BUDDY GOT IT GOIN' ON

Buddy, our most senior driver("the man's a geezer, OK?" "Buddy's older than ...pizza."), had his van for sale forever. I used to refer to it as the RUAV, the Redneck Urban Assault Vehicle. It was vintage late ‘80’s, double deckerish, mostly mauve and crowned with one of those weird looking, sickle shaped TV antennas. In the upper left corner of the rear window was a confederate flag sticker. The “FOR SALE” signs had been on the van so long, people just assumed that they were part of the look, just like his handicapped tag dangling from the rear view mirror.
Saturday night, Buddy showed up for work with his new ride, a 1992 Ford Escort. The little subcompact was a bright metallic purple and featured gold 18 inch spinner wheels. When the car is turned off, it seems it's a toss up which was going to stop first, the spinners or the cars dieseling. Judging by the blaring, pounding country western music, every time Buddy pulled up in front of the pizza store, it must have a kick-butt stereo. Either that or Buddy's hearing aid is not working properly, again.
Jason, one of the younger drivers, refers to it as, “Buddy’s econo-pimp mobile”.
He asked, “How many Ho’s do you get to the mile, in that thing, Buddy?”
For me, what completes the look is not all the above. If you look at the rear of the vehicle, as the old guy drives away, pizza light lit, handicapped tag dangling,spinners spinning, purple sparkling, you can clearly make out where there had once been 3" high block letters near the rear bumper. It reads STUDENT DRIVER.

SOMEBODY'S LITTLE GIRL

As soon as I arrived at the pizza store, early Saturday evening, it was obvious that things were slow. Already 5 or 6 drivers were standing around, folding pizza boxes, shooting the breeze, waiting for delivery orders to pop up on the computer screen then pop out of the oven.
Jason, a 20 something college student who rarely had a nice thing to say about anyone, was finishing his thought. "I guess the way the body was found, the cops think that it might be a serial killer. Something about being tied to some hookers in Daytona."
"She was beaten to a pulp," Chris, another driver said.
"What are you guys talking about?", I inquired
"They found a dead crack whore behind that warehouse next to the tracks on Palm Street," Jason said.
"Really, wow. When? I just delivered to the lesbian couple that lives across the street, yesterday. You know the ones that always order chicken strips and say, "Please be safe out there," as you're leaving?
"Yeah, I know the lesbos you're talking about. Last time I said, "Maybe you Dudes ought to be careful in there," as I pointed to their bedroom door, smirked Jason
"Be careful Dude. The big one is way more of a man than you are", Chris chimed in.
"Yeah, yeah. The paper said the Ho had been arrested over 80 times for drug related and prostitution."
"80 ? How old was she," I asked?
"Old", another young driver threw in coldly. Then realizing who he was talking to, and our age difference, "I mean but not real old. She was 39 or something."
"I saw her picture", another driver threw in. "She wasn't bad looking...in her younger days".
"Crack and Meth did her in. That stuff is nasty", said Jason.
"You guys ought to keep that in mind", I added in my best fatherly tone.
"Just weed, Dude. That's all I do", added Chris.
"Yeah, Dude, you don't hear of a Weed Ho, do you", asked Jason?
"If there ever was one it's you Dude", said Chris
"I am a pushover if you give me one reefer", Jason said laughing
"I'll try to keep that in mind", I said dryly
"The paper said she had 2 kids", another driver added, "and she used to be a supervisor at the metal stamping plant".
"But she was a hooker. Nothing but a junkie and a hooker", added Jason
Buddy, the ancient red-neck and usually indecipherable driver, had been silently folding boxes, his head down. He had given no indication that he heard any of the prior conversation, but suddenly mumbled, "Somebody's little girl."
"What's that Buddy",, I inquired?
"She was somebody's little girl." He never looked up and just kept folding boxes.

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.

WHATCHA GOT FERME?

I parked the "mostly green" in the middle of the short circular drive. Mine was the type of vehicle that would have been considered a blight in this neighborhood. The exterior of the house was a tangerine stucco with cream accents and a couple of Greekish columns thrown in for effect. I could hear the doorbell echo through the cavernous house. After a beat, a 35ish black man opened the 10' arched door. He was well dressed sporting a heavily starched striped shirt. His head and face were smoothly shaved. As the door swung open, he glanced in my direction, "Whatya got ferme," he queried?
"Well sir, it appears we have two....."
With that, he spun slightly on the heels of his expensive loafers, snapped his fingers and pointed in the direction of his left ear, which contained a Bluetooth earpiece, blue light ablaze it had been hidden from my view . In doing so, he tilted his head much like the RCA Dog. His face contained a look that said, I'm not talking to you, you flippin' idiot pizza guy!
"Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh", he continued.
After another beat, he made eye contact with me. "Whatcha got ferme"?
I stood there with a Homer Simpson blank stare. He repeated himself.
"Are you talking to me," I asked, doing my best Travis Bickel.
"I'm looking at you," he countered.
"Yes, yes your are. Well sir, you have two large Nativity Pizzas hold the frankincense. That will be $21, please."
He handed me three $10, took the pies and started to push the huge door shut with his shoulder. As he did, I saw the Bluetooth flash.
"Whatya got ferme?"
Thud.

