Our pizza place was okay until they hired a newly minted twenty-three-year-old MBA manager who acted like a guard at a prison camp.

He messed with the breaks, water, and scheduling and seemed to have a general contempt for us workers. As a result, staff left in droves.

There is a huge local event going on. I am scheduled to work, but someone else calls out and the line is out of the door. Instead of being grateful that I am working super fast, this manager starts going off on me.

Manager: “You’re lucky you showed up on time; otherwise, I would have fired you on the spot.”

Me: *Simply staring at him* “Okay.”

Manager: “You can’t take any breaks today because we’re so busy, and you’ll have to work a double. Don’t even think of leaving before midnight.”

Me: *Simply staring at him* “Okay.” 

I smiled… and walked out. Felt great!

I used to work at one of the top four most well-known pizza establishments. We had a customer who always called near closing and asked for “extra black olives”. I would always put exactly what we were told to put for toppings and then add the exact amount we were told to put for “extra”.

Every time, these people would call back and say there wasn’t enough, that “the cook” hadn’t put “extra” black olives on… even though I definitely had, because I WAS the cook and the only one in store from 10:00 to 11:00 pm since we would only staff one person in store (the manager on duty) and one or two drivers. Because I made the pizza, I knew their claim about there not being enough was BS, but part of our training for complaints was B.L.A.S.T. (Believe, Listen, Apologize, Satisfy, and Thank). So, even though I knew there were plenty of black olives, I’d make them another pizza and send it out. A lot of times, this would cause both a driver and me to have to stay late, and these customers were extremely rude and never tipped.

For some reason, they were always satisfied with the amount on the second pizza even though I just remade it and put the same amount of “extra” olives on as the first one. That was because they were just trying to get a second pizza free, and it had worked for them numerous times in the past.

After going through the same thing nearly once every week or two for a couple of months, I decided that I was done and I would play a bit of a game of my own.

The next time when they called and asked for extra black olives, I decided I’d just go ahead and put a little more than “extra” on so they wouldn’t have to call back, right?

Well, guess what? They did call back and, as always, they very rudely claimed there weren’t enough olives. (There were a ton of them.)

It was at this point that I decided I would comply with their wishes. On the second pizza, I covered the entire top completely with black olives. You literally couldn’t see anything underneath them at all. The original “extra” olives pizzas didn’t seem good to begin with, but to be honest, I knew this one probably wasn’t even edible.

The customer called back rudely yelling as expected. I told them that I had put more than the amount we were supposed to for “extra” on the first pizza and it wasn’t enough for them, so I made sure I put enough on the second so that they wouldn’t have to call back for a remake since they loved black olives so much! I also told him that the jig was up — I knew they were using the black olive thing to get a free pizza — and that we weren’t going to be remaking any more orders for them.

Surprisingly, they did continue to order from us, but after that night, they were always fine with the amount of black olives on the first pizza sent out.

I used to work at a regional pizza chain as both a shift supervisor and a delivery driver. On Fridays, my position was actually “dispatcher”, and I would coordinate all the delivery orders and our drivers to ensure that deliveries were grouped in the most efficient manner.

Because I had been there for so long and knew all of the streets in our area so well, my boss would usually ask ME what we should be telling people about delivery times. We had a philosophy to err on the side of caution with estimated times because it’s better to overestimate or give a time range and then have the delivery arrive early than to give a more specific estimate but have it arrive even just a couple minutes beyond that.

This exchange occurs on a Friday night, the busiest time of the week for pizza deliveries.

Me: “Since we’re a little busy at the moment, we’re estimating about forty-five minutes to an hour.”

Customer: “Okay, that’s fine.”

I place her order and go about my business. A while later, the phone rings.

Me: “Thanks for calling [Store] at [Location]. Is this pick-up or delivery?”

Customer: “Where is my order?! I called over an hour ago, and they said it’d be here in half an hour!”

After confirming her address, I can see right on my dispatch screen that the order was placed only forty-two minutes ago and that the estimated time entered was sixty minutes.

Me: “Ma’am, I was the one who took your order, and I said that we were estimating forty-five minutes to an hour.”

Customer: *Angrily* “WELL, YOU SHOULD— Oh, wait. Never mind. The driver is here.” *Click*

I’m a rather veteran delivery driver, but the other night, I made a mistake that could’ve cost me almost $100. Thankfully, Karma was dished out almost instantaneously.

I was knocking on a customer’s door, and a car pulled up in front of the house with two girls in it.

Driver: “That’s our food!”

So, I went up to the driver’s side door.

Me: “It’s $66.50.”

The girl in the passenger seat gave me $80 in twenty-dollar bills. Mind you, it was super dark, and now I was down in the street doing this transaction, so I couldn’t see very well. I give the girl $13 in ones, got stiffed on the tip (of course), and walked back and hopped in my car.

The second I got in my car where I had a light, I noticed that the money was obviously fake; it said, “Prop money,” on the back in black print. I looked up and saw the girls speeding off and turning around the block.

I followed them. I hadn’t even decided what I was doing yet or if I was going to call the police; I was just following them on instinct.

They took a left turn, and as I turned after them, I looked down the block just in time to see a cop whip out behind the girls’ car and light them up. PERFECT!

I pulled up next to the cop as he was getting out.

Me: “Hey, man. I’m sorry to bug you, but those girls just gave me $80 in fake money, too.”

Cop: *Smiling* “Okay, man. Karma’s a b****, ain’t it?”

Needless to say, I got the pizzas back (which I offered to the cop) and got my change back, and the girls both went to jail for fake currency and whatever else was in their car.

We’ve had three days of snow, and I have been quarantined since Tuesday for possible exposure to [contagious illness]. Needless to say, I’m tired of cooking, I’m tired of cleaning, I’m tired of working remotely with my Internet going down off and on due to the weather.

So, I’m pissed off, tired, and hangry, and I could not give a rat’s a** about cooking tonight. Pizza delivery it is.

We don’t eat out often, and delivery in my rural northeastern frozen state is limited, to say the least. There are no delivery app services up ’round these parts, so if the few pizza joints in these parts don’t offer delivery, you are s*** outta luck unless you wanna suit up and warm up the four-wheel drive.

Thankfully, there are two, and I pull up my handy dandy app for the only one that is a franchise and put in my order for delivery.

Due to the size of my household and everyone needing some sort of special request, I end up ordering about $100 worth of pizzas, wings, breadsticks, and extra sauces — the works.

I pay by card, request contactless delivery, and put $20 for the tip on my card. Then, I stare at the app constantly for delivery time. Did I mention I was hangry?

After twenty minutes, I see my order is out for delivery. I go to put the outside light on, and then I see it: snow, sleet, freezing rain, high wind. All of the above, all of a sudden. And I’m making this poor person deliver my food.

I hurry and put $40 in an envelope, tape it to the front door, and wait.

The delivery driver makes it up the snowy, icy driveway, brings my hot food to my door, and places it on the front step. I thank him through the glass door and point to the envelope taped on the door, motioning that it is for him.

I can see the smile under his mask through his eyes as he takes the envelope.

Driver: *Yelling through the door* “Thank you! Have a fabulous evening!”

I hope you do, too, my friend. Be safe, and thank you.