Pizza Party


Like many college grads, I had a bit of in-between time before I was offered my first college degree job, so I took a part-time gig at a small pizza place. It was off the books, & I made a surprisingly decent wage at the end of the week. But sometimes jobs don’t work out. Sometimes employees quit for better jobs–sometimes they get fired for silly mistakes. Me? My job ended with a pizza party.

One night I was out saving the world, filling the bellies of civilians with tasty dough treats one pie at a time. The area–Nostrand Ave–was not exactly home turf. With only a few blocks to go, my tasty gift was nearly delivered. “Is it 3 blocks or 4?” I thought. Sometimes you need that extra bit of reassurance. I reassure.

I peer down at my GPS & raise my head to an 89 pickup colliding into my front-end. My car spins and bends like tinfoil. It still smells like pizza.

Thankfully, neither parties sustained injury, but my car was on its way to the junkyard in the sky. The pick-up truck? Well, it’s a pick up. Those things are built like a tank compared to a Chevy Cavalier.

I call my boss to deliver the news. Bossman asks 3 questions:

1. You okay?
2. How’s the pizza?
3. How you gonna work if you can’t drive?

Now not only did I lose my source of transportation, but my source of income. Lovely.

But not all hope was lost! It was a chilly October night, so I went to grab a blanket from my car when a thick wave of delectable cheesy goodness hit my nostrils. Resistance was futile.

With savory sauce floating around my nose, I placed the pie & a 2 liter of pepsi on the spoiler. I shout, “Hey George, come here.”

With plates, cups, and all, my fellow accidentee and I shared a few laughs and a belly full of pizza.

photo courtesy of Suart Eman/