SECRET SANTA

I sat in the small office waiting for the shift manager to come in and cash me out for the night. One of the other drivers, Pedro a twenty something long-hair of Puerto Rican descent, stuck his head in the door. Pedro was a guy who had serious "issues" with God. He was mad at Him for the "4 years of wasted time, playing guitar in my church worship team and trying to be a good husband and father. The whole time, my wife was screwing around on me and what do I get an S- F...ing T- D and now I find out my daughter isn't even mine. God really sucks, you know. I could have been advancing my musical career in a real rock band and getting wasted, all the time instead of wasting all my time on God. Know what I mean, Dude?" Pedro and Jack, another driver who liked to be called Mike, lived together. Mike had taken Pedro in when it all hit the fan with his wife. This night, however, Pedro seemed excited, childlike and focused on something else.
"Dude, did you get your Secret Santa name yet?"
"Sorry Pete, don't know anything about Santa," I said, "and that goes for the Easter Bunny too."
"No, Dude, come on this is cool! We each pick a name out of a hat and then we have to buy that person a present for Christmas."
"As long as it's not Buddy's hat. I won't take anything out of there", I deadpanned.
Lizzie, the 19 year old shift manager came into the office and flopped into her chair. She took my money and receipts and asked what we were talking about?
"Dude, Lizzie, we were just talking about the Secret Santa," Pedro said excitedly.
"Oh Pedro, I know what Mike is getting you," she threw in coyly.
"Wait a second, you and Mike are roommates and you're also each others Secret Santas? How did that happen," I inquired?
"We didn't cheat, Dude. Just the luck of the draw, honest. I wouldn't lie about Santa, for real. Anyway, I'll just buy Mike a big ol' bag of dope."
Lizzie threw back her head and laughed. "That's so, so funny! That's what Mike said he's getting you. A big bag of dope!" They both continued to laugh at the irony. Visions of that Christmas morning and their version of re-gifting flashed through my mind. I grabbed my tip money and left.

IT JUST AGGRATATES ME

"You know what I mean," Buddy muttered as he returned from some deliveries? "Here it is what, almost 8:00. I been on 4 deliveries and didn't get no tip yet. That's a hunert dollars in pizza and no dang tip."
"It will get better. Hang in there. You know how it goes in streaks," I said.
"Nope. Not till I stop pulling them orders in that section of town."
I didn't ask, I knew what was coming.
"The Black persuasion."
"How are they persuaded to be Black", I queried?
He continued, ignoring me, "Their Momma and Daddies didn't teach them no manners about tippin. Period! It just aggratates me and they don't know how to speak no English, either."

SHEHEREZAD WENT MISSING

As previously mentioned, there is a high turnover rate in the pizza transportation biz. No sooner do you feel like you are getting to know someone then they are gone like the winds(Buddy, the post stroke Grandpa Walton lookalike and surviving member of the Rubeonics Brothers, says our pizza gives him the winds). Such is the case with Sheherezad(sic-her mom's, not mine). She had shadowed me on Thursday(a newbie rides with an experienced driver to learn the real world ropes) and she began delivering solo on a Friday night, typically our busiest. She had a new little Asian whatyucallit "pickemup truck", as Buddy called them, equipped with a deluxe GPS. She had taken the pizza job to help pay for it.

Typically, when an order is printed out for delivery, a driver, no matter how experienced, will usually spend a moment in front of the giant wall map just to verify where he/she is going. After all, it is our gas money and on a Friday or Saturday night, if you're not careful, you could end up in a place that you just don't want to be. Buddy, has been known to plant himself, in a trance-like state, inches from the mural for 5 solid minutes at a time. This always annoyed the young drivers until I told them one time, "He's downloading". Now, they just kind of nod knowingly and work around him.

Sheherezad, like many of the technodependents, couldn't be bothered with the map. After all, she had GPS. She grabbed her first 3 delivery orders and confidently headed for the door. As far as we know, that was the last she was ever seen. There were reports from the kids taking the phone orders that she would call in periodically, in degenerating stages of hysteria. It started with, "Are there any other drivers in there that could please give me a little help?" To one and one half hours later, "I can't find any of these F....ing addresses. This isn't worth it. I have gone through a 1/2 pack of cigarettes and a half tank of gas and I STILL DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM! I F....ING QUIT! DO YOU HEAR ME? I F...ING QUIT!" No one ever did hear from her or the pizzas, for that matter, again.
The real Sheherazade went for 1000 Arabian nights. This namesake couldn't even make it for 1 in Sandia.

