YOU'LL GO DOWN IN HISTOREEEEE....!
The computer imprints a delivery zone on each ticket it spits out. That numbered area matches up with a grid on the large wall map. Most drivers will check the grid versus their head knowledge just so they don't end up driving in circles and wasting tip money on gas. I pulled two tickets in the same area, loaded up and headed out. Even though I had checked the street before I left, one address didn’t make sense. I had been driving long enough, however, that I knew I would figure it out once I was in the area. Besides, Buddy was “downloading” which made it tough for anyone to get any quality maptime.
First, I headed for River Street South, the address in question. After my third pass following the road to its end, I grabbed my cell and called the customer. An extreme Rubeonic twang answered on the other end.
“This is", asked twang?
“Hi, this is the pizzaguy and I’m trying to find your house.”
“Where you at”?
I gave him my general locale and his immediate response was, “What the hell do ya think we are? We don’t live nowhere near there.”
He then proceeded to give me the precise, almost military style location of his house using "klicks" and "south by southwest" type directions. His directions lead to the opposite end of town and maybe the opposite end of America. The area that the computer sent me to was “ghettofied”. In fact, the computer had sent me into an area that we drivers were not allowed to go into, let alone deliver to, any time. It was represented by a gray mass on the large wall map. The gray area was put there by the “corporate office” to warn us not to even travel through due to FBI’s high crime stats and/or we had more than one driver robbed in that zone, etc. I was aware of these factors but tried to make the delivery anyway.
Now, loaded with my new directions, I headed to the other River Street South. It was a very different road that not only paralleled the river but did dead end right into it, if you were not paying attention.
“Head to the end of the pavement just past the 1st crick”, then make a hard right just past Uncle Red’s boat, northeast onto the pine needle path.” I didn’t know from Uncle Red’s boat but, once again, figured it would make sense once I was there. It did and I followed the trail (at every bend, a new bank of motion activated set of quartz halogen lights lit up) until the path opened up into a compound. The compound featured many interesting and unique things but one stood out. It was what appeared to be a 25’ tall prison guard tower complete with a turret. It was currently unmanned but was creepy, none the less. I figured you could see/cover all of their 10-15 acres of vacant land, including the riverfront, from the top. I pulled the mostly green to a halt in front of the welding shop (an absolute must for every survivalist home). I was first greeted by a set of bookend pit bulls, one white, one black-brindle. They sat about three feet from my side of my door. No barking , just sitting and apparently observing…or deciding which one goes for the throat and which one the testicles.
From inside the welding shop, “We get our pizzas or what?”
I recognized the voice as the one on the phone.
“You get the pizzas if you get the dogs,” I responded.
“Oh, they’re alright.”
“Just the same, please get them”.
Two huge men, one in his twenties, the other his forties emerged from the shop, both covered in military style khaki, head to toe.
“Like I said, Whitey and Izan are no problem. They’re good dogs, aren’t you boys?” As he kicked hard at them and they scattered. He pointed in the direction of a beige, mostly nondescript pit-bull that was in a 4X6 welded steel cage. Not only was he caged but muzzled and chained, as well. “Now, Rudolph, she’s a different story. She’s not quite right in the head.”
I handed the older man his pizzas and got back in the truck. Feeling slightly emboldened, now that I was back in the mostly green, sans pizzas, money in hand. I was also sensing a theme with these dogs.
“What’s with the dog names? Did you say Izan?”
“Yup. Whitey is White Death.”
“And Izan is Nazi backwards,” I said
“Very good. You’re the first one to figure that out," he beamed
“And Rudolph…?”
“It ain’t what you’re probly thinkin,” he laughed. “Look at her nose.”
He pointed a military style flashlight at the caged animal that didn’t blink or move..just glared. The dog’s nose did appear to be a fairly bright shade of red.
“It aint bleedin or hurt or nothin. It’s just that way. Just like her head. She’s not quite right. Can’t have her around any other livin thing……dogs, people, livestock, plants, nothin’. Just that way”.
I looked again at the dog and she was silently stalking, glaring at me, her eyes locked on my eyes.
“We named her after the reindeer. You know Santy Claus' favorite.”
“Except she’s not a he.”
“Ah, but all Santy’s reindeer were she’s. Females are the onliest ones that have their antlers still on at Christmastime. Didn’t know that, did ya? I heard it on Paul Harvey. You know, The Rest of the Story?”
