses the same jokes too many times. Not to mention, I figure those scratches across your ass weren't a result of his complementing you on your skills at surveying." I snapped my fingers a few times. "Anyhow, Gerry's getting too fond of sparkling company to be the boy who cries fairy himself. Now that the pizza cats have talked to him, I think you're safe. At least as safe as our sort ever is."

I could tell he'd wanted to pump me for details about that "our sort", and then told himself not to. Instead, almost at random, he asked, "'Dude'? Now, all of a sudden, I'm 'dude'?"

"Yeah, the other thing I swung by to say was that you got the sir business all wrong. I dig you fine. Too much so, in fact. That's how come I said the sirs. Sir is a way smoother address when a cat's trying not to mush on his supposed straight prof in front of five straight fellow students. Those moonlit campfire nights, I needed the reminder."

"But, 'dude'?" When he spoke again, he'd turned the volume on his voice way down, and sounded kind of dazed to boot. "My given name, if you've suddenly decided to use it, is George."

"Sure, now that I know it's cool, I'll use your handle." I held the box out towards him. "So, you want some pie, George?"

All of the sudden, he was grabbing for his jacket. "Get the midterms together. They're spread out across the table and couch."

I blinked at him, but did what he asked. He scooped up his briefcase, dumped the books and tests into it, and found his tie where he'd left it, draped over the lamp in the bedroom.

I called after him, "No pie?"

"Jesus, no. No more pizza." He came out of the bedroom with his shoes in his hand. "How about some coffee over at the bowling alley on Third, instead? That should still be open."

"I'm past twenty-one now, man. I can drink drinks. These days, a bar's a righteous parking place for me."

"Not for a first date, it's not."

It was my turn to look dazed. "A date?"

"Yes. As I understand the current campus customs, at least two dates must pass before I get to lay lips upon you, and four must ensue before I can move below your waist. If all goes well, given how crowded your current schedule is, that should carry us neatly past your graduation."

I thought this over. "Alreet. So how about you take me to the Green Dragon off Coolie Square, then, and buy me some coffee to celebrate my new gig at the DWP? It's open mike night tonight and no one will notice another prof."

He radiated fierce. "Bad beat poetry, by any chance?"

"It ain't exactly Ginsberg, yeah."

The fierce look gave up to a smile. "Wonderful. I can't imagine surroundings less reminiscent of pizza delivery."

"Solid," I agreed.

Even now I wonder what the motel's housekeeper thought of the rumpled sheets and all the left-over pizza. Right idea, probably, just wrong actors. But, hey, if you're going to spend as much time together as my man George and I do, what with all the overtime the steady-squeeze routine means putting in, it's nice to start off knowing that the stripped-down dude's worth a pizza delivery boy's time.

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