STIFFIE'S P.P.

Saturday night, I pulled a delivery to the eastern most edges of our store's territory. It was dusk when I turned off the main road and on to a well worn dirt road that featured some handwritten signs marking the way. STIFFIE'S P P with an arrow pointing down the driveway. I figured I was headed in the right direction because the name on the order said, "Stiffie". I pulled around a sharp turn in the driveway and I was suddenly not alone. There were ponytails, tank tops, tattoos and saggy boobs as far as the eye could see...and that was just the men. The woman too all shared a theme. They all looked like they had been rode hard and put away wet and there was not enough real teeth between them to make a respectable set of dentures.
All the party's attendees were carrying at least one can of beer and smoking a ciggie butt or a joint. I found a parking spot amongst about 100 or so Harleys scattered around the house.I got out of the Mostly Green and started walking towards what appeared to be the epicenter of Stiffieland, a pole mounted, 10 foot banner strung over a round patio type table with a red umbrella protecting it. I tried to speak to the first person to make eye contact with me.
"Stiffie," I inquired?
"Stiffie's not here, man," he responded and walked away.
Suddenly feeling as if I were in a Cheech and Chong skit, I looked for someone who both made eye contact and had a pulse.
"Excuse me," I said to a group of about 10, hoping that by the sheer size of this group, I could get a complete sentence. Does anyone know who ordered the 6 pizza's for Stiffie? There were a couple, "Stiffie's not here, dude" responses but one of them did say "go see Sheila at the table, Dude."
The lone seat at the round table was occupied by Sheila, an inflatable person dressed in a complete "Camo" outfit. Her head was covered with a floppy camo hat and her camo fatigues all the way down to her jump boots. Now, I had never actually seen a "blow up doll" before but Sheila certainly had the makin's of one. I couldn't see her privates but her mouth was a gaping maw which dominated most of her face. I refused the urge to talk to her about the pizzas but a real woman did walk out the house as I approached. She said, "those go there. Just put them by Sheila, she'll guard them." The woman paid me, then tipped nicely. As I walked to the Mostly Green, I took a look over my shoulder at Sheila. Still seated, guarding the pizzas, under the large banner that read: STIFFIE'S PAROLE PARTY. Apparently still no Stiffie, however.

CAST OF A THOUSAND

As you can guess, there is a lot of turnover in the pizza biz. In that light, there have been some personnel changes since I last posted. Gone is Len, one of the Rubeonics Brothers. Until his final day, I never did understand a word he said. Apparently, he had gotten involved in one of the latest "Direct Marketing"(pyramid schemes). He had his plastered his name and (eventually)phone number in big plastic letters all over his truck. It said, "Call me if U want to make big $!" Which poses the question, if you're making big money, why are you delivering Pizzas? The rumor was that Len drove around with the slogan on his truck but couldn't afford to buy the plastic numbers for his phone number until he had saved up all his tip money for two weeks. I also heard that he would get frustrated when people did call because they couldn't understand him. He would then hang up on them. No one seems to know what really happened to Len, he just went missing.
Gone is Narcissus The Box Boy. Apparently, the manager's attempt in specialization was a dismal failure. She had hired this tall good looking Latin kid to work inside. The problem was that he spoke limited amounts of English and showed no interest in learning any of the inside chores, other than folding pizza boxes. At our store, through cross training, all insiders have to be able to perform most inside tasks from answering the phones to making pizzas. In performing his one and only task, he was able to stand directly in front of the a two way mirror(which he apparently didn't figure out was a 2 way) and gaze fondly at his reflection. At times, he would laugh and make faces at himself, while changing profiles. It would totally annoy the manager who was often times seated on the opposite side of the glass in her tiny office.
Also gone is Bobby. His restrictions due to parole are apparently over and he has moved back to Ohio. Bobby had attended a local college majoring in criminology. He was in the final week of police academy training prior to accepting a position with a local force. He came home from the shooting range early and found his wife with another man. Since he just happened to have his handgun in his hand(go figure)he offered to use it on the coupling couple. His wife managed to call 911 and Bobby ended up in jail then prison. I oftentimes wondered how our customers would feel knowing their pie with extra cheese was being delivered by a convicted felon.
The new guys that have been hired, young and oldish, all seem to have one thing in common, they have GPS'ssss in their vehicles. Now while somewhat curious about them, the more established drivers have no respect for anyone who would let Hal tell them where to go and the quickest way to get there. I am sensing an air of competition rivaling that of John Henry versus the spike driving machine. Something is coming very soon....

THE WHITISH IS GONE(ISH)-LONG LIVE THE MOSTLY GREEN!

A moment of silence please. The Whitish has a new home. Please welcome the "Mostly Green".

