My Gig As A Pizza Delivery Guy Was Strange Enough, But This Order To 6834 Miller Ave. Will Haunt Me Forever

The man had set the pizzas down on the ground next to the grave. He lit the candles which resting upon her headstone with the end of his cigarette. Handed me a 100 dollar bill.

Our eyes locked. I held the 100 limply, I didn’t even care about the 40-dollar tip.

He broke the tension with a smile, flashing impeccably white teeth. He threw a flick of the chin down at the gravestone at our feet, the candlelight staging the names of my mother like it was on a marquee at a downtown theater.

“Alas, poor Yorick. I knew her, Horatio.”

Before I could utter a sound, the man was gone. His smoke remained. The pizzas on the ground remained. The 100 dollar bill he handed me remained, flapping in the wind in my hand. The candles lit on my mom’s headstones remained.

Another light I had yet to notice also remained.

I looked over to the small gravel parking lot of the graveyard and saw a well-dated Cadillac purring in an idle, the sound of southern rock trickling out of the vehicle.

I opened my mouth to call over at the car, but got cut off by the Cadillac tearing the gravel below its tires as it reversed out of the parking lot. I watched it ead back out onto the dark road.

A 100 dollar bill never felt worse in my hand. Hot pizza never smelled worse. My brain was a mush of unclear thoughts, emotions and fears. For some reason the only thing it seemed to be able to process was the first two lines of the song which had been playing from the car’s stereo.

Two feet they come a creepin’
Like a black cat do.

*
Wednesday nights were always slowest on the frontier of pizza. We usually only got the few cops who came in for the pizza buffet and some loose middle schoolers who just bought Mountain Dews, got five refills and chatted on the benches.

I used to hate Wednesday nights, my love of laziness outweighed by a love of getting tips, but since I upgraded to my cushy assistant manager’s salary, I no longer paid tips any mind. I instead paid game seven of the NBA Finals mind on the TV at the back of the dining area. The Warriors and Cavaliers were locked in a heated battle just above some 14-year-olds with bad parents who were sucking down gallons of soda for a $1.25 which would later equate to about $1,250 in dentist bills.

You can always tell the out of towners when they walk in. Besides the fact I can recognize just about anyone who walks in for one reason or another, the out of towners always seem to have their presence of anxiety and haste. I don’t like serving them. They always have special requests – extra packets of parmesan or red pepper, no grease or asking if we have a “vegan” pizza.

This woman appeared as if she would be no different when she opened our conversation with the phrase: “I would like to speak with the manager.”

“That’s me,” I hate to admit it sounded great to say that for the first time.

Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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