Partying With Military Precision
When I moonlighted at a pizza delivery place, I worked at a store where half of the delivery area was for an Army base. This was before computer ordering, and even before caller ID or cell phones.
On New Year’s Day, I was scheduled to work the early shift, since my regular job was closed. We expected a slow day. However, we got an order call right as we opened for business at 11 AM.
Me: “Thank you for calling [Pizza Store]. This is [My Name]. May I have your phone number for the order?”
A woman speaks, sounding hungover and talking to someone else.
Caller: “…what’s your phone number?… Um, [number].”
Me: “Okay, thank you. What would you like to order?”
Caller: “Umm… we’d like a… medium pepperoni and black olive pizza. How much is that?”
Me: “With tax, that’ll be $10.44. Is this for delivery or pick-up?”
Caller: “Delivery…”
Me: “Okay, what is your address?”
Caller: *To someone else again.* “…what’s your address? …Huh? …Okay, it’s Building 1601, Apartment A?…”
This is an enlisted soldier’s quarters on the army base.
Me: “Okay, so we have a medium pepperoni and black olive pizza going to 1601-A on [Army Base]. The total again is $10.44.”
Caller: “I’m on [Army Base]?”
Me: “That is the address you gave me. Do you want to verify?”
Caller: *To someone else.* ‘We’re on the army base? You’re in the army? PFC!? Oh, s***!”
Me: “Ma’am? Are you completing the order?”
Caller: “…yes, go ahead and send it.”
I finish the order form and send it to our pizza maker on duty. I am also the first delivery driver, so I end up taking the pizza I just handled.
I am at the door of the barracks, and am answered by a very young, probably nineteen-year-old, PFC.
Me: “Hello, I have your pepperoni and black olive pizza. That will be $10.44.”
The PFC is thumbing through a wad of cash, giving me $12 and telling me to keep the change. Behind him, I see a much older woman looking rather chagrined. I’m thinking she got picked up at a New Year’s Eve party and wasn’t too cognizant of who she was hooking up with.