After several weeks on display, in a place of prominence at my friend Mike's repair shop, a local student was overcome with the beauty(and low price) of the Whitish. Mike said she just had to have it. Apparently, due to a lack of time and money, it was the Whitish or a larger yellow vehicle that included a bus pass.

For several weeks, I had been monitoring Craig's List and in general keeping my eyes peeled looking for a new vehicle. As I pondered all the choices and possibilities available to me, from Acura to Volvo, I would try to envision myself pulling up to a house with my car topper blazing in a (fill in the blank): Corvette....no(no room for pizza bags), Porsche...no(vehicle too nice it affects the tips),Escalade?(too much...crap). Having a social conscience and yet still being shallow enough to be interested in a penis extender, I considered the new HUMMUS. The HUMMUS, of course, is the new joint venture vehicle between GM and Toyota. Both companies were looking to capitalize upon the popularity of their respective vehicles the Humvee and the Prius, hence the name HUMM(er)-(pri)US. The joint engineering brain trusts came up with the idea of a huge hybrid SUV that runs soley on a beige mush, popular in the Middle East, made of chick peas or garbanzo beans. With beans for fuel, this vehicle would be the first in history to create gas not run on it.

Ultimately, I got tired of the huge waiting list for the Hummus(who knew that there were so many tree huggers with a desire for an extender) and was forced to move on. I eventually saw a vehicle that I felt would fit my needs on Craigs List. It was a 1996 Ford Ranger truck that appeared, at least in viewing the picture, to be in fairly good shape. I called the phone number listed in the add and spoke to what sounded like a young guy about his truck. He assured me that the Ranger was in great shape and I would not need to drive or even see the truck prior to buying it. I declined his offer to send a bag full of cash and made arrangements to test drive the vehicle.

Upon seeing the vehicle, I couldn't help but notice that the picture that had appeared in CList didn't seem to show the many gray "bondo" spots on many of the trucks surfaces. Upon further interrogation, the young truck owner did cop to altering the vehicles appearance with "Photo Shop" that he had gotten for Christmas.
I then got in the vehicle for a test drive. It started and ran OK but the inside of the truck also had several projects that had been started but not finished. The mostly green exterior was contrasted by a black spray painted interior with electric blue highlights(this kid was in serious need of a "Queer Eye" for interior design). In addition, he had taken off and disposed of the interior door panels(leaving exposed green metal) and disconnected all the radio speaker wires. When queeried about any of the incomplete items his response was, "Oh yeah,Dude, I meant to do that." In spite of the fact that there was so much Bondo on the truck that it likely would not have set off a TSA metal detector at the airport, it seemed to run and drive OK. After the drive, we haggled a little and I finally handed him a month's worth of tip money and drove off. Long live(please Lord) The Mostly Green!

COMING SOON! PIZZAGUY 2.0

After some much needed mental health time, (PTDS) Post Traumatic Delivery Syndrome, he is coming back with a vengeance...and a pizza, soon!

RUBEONICS

rube
n : not very intelligent or interested in culture [syn: yokel, hick, yahoo, hayseed, bumpkin, chawbacon]
rubeonics
n: words spoken by a rube(syn: I, made, this, up)
Apparently, I have a language problem. I don't know how long I have actually had the problem but I certainly have been made acutely aware of this issue by two new drivers that the pizza store hired. To say that their necks are red would be like saying "camo" is a fashion statement in Sandia. Now, I am very aware of the age difference between most of my coworkers and me, so I say this with some trepidation, but one new driver closely resembles Grandpa Walton(post stroke) but mumbles more. He actually has a "handicapped" tag on the vehicle he uses for deliveries which gives him a distinct parking advantage when delivering to apartments, businesses, etc. He also has a habit of printing out his delivery order, then standing about 2 inches away from our giant wall map for at least five minutes prior to leaving on his run. Some of our coworkers joke that he is trying to memorize the entire map. I personally was concerned he had passed away and rigor mortis had set in. He eventually does move and deliver his pizzas, however.
The other man, has been there a little longer, maybe two months. I hate to admit it, as a fellow white man, but I have never understood a single word he has said. I know that it sometimes seems that there is a white/black language issue. In fact, it seems that some Black folks have their own language or at least dialect. In the late 90's, I remember a brief controversy about the use of Ebonics in some schools or, as they would say in Ebonics: At times, it seems dat some Black folks gots they own language or at least dialect. In fact, in da late 90 's, dere wuz uh brief controversy about da use o' Ebonics in some schools. Now, truth be told, I understand the last version of those two sentences way better than anything either or these two guys has ever tried to say to me.
Now, I guess because we are relatively close in age, the latter guy must feel some affinity to me because he always feels the need to try to converse. Now, the inside of the pizza store, is not really quiet. Each of the ovens has a blower, the phones are always ringing, there is a near constant chatter. No matter what I am doing, he will seek me out, sidle up to me and say some guttural, twangy phrase(I guess). He then lowers his head slightly, looks at me like he has said something profound and waits for my response. I quickly tired of saying, "What?", sometimes 2 or 3 times in a row and still never really knowing what was said. It has gotten to the point that rather than have him repeat his Rubeonics several times, if he's looking at the computer screen, I will start answering possible computer related questions. If he looks at the map, I try to get a look at his delivery ticket and answer location related questions, etc. I must be guessing right because whatever I have said seems to placate him so that I can do my side work or get out the door.......more about Rubeonics at a later date.

