I like Husson’s, but some things about it aggravate me. Little things, mostly: we buy these cheap trash bags that can’t be pulled out of the cans without breaking; the owner frequently pulls silly rules out of his hat, and we have to pretend to take them seriously while he’s around; there is insufficient parking during the day, so close to campus; we don’t accept checks. This one bothers me specially, because I don’t understand it. I don’t see that check fraud is any easier to perpetrate (or more difficult to prosecute) than credit card fraud, and anyway it makes the customers mad. Things that make the customers mad adversely affect my tips, and so I am opposed to those things.
Lately I've been bothered, too, by being there too much. We were already a man short and then Jeff quit and Travis got fired (which was about the stupidest thing the boss could have done) and now Aretz is leaving, too, and Kenny, the general manager. I’ve worked both places (Husson's and the library) six of the last seven days, and eight of the last ten, and I’m tired. But not as tired as I was when I woke up at 8:00 this morning.
I worked at the pizza place before coming to the library today, and we got three delivery orders before the place even opened. One was a “walker,” a destination so close by that we don’t bother to drive it, in this case a worker in the university purchasing office wanting a couple of sammiches. One was for a new cultural oddity downtown: a gangsta-run incense and scented candle shop (?!?!?!). The fella who runs the place, and who ordered the pizza, was so gangsta’ed up that his speech was impossible to understand, especially over the phone, and so I was given not only the wrong name for his business, but also the wrong street address, by the person who took the order. That was fun.
The third order was for the St. James building, a big order, what we call the “Family Feast.” Large pizza, breadsticks, salad, dessert, drinks, the works. I got the ticket for that one and headed down there, and spent some small time trying to find a place to park. It is always troublesome when someone orders for one of the downtown offices during business hours, but I managed eventually by grabbing a handicapped spot (yes, I felt bad, and also, shut up) and leaving my hazard lights on.
Once that was accomplished I checked the ticket to find out where within the building I was going, and discovered that there was no room/suite number listed, only the address of the building itself. The street address, of course, was superfluous; it isn’t as though I couldn’t have found the St. James. For them as ain’t been to Huntington, the building takes up half a city block and is 12 stories high in a four-story town. You really can’t miss it. If you were a bird flying randomly through town looking for a window to swoop into and break your neck, odds are that the window you'd end up with would be in the St. James.
But no suite number, and as I walked into the lobby the only information I had was that the person who was to receive the food was named Milton. I called the number listed on the ticket and let it ring thirty times or so, but there was no answer. I thought, “What am I supposed to do, wander every floor of this building shouting ‘Milton! Pizza for Milton!’” I pictured myself as a modern-day Diogenes, endlessly searching the hallways for a hungry secretary.
A security guy saw me wondering and helpless and offered his assistance. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a directory of the building that lists the names of everyone who works/lives there, and the name “Milton” wasn’t familiar to him. He tried the number on the ticket, though, and when he dialed it his cell phone told him that it belonged to the law firm on the fifth floor. I thanked him very much for his help and went up in the elevator.
I walked into the office and told the receptionist, “I have a pizza here for someone named Milton.”
She looked confused. “There’s no one here named Milton,” she said.
The swelling sense of relief quickly deflated. “I’m sorry, but there must be. The phone number of your office is on the ticket.”
“Honey,” she said, “I’ve worked here as long as the firm’s been here, and I don’t know anyone named Milton.” She sat and thought for a moment. Then she picked up the phone and dialed. “Judy? Hey, it’s [whatever her name was]. Is your last name Milton, by any chance? It is? Well, there’s a young man here with a pizza for you. Okay, I’ll send him down.” She hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, honey, I knew her, I just didn’t know her last name. I thought you meant a man whose first name was Milton. She’s downstairs on 4, in the collections department.”
I thanked her, also, for her help, and left. Now, I was on the fifth floor and the person I needed to see was on the fourth. Obviously, I’m not so lazy and decrepit that I can’t manage a single flight of stairs, so rather than wait for the elevator I decided to walk down. Well, it turns out that the St. James is one of those silly buildings where the doors leading into the stairwell are fine, but the doors leading out are all locked. Once I walked into the stairwell I was trapped.
So I had to walk back down to the street, across the lobby, wave a sheepish hello to the security guy (while giving the international “don’t even ask” sign), and get back on the elevator.
I finally made it to the fourth floor, only to discover upon searching that there was no collection department there. But after some careful consideration (during which there was also a fair amount of self-recrimination for not having asked the receptionist upstairs what the suite number of the “collection department” was), I decided that prob’ly “Accounts Management” was a friendlier-sounding euphemism for “collection department,” and tried that door. Success!
The lady was very nice as I explained why it had taken so long to get her pizza to her. She apologized for not having given the suite number when she called, and for not answering the phone when I called, ‘cause the ringer didn’t work (wouldn’t you think that a law firm could afford to fix something like that?).
I handed over the pizza, and assured her that it was no problem. Which wasn’t true, it had been an ENORMOUS freakin’ problem, but I was just glad it was over. Then she got out her purse and handed me a check.
