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

Travis D.
Travis D.

6834 Miller Ave.

I dreaded each address which sounded even vaguely familiar when the order came in. I always hoped, prayed, the other delivery driver would walk through the door, “see” the ticket before me and head out on his way never the wiser.

I had no choice this time. My manager had taken the call – his lazy eye locked on me throughout the transaction. No ignorance could be feigned. I was heading to the western edge of town with six cooling pepperoni and anchovy pizzas in my 1994 Chevy Blazer. Poor decision making generally leads to a lack of options – in the grand and the day-to-day scheme of things.

I need to breakaway from the story for a few moments to offer some very important life lessons to you youngsters out there. If you are fairly bright kid who grows up in a small town in Minnesota, who is eventually voted “Most Likely to Succeed” in their high school yearbook, please do not go to Hollywood to “make it as an actor,” never even book a lowly commercial in 10 years of work, and come back with your tail between your legs to get your high school summer job as a pizza delivery boy back. Just kill yourself or develop a drug problem or something. At least you will lower the bar.

I particularly don’t recommend taking a job delivering pizzas. Your daily life will consist of receiving disappointed looks from former acquaintances over the smell of melting cheese. Seriously, get into heroin or something.

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