CEREAL KILLER

It was late on Sunday afternoon and I was in a fairly expensive cloister of homes. I would guess their values to be from $500K to probably 1 million. Each of these yards was more manicured than the next. It is the type of subdivision that has a strong homeowner's association or yard Nazis, as they might be called. I happen to know that this particular association had instigated at least 2 lawsuits involving the type of trees/shrubs that individual owners had planted in their yards. Now, I had just delivered a couple of pies to a nice 40ish mom and her two picture postcard kids. They were playing a game in the front yard when I drove up, took the pizza, paid, tipped nicely and went in to chow down. I climbed back into the whitish, which was parked at the curb, directly in front of the house, as always, facing the correct direction. I briefly glanced at my next order, then watched in my driver side mirror for a slowly moving green Lexus that had approached from the rear( on the wrong side of the street) to pass by, so I could leave. I waited for a full 20 seconds as the Lexus slowly pulled abreast of my car. I assumed the driver wanted to say something to me (hopefully not PIZZAPIZZA!I turned to face him. In reality, he seemed totally unaware of my presence and had full attention focused on the house,yard and large palm tree directly across the street. He finally stopped directly next to me and reached into a container near the console of his car. He threw several handfuls of something he removed from the container in the direction of the base of the palm tree, stared some more, then drove slowly off. It appeared that whatever he threw bounced or rolled when it hit. Okay, now you have my attention. Once he was out of sight, I got out of the whitish and walked over to the tree and looked at the items. Once I was convinced they weren't poison, I picked a couple of the yellowish, round little items up and let them roll in my palm. I looked closer, then...smelled them. I looked up and around to see if I was the only witness to this event. I smelled them again and confirmed my initial thoughts...they were KIX.

THE CHRONICLES OF SANDIA; THE DRIVER, THE HO' AND THE CRACK HOUSE

It was about 8:30 in the evening and as always is the case near Christmas, it had been dark for about 3 hours. I pulled into a large circular subdivision of newish "starter" houses and followed the road as it made a big, slow loop. On nearly every block in Sandia, there are houses without street numbers, period. I have gotten into the habit of trying to pick out house numbers, as soon as I enter an area. At times, it makes me feel a little like a peeping Tom, due to the fact that I drive very slowly, while staring intently at each house. Especially on nights like this when, due to some new hires, there were not enough cartoppers to go around and consequently, as Pizzaguy, I was in stealth mode. The group mailboxes that many subdivisions have adopted, can make finding a specific address even tougher. Because without the need for posting a number for the mailman, many of Sandia's homeowners think there is no need to post an address on the front of their houses, at all. They have forgotten that EMS, police, fire fighters and most importantly, the Pizzaguy, might need to see a couple of numbers to do their jobs.

