Where did “pizza dude” come from? Surely it did not come from Corey Feldman’s character in Suburbia. Although with the way his career went, maybe he would be glad of something of lasting influence, even something that small.
But I mean not all pizza drivers are pizza dudes. There are women, fathers, preppies; men and women, young and old. alternative and conservative. Not all pizza dudes are running around the streets in their rusted out Chevettes paying for their college education. It’s just a social strata that has bubbled up out of this consumer driven economy of service and convenience.
In my experience, the people you work with are generally cool. It’s the customers who are idiots. The store gets busy and people get frazzled; I get that. Servers are running around in a million different directions. The oven can only make food so fast. Management runs around trying to keep the chaos at bay. I know you think it’s cute when a delivery driver pulls up and you yell, “Pizza dude!”, but it’s not. It’s annoying. I understand when kids do it. They are kids. But when grown men and women do it, I get a little peeved.
So here’s a little customer etiquette lesson for you. Think of me as a Miss Manners with an attitude.
Busy or slow, the shrill ring of the phone rips through the restaurant and everyone flees. No one wants to answer the phone, but alas, someone has to and the madness starts.
--Thank you for calling Pizza Hut, (or whatever store you work at). Will this be delivery, dine-in or pick up?
--Yeah do you guys deliver?
--Now what did I just say? Will this be DELIVERY, dine-in or carry out?
--Whatever idiot. What would you like?
Then it gets interesting.
The customer screams into the other room. --HEY. WHAT DO WE WANT?
--WHERE DID YOU CALL?
--DO THEY HAVE CRAZY BREAD?
--NO, I THINK THAT’S LITTLE CAESAR’S.
--WELL THEN GET A LARGE ORDER OF THAT AND A PIZZA.
--NO. I’M CALLING PIZZA HUT.
--WHAT DO WE WANT?
--HOW ABOUT A LARGE?
--NAH. NOT REALLY THAT HUNGRY.
--WELL HOW ABOUT. . .
--Well how about you get a clue? I’ll take all my measly tips from this evening, put them in an envelope and deliver them right to your door with a big fuckin grin on my face so that you can buy a giant fucking clue. Hey moron boys. How about getting in the same room, discussing the pros and cons of Stuffed Crust Pizza, deciding what you would like, clipping the appropriate coupons, and then, and only then, calling me to phone in your order? Would that be so hard? Would it?
A conversation like that would never take place. It’s not that I’m worried about getting fired. One thing I’ve figured out is that there are plenty of minimum wage jobs to go around for everyone. That includes you, unemployment recieiving piece of crap. I mean how about you get off your . . . what? I’m sorry. Have to stay on task.
And another thing. Before you call, call your neighbors and see if they would like anything. For crying out loud, there is nothing more annoying that having ten or so deliveries throughout the evening and nine of them going to the same neighborhood or apartment complex. Get on the phone, better yet, walk on over and have a little pow-wow with your neighbor. “But I’ve never met my neighbor.” Exactly. What could be sadder than two people living less that twenty feet from each other and never meeting? So go on, go over there and bring this world a little closer.
So now that we’ve got the ordering part taken care of, it’s time to move on to the delivery portion of the program.
I’m driving around, trying to get your piping hot pizza to you as quickly as possible. Really. I’m a fast driver. Check my record. You’ll see all the speeding tickets. Don’t worry about me lollygagging around. I’m trying to get to your place as fast as I can.
So I’m doing my part. Not you have to do yours. For the love of God, can you place illuminate your house number? If you’ve got a dark colored house, don’t put dark numbers on it. Please turn on your porch light, get some reflective numbers for your mailbox, do something so I can see the number of the house I’m delivering to.
I’m working with this guy who takes a huge floodlight with so that he can see house numbers at night. To me that confirms the problem. So please, do whatever it is you have to do so that people, namely me, can see the house number from the road while driving at night.
And then I arrive at your door . . . and you’re surprised to see me. Don’t be playing the new Metallica album at ungodly decibels so that you can’t hear the doorbell ring. Don’t leave your wallet or checkbook in your car or some remote area of your house. Expect me. You wanted pizza and you’re going to get it. Be ready.
Customers, you have been instructed. I’m doing my job; now you do yours.