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Day 3: A Slow Tuesday

The environment inside of a quality pizza restaurant is a dynamic, growing thing made up of grease, delicious smells, terrible things hidden under sundry cooking equipment, profanity, laughter, and most of all, a hum of business and quality control.

"If we have time to jabber, we have time to get other stuff done. Are we done with our prep?" the manager on staff  asked last night as a coworker and I laughed about some statement or another about the dynamics of delivery work.

"I was just describing prep, and the team and how everything works with the new guy," was Coworkerpant's jovial answer.

"Well, why don't you show the New Guy how to do prep?" the manager asked.

We headed into the profundity of the prep area. Another coworker was singing along to a Bush song as he told a story to no one in particular about some event from days passed, his nametag bouncing on his cap with every accentuated hand gesture.

A flood of information awaited me. What pans for what size is important, and the dough has to be placed and twisted. I learned how to use the Food Release. I tell myself that it performs alchemy and releases tasty happiness from deep within the molecules of gluten, salt and sugar, but it seems to be no more than cooking spray. Being the New Guy, however, RI had 5 medium pizzas to do. It didn't take long.

New pointers come in every day. Always keep cash in your pocket till you're in the back of the restaurant. Always offer cheese and peppers. Always put cash receipts on top when you hand them the food. Smile!

The one that sticks out the most, though?

"You're going to get some deliveries you don't like," the manager explained, "so being happy about your deliveries now is a good thing."

Deliveries I don't like?

I didn't press the subject with her, but my mind raced and so did my imagination. What does a delivery I don't like look like?

I didn't have to let my imagination run too wild for too long. Later that night, another driver was describing a crazy situation - at random, without a request to do so - where he delivered pizzas for a gal that had syringes in her arm. She vomited on the boxes during the conversation before collapsing to the floor, at which point a man came out of a back room and yelled, "Figures!" as he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her back to whence he came.

As I finished the dishes and clocked out, I mused on that mental scene. Yeah, I figure I wouldn't like a delivery like that. Everything to this point has smelled like roses. Or at least like fresh pizza. I counted my tips, cashed out, clocked out and called it a slow night.

Staying, as always, Roe Intense.


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