And that's why you never ask for the cheese

My pizza guy was like the weirdest guy I've ever met outside of a mental institution or a bus.

He looked like a normal pizza guy - slightly well fed, not the paragon of hygiene, probably wearing frugal black sneakers. He had a hands-free earpiece in, which I haven't seen before in a pizza guy but might be de rigeur in a town with a drive-and-cell ban.

But as soon as this guy opened his mouth, my frickin god. Take two parts Office Space stapler guy, one part George Hamilton, one part Slingblade.



He sounded kind of like he was on a ton of ludes or something and was trying to very slowly seduce me. Or like this was some far-fetched confidence game that would allow him to insinuate himself into my house and my life. He asked me if I wanted any cheese or chili "tonight," which believe you me sounded a lot stranger in person than it looks in print. Trying to get rid of him just ASAP I politely declined (I am always anachronistically polite but I really lay it on with crazy people, with whom I am positively fawning).

At some point I must have figured, 'Hey, this guy just talks really, really weird. I can probably ask for some cheese, and no harm done.' So I asked for the cheese.

This seemed to be just the opening this guy was looking for. Fumbling rather more than he had to, he slowly removed the cheese packet by packet from a mesh pocket on his pizza warmer. These crazy guys usually move at a kind of newborn baby speed until they start wailing on you with a blunt object.

"So how are you doing tonight?"

Oh dear. I've made a terrible mistake. Don't forget he is speaking with this drawly, retarded gay phone sex vacuum salesman voice.

I try to be positive.

"We're doing great, great."

I make little jerky motions toward the interior of my house, as if to express my desire to end the conversation and return to my privacy, though I know this will be fruitless.

"I can't say we're doing too well tonight."

Egads. Who is 'we'? What the hell is going on?

"Oh ... I'm ... sorry to hear that."

I'm quickly compiling a list of things I might empathize with him about - the weather perhaps. I quickly check the air and note it is pleasantly cool, even balmy. I grow desperate.

"No, not too well. Just doing this to pay the bills, you know."

An eternal truth. The doubters will choke on their own bile when the Pizza Hut-tips-backed Great American Novel is released. Or perhaps he is taking a break from investment banking.

"Aah ... um. Have a good night!"

I'm employing my biggest smile, which is only a straight line but still communicates jolly conviviality.

And ... he wishes me a good night in return - and leaves! Relief beyond measure. I spin gingerly on my heels and slowly close, slowly lock and slowly bolt our front door. The room rings with a stunned silence.

Didn't know I was paying for pizza and a show. RIMSHOT!