Pizza Delivery

I hate that she sees me like this. I am the man inside the car yelling continuously  and giving the steering wheel indian burns. The sound is muffled to those on the outside, all they see is a raging lunatic. Mouth open wide, screaming at what appears to be a GPS, with a small mountain of Pizza boxes in the back seat. Somewhere under it all is a dub-step beat, thumping low from woofers, abiding to the misery.

Complete and utter loss of control. My Saturday night delivering Pizzas.

It is easy to think that I am past this, which is probably my perspective of simple arrogance that leads me to behave this way.”I can do this, I am college educated and have a little bit of life experience.” The thoughts run rampant and deceitfully through my head. This is the job that immigrants have in this country, surely I can manage.

Nope. A humbling realization.

Visions of a Bill and Teds Most Excellent Adventure mantra play out subconsciously. The quintessential, stoner pizza delivery guy- Always late, always friendly. Maybe a little bit sexy.

I am not that man.

My trail runner shoes laced tight, as I run through misleading building blocks and numberless avenues. Mostly, I sweat and curse the flights of extra stairs. Each building looks like an M.C. Escher drawing, doorways to nowhere leading to stairs to nowhere. The pizza burning my heat tired skin. The saturating sweat.

Thankfully, Linzay isn’t used to seeing me like this. Which is probably good because no one should see a loved one in such ridiculous and stressful situations. She takes it remarkably well, by brining her positive light into these otherwise dark streets. She manages the temperature dials, finds the good radio channels and feeds me pizza while I drive.  Somehow, she brings a little bit of change to  my world of numbers, disorder and chaos.

The night ends with me kicking a group of drunken moms out at closing. They smuggled in their own booze, like a group of wrinkled teenagers. On the way home I stop and jump the barb-wire at the local golf course to take a little walk in the calm the dark and grass. My midnight conclusion is that the sport of golf makes no sense, and therefore it fits in perfectly with the local mantra of city planning. The politicians and architects must all be golfers. Mysterious men of leisure.

Roads to nowhere eventually lead to Golf courses for the rich.

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