This is a recurring short story that I can write in spurts. There is no real beginning or end, but will simply chronicle the mishaps of a pizza delivery man. It is most certainly inspired by my time as a pizza delivery truck driver, but as you will see, the similarities stop there.
“I Once Was a Dead Old Man”
A couple of shady looking characters walked into Mancini’s Pizza in Santa Monica. The elderly lady, and what appeared to be her granddaughter, were obviously up to no good. They approached the counter. The owner, Mr. Biagio Mancini, waitied warily behind the register. He’d seen their kind before, and at the tender age of 74, he was suspicious of everyone.
“Excuse me sir,” the old woman asked in a frail voice, “But could you change our dollar for quarters?”
At least five times a day this happened. The parking outside, save for two spots reserved for Mancini’s Pizza, were all metered. People like these two sorry beggars were the bane of Biagio Mancini’s existence.
“What? I’m so so sorry. You think this is a bank, no? Down the street, you go the bank.” Mr. Mancini’s aged voice had practiced this line countless times.
“Oh, no sir, we just needed change for the meter and wondered-”
“Yes, yes, you and everybody else. No change! You go now!”
“But just four quarters sir…”
Mancini’s Italian accent grew thicker with his anger. In a whisper the woman could barely hear he said “Get out of my store.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Mancini reached for the long metal pole used to reach deep into the pizza oven. Using both hands he held the pole like a warrior headed to battle.
In a slightly louder voice he said again, “Get out of my store.”
The woman looked downright confused and began to back away from the crazed grey haired man.
“Get out of my store,” Mancini said, now slightly louder than the average speaking voice.
“What a sad old man-”
“Get out of my store!” he said, now at yelling volume. He muttered Italian curse words of the foulest nature under his breathe.
The old lady and her granddaughter hastened their pace and left the store without quarters.
“Yimmy!”
Jimmy Alice came out of the back of the store. “Yes Mr. Mancini, what is it?”
“Yimmy, I have delivery for you.”
“Should I finish cutting the lettuce like you asked me sir?”
“The lettuce not the delivery man. Come on delivery man Yimmy!”
Mr. Mancini plopped the pizza box and address down on the counter. Jimmy grabbed the pizza and made his way outside.
The delivery. Jimmy Alice lived for the delivery. There was nothing else on earth that made him feel more alive than flying down the street in the old Toyota pickup. Windows down, hair blowing in the wind, and Zeppelin blasting on the stereo. At the age of 22, working for Mr. Mancini had seemed like a good part-time job. He was taking some courses at the local community college, and was seriously involved with three different girls.
That was 13 years ago.
The address was a few miles away and Jimmy floored the pedal. The sooner he got there, the better the tip. Common sense and lawfulness took a backseat.
Several traffic violations later Jimmy pulled up to the apartment complex on the ticket. He pulled off the ticket taped to the box and looked at the apartment number: #211. He flung open the door and snatched the pizza and ticket. As he walked around the car he noticed the bright red paint on the curb. For a minute he was distracted by how closely it matched the color of the pizza truck. The smell of the Mancini special in his hands reminded him he had a job to do.
Dirty apartment complexes gave Jimmy the creeps. There was always loud music blaring from one of the residents and kids running up and down the stairs. They were always poorly lit, and it was never clear where the unit was located. Often times Jimmy got a grand tour of the whole complex before stumbling onto the right number.
Jimmy found #211 after a lengthy search and knocked politely on the door. He’d delivered pizza to every sort of person imaginable. Old, young, fat, skinny, black, white, crazy, and sane. It was like the game on TV where prizes hid behind a curtain. He never knew who would open the door, so he was ready for anything.
The door swung open revealing an older lady in her mid-50′s. She wore a look of shock and confusion on her wrinkling face. The inside of the apartment was completely dark.
“Grandfather? Is it really you?”
Jimmy was taken aback. Not only had Jimmy never fathered a child (at least to his knowledge), but there was no way he was old enough to be this lady’s grandpa.
“Uh, you order a pizza? This is #211 right?”
