Life as a pizza delivery man isn't exactly the most stressful job on the planet. Especially if you deliver in Boulder Colorado, where half the customers are high or hammered, and often offer samples in lieu of a tip. But every once in a while a work day comes along that offers an insight into the lives of Boulder's strangest. Today was one of these days.
It began with a trip to 1853 26th St., a relatively new and upscale apartment high-rise. My delivery was to room 211, and I was pleased to find the auto-lock door slightly ajar, allowing quick entry. I boarded the elevator to the 2nd floor where I came upon 211. I knocked and the door swung open with no one in view. Finding this strange and sensing someone behind the door, I angled myself and found a small lady in her mid to late 30's still holding the inner knob and beckoning to come in. I generally try to avoid entering customer's homes, but after seeing the lady, I realized the she appeared to be mildly mentally disabled (read: light Down's perhaps). Having had experience with the full spectrum of people, I understood that this was probably the exception to my no-entry rule. I accordance, I walked in and looked around.
A man in a wheelchair was in the corner talking on a cell phone as the lady looked at me blankly. I looked at her as if to cue the appearance of money, but she simply stated that I would have to talk to the man on the phone when he was finished. So I stood and waited... and waited. This in itself is a major breach of delivery etiquette. Soon the man hung up and spun around somewhat strangely. He immediately asked what I wanted, and then when he realized that I was the delivery guy, he promptly made a crack about my weight. Knowing how to roll with the punches I shrugged it off and repeated the order total for what must have been the 3rd time. He mumbled something incoherent that sounded like "Yeah I knocked her up". Taken aback slightly I unconsciously looked at the quasi retard for a telltale fetus bulge, although none was detectable. At this point the man began to ramble about the 5th floor observatory, and it was then that I noticed the nearly empty plastic handle of Skoal brand Vodka.
Things were starting to make sense. Drunko and the tard were shacking up and today was just another day in la-la land. I explained again that I needed the money and the man asked me if I get paid by the minute. I replied that I did not, then politely explained that time is money in the pizza game and I needed to get back to the store. He offered to pay me one dollar for every minute I stood there, and I began to get really irritated. I again asked for the money, this time more forcefully. The man complied by drunkenly navigating his wheelchair with his badly swollen feet into the other room, while still mumbling to himself. After my final request, the lady turned to me and spoke in a raised voice. "THAT WAS RUDE! DON'T BE RUDE!". "Rude??" I asked. "You've had me here for five minutes waiting for my $24.82. You want to see rude? Rude is going to be when I grab that fucking pizza and leave. Yeah that's right, I want the money or me and the pizza are outta here." A mix of shock and annoyance flashed across her face, but my dressing down left her speechless.
Just then the man returned with exactly 25 bucks. I immediately asked him if he needed the change back (all 18 cents of it), knowing full well that I had no coin, and secretly hoping he would be a dick and say yes so that I would be able to laugh at him and leave with his 18 cents. He sarcastically responded with a drunken negative, and I wished them all a good day, flexing my best "I'm not incredibly pissed" front. As I turned to leave and open the door, the newly muted mongoloid mate shouted "BE NICE!". That was it. I knew I had taken enough and turned with my reply right before the door slammed. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!".
I calmed down as I drove back to the store, actually hoping that I would receive my first customer complaint for such an incredible encounter. As my dismay and anger waned into the low tide, I smiled as I realized that this was just another awesome story to tell. And as I waited for the last traffic light, I committed their address to memory to warn fellow employees and generations of the wreckage that is room 211.
AUTHORS NOTE: I know some of the themes and terms used above are quite offensive to certain people. No harm or malicious intent is meant to those who are disabled or know people that are. Also it should be noted that the drunk in the chair was not a paraplegic and only appeared to have foot problems, and the lady was well enough off (mentally speaking), that I have no bad feelings about cursing at her. There, now I feel much better.
