Heartwarming tales of pizza delivery

Tonight was another very rainy night at work. This afternoon saw a brief reprieve from the rain, which started up again as soon as I walked out the door. Go figure. The rain was pretty steady all night, but not nearly as heavy as yesterday, so it didn’t bother me much. Plus I really only worked a half-shift, so I can’t complain.

And I really can’t complain about the tips I got tonight.

On my first run, the bill is €18.25 or something. I’m crossing my fingers that the guy will round up to 19, and enjoying pipedreams about receiving a crisp €20 bill and not having to give any change back. When I get there, I state the price, and the nice man at the door goes back inside to confer amongst his entourage. I hear him say, “Does anyone have a 2 euro piece?” I think that’s a bit weird, but maybe he needs another 2 euro piece, so he can pay me €19 and not have to ask for change back.

When he returns, he hands me a €20 bill and a €2 coin, says, “That’s fine the way it is.” I almost fell down the stairs. I thanked him profusely, gathered myself up on the mat outside his door so as not to soak the floorboards in the hallway, and extracted the pizzas from my “specially designed pre-heated Joey’s® bag” with the utmost care. After he had accepted them, I prostrated myself on the hallway floor and began to ululate.

I hope that that last decision does not adversely affect my tips from this goodly gentleman in the future.

Then, on my second run, I get another €3 tip. This time I take all the coins out of my wallet and toss them up in the air, laughing like a child running through a field of strawberries, stomping and picking and gobbling with joyful abandon. Again, I hope he still tips me well next time.

The rest of the night was filled with standard fair 20-30 cent crap, but hey, it was still a red-letter day.

Probably my favorite run all night was this gorgeous girl who was caught completely off guard by my rain-ravished good looks, and even blushed as I said hello. She started fumbling around with her purse, smiling and talking about the conditions of the delivery. “Well, because of the rain, and because it got here so fast, and, just, well, you know, because…” She then hands me a €20, then a 50 cent piece. The bill is €13.20. She tells me how much to give back, and I didn’t hear her, probably because I was staring or drooling or giggling too loudly. I have to ask her to repeat it, which is a tactic I usually reserve for particularly low tippers whom I want to give another chance before I get out the customer voodoo doll and chain it to the front tire of my moped for the trip back to the shop.

She looks a little surprised, but not quite insulted, and says, “Well, I guess, like, 7!” I purse my lips and decide whether to ask her to repeat it again, then figure it’s already an hour into my shift and far past time to break out the doll. So I thank her, hand her the pizza, which I did not shake excessively during extraction, then walk away as she tries to start a conversation.

Pretty girls can’t count.