Twenty minutes later it's ready to go, and as usual it's a damn fine-looking pie. Mr. B. has good taste. I bag it up and hop into my pickup. As I drive down dark streets, my mind wanders; I feel somewhat queasy about delivering to this guy. Plenty of people are repeat customers, and it's not uncommon for folks to get stuck in a groove, ordering the same thing over and over again. There's the TV addict who gets the double anchovy every Friday night. The cute businesswoman who gets the huge salads and is always working late, tapping away on her laptop when you come to her door. Even that cretinous jackass with his slimy double pesto, always turning to place his pizza on the stairs so he can examine it, bending over and giving you an eyeful of buttcrack. Sure, there's the potential for a little embarrassment when customers recognize you and realize you know about their little habits. They'll make some remark about how lazy they are, but it's no big deal, really. We all have our tastes, our passions. Our ruts. It seems different with Mr. B., though.
Two minutes later and my hands and feet have automatically driven me to the apartment building where Mr. B. lives. I ring him up at the gate and he politely answers the phone, then buzzes me in and asks me to meet him on the third floor. He used to come down to meet me, but doesn't anymore. I pass through the gate and into the stairwell, preferring to jog up the shallow stairs rather than taking them ONE... AT... A... TIME. I swing around into the third-floor hallway just as Mr. B. is coming out of his apartment.
Mr. B. is a big man. And I'm not talking WWF Smackdown big, either. As a kid he was probably called "husky" by his folks and worse by his schoolmates. Since I'm a pizza geek and not a circus sideshow geek, I can't guess his weight, but my imagination tells me he's lugging an extra of himself around.
He signs the credit slip, I hand him his pie, and we thank each other, then go our separate ways. Glancing at Mr. B.'s delivery ticket, I see that this is his 267th order. As I bound down the steps, I get caught up in how Mr. B. is a nice, polite fellow and a good tipper, and how I cheerfully appear at his door whenever he calls, bringing a big blob of cheese and grease that's probably slowly killing him. What can be done? Should we start slipping lean, healthy turkey sausage under that extra cheese? Scrimp on the man's pepperoni?
My folks have this story about how, when Mom was pregnant with me, they went out to a Chinese restaurant and the waitress said, "No drink--bad for baby," and wouldn't serve my mom alcohol. The waitress was a ridiculous character, her meddling unwelcome. Somehow I just can't see myself telling Mr. B., "Sorry, Sir, we're cutting you off from cheese. But we'd be happy to deliver a fresh, wholesome green salad." It would be practically criminal--at the very least un-American.
I glance up at the apartment building and notice a half-dozen windows pulsing with the familiar blue glow of TVs. All those people up there are sitting on their asses consuming something of dubious value--why not Mr. B? Our compulsions, like our bad habits, define us. They make us who we are. Let Mr. B. eat pie!
Back in my truck, I go through in my head the list of orders waiting for delivery. I realize I need to beat Ryan back to the store if I'm going to get the next run. It's Mr. Davidson, and that guy always tips well.