After a block or so of slowly making my way through the complex, I pulled behind a UPS truck that had stopped in the street. The truck's bright flashing lights helped to illuminate a house so that I could actually read the numbers. I then realized that my destination was about 15 houses up. Just as I put the Whitish into gear and began to go around the truck, the driver jogged back to his vehicle. He was tall, about 6'4" and athletic looking and in his late twenties. I waited as he climbed aboard, then sped off traveling another 15 houses or so, before abruptly stopping again. I slowly crept up and pulled the Whitish to the curb behind his truck again. Just as I began to open my door, the UPS driver jumped out of the driver's side of his truck and stood in the middle of the street with feet wide apart and fists clenched at his side. He appeared to be in full battle mode. The driver glared at me threateningly and screamed at the top of his lungs, "CAN I HELP YOU?!" I continued to exit the car, pizza bag in hand and said, "Not unless you ordered this pizza", I said and pointed to the nearest house.
A look of recognition came over his face, he relaxed and, "Man, I am sorry. I am so tired of people trying to break into my truck and steal the packages, every time I stop. This truck is full of people's Christmas!
"No offense taken. Thanks for being so faithful," I said heading for the house.
My next stop was on the other side of town. I drove into the large subdivision made up of 25+ year old townhouses, duplexes and small single family homes that were close enough to be attached but many weren't. These streets were also winding but the landscape and trees were much more mature than my last stop. I pulled up in front of the house with the house number 248 prominently displayed. I had no dificulty finding the house because it was the only one with lights on, which, by itself was strange. As I have discussed before, you can almost bet that the house on any given block, for any given delivery, will be the only one with it's lights off. Not only was this not the case here, the porch light was a virtual beacon...and it was red. I approached the house, rang the doorbell and waited until an attractive, well groomed young woman answered the door. She pleasantly took the pizza from me, paid and tipped nicely. As she shut the door, I could see another young woman sitting calmly on a couch. I got the impression they were both waiting for something and it wasn't a bus. I walked back to the Whitish and paused to look back at the house for a minute. I looked up, as I opened the Whitish' door. A man was standing across the street, about 20 feet away, leaning on a tree, smoking a cigarette. He had apparently been watching me as I looked at the house, curiously. We made eye contact and he said, "Yeah, they are." He took one last drag, threw his butt to the ground and turned to head into his house.
My last run of the night was later than I was actually scheduled for but it had been a busy night, so I gladly stayed late. I was to deliver one small cheese pizza with jalepenos to an address in a very questionable part of town. We have several large areas of our territory that are blocked out as undeliverable after 6:00 p.m. This is dictated and enforced by the the home office, due to driver robberies or high crime statistics. This house was on the border of the no pizza land. I parked in front of the worn old house and made my way past a bunch of litter, stuff and through the odor of stale urine in the front yard. My guess was that, at one time, this house had been a beauty. It was two stories and featured old Florida architecture with a big front porch, metal roof and short picket fence.The front door was open and the inside of the house was dark without TV or stereo. I rapped hard on the door frame because the door bell dangled uselessly from the wall, held only by it's wires. My eyes had begun to adjust to the lack of light and I could make out several people sitting on the floor of the house. It appeared to have no furniture. One figure appeared to be staring at me, kind of in a daze. The other, appeared to be a woman and was sleeping? A young man, in his late teens, came from a back room and walked towards me, Zombi-like. He handed me a wad of crumpled bills, took the pizza and wordlessly headed back from whence he came. I didn't move while I used my large blue Streamlight to count the rumpled money. He had handed me $21 for an $8.40 pizza. Not that I don't appreciate a good tip but I don't want to take advantage of anybody's mistake, impaired or not. I yelled, "Sir, did you really want to give me this much money?" No answer. "Sir?" I knocked on the door again. No response or for that matter, reaction from anybody, staring, sleeping or whatever. I made my way through the urine smell and presumably its cause and stepped on what appeared to be small pieces of aluminum foil,on my way back to the whitish. I made a mental note not to take my shoes into the house when I got home.

IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS

It was 10:00, the Saturday night after Thanksgiving and by some freak of scheduling, I only had to work until 11. Just enough time to make one more run, do my side work and head home. I printed out my delivery ticket, loaded my pizza bag and checked the map to confirm the delivery location. I had been in this area before but not down that particular road. I climbed into the whitish and left the bright lights of civilization. I drove to the extreme outer edges of our store's territory and then hung a right down a dirt road. I knew where to turn because there was a short, jagged piece of 2 by 4 nailed to a palm tree. The board featured red hand painted lettering that said, TURN HERE. I did and the dirt road was overgrown, even by Central Florida standards. I drove through the darkness until the road ended, turned around by backing into some bushes and tried again. On my third pass, I noticed some red numbers, hand painted on a telephone pole. They said 2413 which happend to be the number of the house I was looking for. The pole also happened to be next to a dirt road, that I had not seen before, so I turned. The driveway was long but after about 50 yards, opened up to become the front yard of a normal looking ranch style house. The front of the house had no lights what so ever but the back of the house was absolutely glowing orange, creating an almost eclipse-corona type effect. I continued following the dirt road and as I turned the corner of the house, I could immediately see the entire backyard area was illuminated with pole mounted quartz halogen lights. There was a large, two story, open ended garage-type shed that contained a number of 4WD "pick em up trucks". It also contained two teenage males, on separate 8 foot ladders artfully draping Christmas lights over the top of a trailer mounted airboat. Each of the teenagers was wearing camo pants and hats, black tees and jump boots.With my passenger window(remember, the driver's side window doesn't work on the whitish)open, I had begun to hear sounds, maybe music, wafting its way towards me as I turned down the driveway. Now, as I cleared the back corner of the house, I clearly heard Burl Ives singing, It's a Holly Jolly Christmas as it blasted from tree-mounted loud speakers. As I came to a halt, an average looking woman emerged from the house to whack the two yelping pit bulls with a large rod. She handed me the cash, took the pizzas and drawled for the teenagers to come and eat. As I got back in the car and headed out of the compound, I could see that they had plugged in the lights on the airboat. In a strange way, it was kind of pretty. As the branches scraped on the sides of the car and the mosquitoes swirled around the windshield, I heard Michael Jackson's Frosty The Snowman echo through the air. I headed down the road and back to the store with Spanish Moss hanging from my antenna.