As I pulled down the pine needle path, light banks popping on in sequence, I couldn't help but sing, Rudolph the red-nosed pit bull......... I pondered their version Christmas.
First, I headed for River Street South, the address in question. After my third pass following the road to its end, I grabbed my cell and called the customer. An extreme Rubeonic twang answered on the other end.
“This is", asked twang?
“Hi, this is the pizzaguy and I’m trying to find your house.”
“Where you at”?
I gave him my general locale and his immediate response was, “What the hell do ya think we are? We don’t live nowhere near there.”
He then proceeded to give me the precise, almost military style location of his house using "klicks" and "south by southwest" type directions. His directions lead to the opposite end of town and maybe the opposite end of America. The area that the computer sent me to was “ghettofied”. In fact, the computer had sent me into an area that we drivers were not allowed to go into, let alone deliver to, any time. It was represented by a gray mass on the large wall map. The gray area was put there by the “corporate office” to warn us not to even travel through due to FBI’s high crime stats and/or we had more than one driver robbed in that zone, etc. I was aware of these factors but tried to make the delivery anyway.
Now, loaded with my new directions, I headed to the other River Street South. It was a very different road that not only paralleled the river but did dead end right into it, if you were not paying attention.
“Head to the end of the pavement just past the 1st crick”, then make a hard right just past Uncle Red’s boat, northeast onto the pine needle path.” I didn’t know from Uncle Red’s boat but, once again, figured it would make sense once I was there. It did and I followed the trail (at every bend, a new bank of motion activated set of quartz halogen lights lit up) until the path opened up into a compound. The compound featured many interesting and unique things but one stood out. It was what appeared to be a 25’ tall prison guard tower complete with a turret. It was currently unmanned but was creepy, none the less. I figured you could see/cover all of their 10-15 acres of vacant land, including the riverfront, from the top. I pulled the mostly green to a halt in front of the welding shop (an absolute must for every survivalist home). I was first greeted by a set of bookend pit bulls, one white, one black-brindle. They sat about three feet from my side of my door. No barking , just sitting and apparently observing…or deciding which one goes for the throat and which one the testicles.
From inside the welding shop, “We get our pizzas or what?”
I recognized the voice as the one on the phone.
“You get the pizzas if you get the dogs,” I responded.
“Oh, they’re alright.”
“Just the same, please get them”.
Two huge men, one in his twenties, the other his forties emerged from the shop, both covered in military style khaki, head to toe.
“Like I said, Whitey and Izan are no problem. They’re good dogs, aren’t you boys?” As he kicked hard at them and they scattered. He pointed in the direction of a beige, mostly nondescript pit-bull that was in a 4X6 welded steel cage. Not only was he caged but muzzled and chained, as well. “Now, Rudolph, she’s a different story. She’s not quite right in the head.”
I handed the older man his pizzas and got back in the truck. Feeling slightly emboldened, now that I was back in the mostly green, sans pizzas, money in hand. I was also sensing a theme with these dogs.
“What’s with the dog names? Did you say Izan?”
“Yup. Whitey is White Death.”
“And Izan is Nazi backwards,” I said
“Very good. You’re the first one to figure that out," he beamed
“And Rudolph…?”
“It ain’t what you’re probly thinkin,” he laughed. “Look at her nose.”
He pointed a military style flashlight at the caged animal that didn’t blink or move..just glared. The dog’s nose did appear to be a fairly bright shade of red.
“It aint bleedin or hurt or nothin. It’s just that way. Just like her head. She’s not quite right. Can’t have her around any other livin thing……dogs, people, livestock, plants, nothin’. Just that way”.
I looked again at the dog and she was silently stalking, glaring at me, her eyes locked on my eyes.
“We named her after the reindeer. You know Santy Claus' favorite.”
“Except she’s not a he.”
“Ah, but all Santy’s reindeer were she’s. Females are the onliest ones that have their antlers still on at Christmastime. Didn’t know that, did ya? I heard it on Paul Harvey. You know, The Rest of the Story?”
As I pulled down the pine needle path, light banks popping on in sequence, I couldn't help but sing, Rudolph the red-nosed pit bull......... I pondered their version Christmas.
posted by pizzaguy at 2:05 PM
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