Fun

savethebeer · March 26, 2020

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Got a pizza delivered yesterday and it was like a Cold War hostage exchange. Headlights in the dark. Heavy drizzle.

A man emerges from the car, clad in black. Stands staring, waiting for The Signal. I flick the kitchen light on, letting him know it's okay to approach.

He walks slowly, deliberately to the front door, and places the pizza, still in it's protective hot-bag thing, on the front step, then turns and RUNS back to the car.

I open the door, squinting into the gloom at pizza man, sillhouetted in the hi-beams. "Should I... should I just...?" I begin.

"TAKE IT OUT THE BAG" he bellows.

I do as am I'm told. No sudden movements. I can feel pizza man's eyes drilling into me. I slide the pizza from it's sheath, plus a little box of chickeny bits.

But I can't find my chili dipping sauce."There's no...I think the sauce is missi-" "WHAT?" he yells from 50 feet away

"There's no chili sauce..." I stammer.

He emits a long, low groan.

"GET BACK IN THE HOUSE."

"But..."

"GET BACK IN THE HOUSE."

"Okay okay!"

I retreat into the warm, cradling the pizza. Pizza man RUNS to the doorstep like a man with a sniper rifle trained on him, and feverishly fishes in the bag.

I am watching this through the front door window. We are roughly eight inches apart. He rummages. At one point he looks up and we lock eyes for the very first time, through the glass.

He looks *terrified*.

His eyes practically scream to me: "I didn't ask for any of this. I know we're not that different, you and I. I'm just following orders..."

Eventually, pizza man's features crack into relief, and his hand emerges with a teeny tub of chili sauce. He looks at me through the glass and smiles, holding the tub up in front of his face.

I want to cry for him. I want to throw the front door open and shower him with kisses.

But I cannot. I try to make a face that conveys the message "how should we now proceed with the whole you-giving-me-the-chili-sauce thing?"

but instead our man drops his hands and, with a clatter, the chili sauce tumbles abjectly through the letterbox and onto my foot.

Pizza man smiles warmly at me through the glass, a skein of sweat on his forehead. We have done it, the two of us. Mission accomplished, albeit just one tiny act in a much bigger story.

No doubt his superiors in Moscow will be delighted.

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