CAT CALLS

Last night I delivered to an old house at the end of a cul-de -sac. The driveway and detached garage were along side, a good 30 feet from the house itself. From there, the yard flowed into a park-like area with palmetto bushes and a few large trees. As I was getting out of the whitish chevy, I could hear a faint meow. I stopped for a second, heard no more and went up to the house. I gave the elderly lady her pizza, took the money and pounded down the wooden porch and steps as I headed back to my car. Almost there, I heard it again, very faintly. The meow sounded small, like that of a kitten. It was strangely close, yet muffled, almost distressed. I threw my empty pizza bag into the open passenger side window and stood glaring intently into the darkened park area. The slight meow continued and I took about three steps toward the sound, a clump of palmetto bushes. At that moment, a car breached the entrance of the cul-de-sac just to enough to hang a u-turn. In doing so, it very briefly shot a spray of light into park area. For a millisecond, I could see the outline of a man in the exact area I had determined the sounds were coming from. He seemed to be squatted down between bushes, staring directly at me. The light reflected off his teeth and I could see his mouth was making the meowing sounds.

Startled, I said, "Oh...I thought it..."

In an instant, the car-provided lighting was gone. I heard the bushes rustle and the man was gone, as well. I got into the whitish, backed out of the driveway with my high beams on. I drove in a circle around the cul-de-sac several times hoping to see the figure again but it was gone and I got the heck out of there.

THE DIRTY BOMB!

It had to happen sooner or later. Some heartless, unfeeling terrorist was going to leave, what scientists term, a "dirty" bomb, in a backpack, briefcase or doggy bag . A WMD so insidious, so horrible, that it would leave a large area virtually uninhabitable for a very long period of time. Who knew that it would happen in the very pizza store where I work? Who knew it would be the result of a "home grown" terrorist? The saga began several days ago when one of our drivers went into the store's large walk-in cooler to do his "side work". Side work is a domestic type task that is assigned to each driver to perform each day after he is done with deliveries. It can be anything from washing all the dishes, emptying the trash, sweeping the floor or, in this case, fluffing the cheese. This last task requires one to enter the cooler, open approximately 20-10 pound boxes of shredded pizza cheese and hand fluff up the bags so that the cheese will thaw properly. On Monday, Adam, an early twenties something college student/driver, had completed his deliveries and was ready to do his side work. He entered the cooler and about 10 seconds later came staggering out, eyes watering and gagging over a trash container.

He yelled to know one in particular, as he leaned against the wall, "Dude, that's just not right. That's just rude!"

Nathan, an insider, a worker who makes pizzas and takes orders(usually too young to be a driver), walked around the corner to see what the problem was.
Adam said, "Man, Dude, somebody better check their shorts because what they left in the cooler just isn't right, Dude."

"What do you mean, Dude", Nathan asked?

"You know, somebody burned a mule...left a dirty bomb, you know"?

Nathan, "Somebody farted in the walk-in cooler?"

"Fart doesn't cover that", Adam responded, "I think they had an out of the body experience. You know like... get this thing out of my body. Any way, I'm telling Chaz(the assistant manager) that I'm not going back in there."

"Dude, we need pizza sauce and it's in there," Nathan stated. They both stared at the closed cooler door.

Adam finally broke the brief silence, "I wouldn't eat anything that came out of there for days. It's got to have, like you know, a nuclear half life or something, you know? "

"It could freeze and just hang in the air or something waiting for the next person to come in", Nathan added.

I had been standing behind both of them, at the corner sink doing dishes, my side job. I said, "I'll go in and get the sauce. You guys are just Florida wooses. You have obviously have never been on a Boy Scout camp out in the Midwest in November. I have seen the Scouts have to throw tents away after couping up 6 guys in there. You want to talk about dirty bombs. Plus, I grew up with six people in a house with one bathroom. I can hold my breath with the best of them."

"OK Dude but if you go down, we're not coming in to get you!"
http://www.heptune.com/farts.html

WHUH?

WHUH (or W-HUH?) is what I have been calling the AM radio station that blasts out of the whitish chevy's speakers each and ever time I start it up. I have previously referred to the station as broadcasting in an Afro-Mexican-Pentecostal revolving format which means, I never quite know what I am going to get. The reason I call it W-H-U-H(KHUH for those of you west of the Mississippi) is because I really don't understand it or I really don't understand it. Recently, I was taking a morning jaunt and had a woman's voice jumping out of the speakers at me, as soon as I cranked up the whitish' engine. Deaconess Jones, it seems, was in mid sermon rant. She screamed,...AND SHE DON'T HAVE THE POWA THAT SHE THINK SHE HAVE, THAT SHE REALLY DO HAVE"! Now, I'm no theologian and I have learned that God will speak to me in many ways through many different types of people but if God is trying to speak to me through the good Deaconess, I need a translator.