Jimmy’s questions fell on deaf ears. “The spirits have heard our prayers!” The woman’s eyes sparkled with joy. “What a glorious evening. Grandfather, come in please. We’ve been waiting for you.” The lady reached out the door and grabbed Jimmy’s arm. Before he could protest she pulled him inside and shut the door behind him.
The only light in the apartment was coming from the next room. The increasingly strange woman led Jimmy slowly towards the light.
The glow was coming from a small sphere sitting on the woman’s dining room table. Jimmy’s eyes adjusted to the light. Then he saw them.
Sitting around the table were eight people ranging in age from a small boy to a woman even older than Mancini. One of the individuals looked out of place. She wore a strange hat that made her look extra tall. Around her neck the light from the orb glistened and reflected off the multitude of necklaces she wore.
The woman was still clutching Jimmy’s arm and spoke again. “Madame Swami, it is him! Grandfather has come, just like you promised!”
The group of people surrounding the table began talking and growing excited. The woman in the hat raised her hands. The murmuring stopped and fell silent.
“It is as the dark ones promised in thee cards,” Madame Swami said in a prophetic tone. “From beyond the grave Grandfather Roberto has returned to us.”
The little boy ran over and grasped Jimmy’s leg. “Grandpa, it is me, little Panchito. We have missed you so much!”
Jimmy wasn’t sure what to do. Some stranger’s child was grabbing his leg, the pizza was getting heavy, and nine people thought he was the spirit of their dead grandfather. He wanted to drop the pizza and run, but the hope he saw on their faces begged him not to. There was only one thing he could do.
“Yes little Panchito,” Jimmy said in the best grandfather voice he could muster. “I have missed you too.”
For the next hour Jimmy Alice answered questions about a dead man he knew nothing about.
“What is the other side like?” one asked.
“It is nice, and very warm,” Jimmy answered.
“Is it like France?” asked little Panchito.
“No, it is more mild, like San Diego.”
“What went through your mind during your final days?” a woman asked. Apparently she was his sister.
“It was hard, and a little scary.”
“Did the drug lord in prison make you comfortable? I believe Carlos was his name, and he promised us he would.”
“Uh, yes, Carlos was very good to me,” Jimmy fibbed. “He gave me his snacks.”
During a question about the misplacement of his will, Jimmy’s cell rang. It was Mr. Mancini.
“Yimmy, you are lost? I have deliveries for you!”
“I’ll be right there,” Jimmy said and snapped the phone shut. He looked at the group of strangers. “I’m sorry, but I must go now.”
The oldest woman at the table got up slowly and walked towards Jimmy. She was quite short, and she motioned Jimmy to bend down to speak to her.
“Thank you Roberto for returning to me. I have been so lonely without you, the love of my life.” The woman with horse breath appeared to be Grandma.
“You’re welcome, I missed you too.”
The look on her face was priceless. This small favor Jimmy had been able to grant the woman, despite being a lie, made him feel good inside. She leaned forward and whispered into his ear.
“Before you go Roberto, please do one thing for me.”
“Anything for you,” Jimmy replied.
The old woman wet her lips before she spoke. “I have not been with another man since you left. I am wearing my sexy undergarments for you.” As the woman smiled Jimmy noticed notable gaps where teeth should have been.
In one swift motion Jimmy tossed the Mancini special onto the table with the glowing orb, and bolted for the door. He was down the stairs and out the complex before grandfather Roberto’s surviving relatives could blink.
Jimmy jumped into the truck, fired up the ignition, and lurched into gear. He wiped the sweat from his brow and ran his fingers through his long hair. Mr. Mancini would be in an uproar, and explaining to him would be impossible. He would have to eat the cost of the pizza out of his tips, because there was no way Jimmy was going back to collect payment. Going along with a family’s belief that you are their dead grandfather was definitely a rush, but he didn’t feel like answering another round of questions for $14.50.
The image of the grandma stuck out in his mind and what she had asked. Despite living at home and being a part-time pizza delivery guy, one thing was certain.
He wasn’t doing that.
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