I got out of the car to go into the store, when I came back out and fired up the whitish, they must have(I can only hope) changed formats. A marginally talented woman in a fairly unprofessional mix was singing, ...."and my man he stay out all night, he don't treat me right, that's why I'm goin lookin for the poontang(excuse me if sic) man,yeah baby, that's what they call him, the Poontang(does one capitalize poontang?) Man..." Can they say that on the radio? I guess so.

LOVELY IN WHITE

I pulled into the single entry/exit of the apartment complex prior to dusk. It was one of the nicer complexes in our territory inhabited mostly by young professionals. Having been in this complex a number of times, I had a better than rough idea of where this particular building was amongst the cluster of similar pods. I parked the whitish chevy(it doesn't deserve any capitalization) directly in front of the building and knocked on the appropriate, ground floor(thank you Lord) door. No answer, I knocked again. Still no answer and again. Finally, after approximately 1 minute, the door slowly opened to reveal a man(?) who, from my best estimate, was in his mid-forties. He was wearing, what appeared to be a woman's wig, in a page boy style, if I'm not mistaken. It was nicely frosted and styled but in his haste to get to the door, had it slightly cocked on his head. The angle of the hairpiece had the effect of making his face seem slightly out of kilter. In addition to the hair, he wore little else except a pair of grey pants that he may have borrowed from The Hulk. They were unbelted and unbuttoned at the waist, only covered his legs to mid-calf and the legs were jaggedly frayed at the ends. His unique look was completed by the fact that he was covered, head to toe, in what appeared to be white powder makeup. Now, keeping in mind I am nothing, if not a fashion maven(http://jobesnotjobs.blogspot.com/2005/09/slaves-to-fashion-all-right-i-cant.html, I was even stunned. After a few awkward moments and attempts not to stare, I told him how much he owed for the pizza and waited for him to get the money, so I could get the heck out of there. He just stood there. I repeated the amount again, when I realized that he spoke no English at all. I tried again in halting Spanish and even considered pig Latin(eezzapay). Nothing, not even a look of faint recognition, just a Homer Simpson-like stare.Finally, I guess it dawned upon him that I wasn't going to be speaking in his native tongue, whatever that was, anytime soon and he began babbling frantically and waiving his arms. I was finally able to discern that Jenny(apparently the pizza orderer) was gone and would return in 15 minutes and that this gentleman(?) couldn't speak either English or Earthling, possibly both. I did my best to communicate that I couldn't wait and that if Jenny wanted another pizza, she would have to call in and order it. I had to go to my next delivery or those earthlings would be receiving a cold pizza.

• POSTSCRIPT-I was just about to stop at my next delivery when my cell phone rang. It was the pizza store's assistant manager. She asked if I had made the delivery to "Jenny's" apartment and I told her the story. She said that she had received a phone call from Jenny and that she was very upset. Apparently, Jenny was pushing for some type of compensation because I had never showed up at her apartment. The manager asked if I would give Jenny a call. As soon as she answered, Jenny lit into me about being late, no showing, etc. I said, "I am sorry Mam but I was there over 15 minutes ago." She stated how that was impossible because she had been standing at the entrance to her complex, walking her chihuahua, Frito, for the last 20 minutes. "Mam, I don't know how you missed the whitish chevy with the glowing car topper on it but I was there." "That's a lie and I should be compensated", she yelled. "Really? What about the foreign guy with the patch frosted page boy, Hulk pants and white full body make up, in your apartment," I asked? She was silent for a beat, swore and then the line went dead. I pulled up in front of the house for my next delivery.

SENOR SULU ES UN HOMOSEXUAL

As I mentioned before, the whitish chevy has many accesories that seemingly operate with a mind of their own. The most obvious and headstrong is the radio. Each time the car's ignition is turned the radio blares out, at near full volume and always from the same AM radio station. Now, it does this even if the channel has been changed and the radio switched off. In years past, in a more superstitious culture, some would have thought it was haunted. I prefer to think of it as God's sense of humor.

In a previous blog, I refered to the station as the Afro-Mexican Petecostal channel and quite honestly, I never know which combination I am going to get due to what appears to be the radio stations free floating scheduling. In that light, I was delivering a pizza to an apartment complex. I got back into my car and fired her up as a group of Latin men huddled around a car several slots away. Suddenly, "Senor Sulu es un homosexual", blared out of the speakers. I reached the "off" knob as the announcer continued, "agente de 68 a Ãnos, Takei del George anunciado........" From the group of men, I heard the following, One man asked, "Sulu is gay?" "Si, si", several said knowingly. As I pulled away, another asked, "Senior Spock?" "NO, NO", they all said.