Some evenings, I was so hungry, I would walk into the refrigerated case and scoop up a handful of the pre-shredded cheese to eat. I was tempted to pinch off pieces of raw dough, but that would have been too noticeable.
I had to be quick.
Whenever Dave sent me into the cooler to bring out a new bin of pepperonis, I’d sneak a mouthful of shredded cheese.
Pepperoni was the most popular topping.
That and sausage.
After that it was green peppers, banana peppers, and mushrooms.
The black olives waited on the counter, barely noticed, a glistening film slowly spreading over the surface of the bin.
If I had been smart, I would have stuffed my mouth with them. Dave would never have noticed. But the cheese coated my stomach and took the edge off my hunger.
I worked three jobs the summer of 1978 in Raleigh, North Carolina. I needed to make enough money to help offset some of the costs of living in New York City, where I was heading in a month or so for graduate school.
I didn’t have much money for food, but more than that, I hardly had time to shop, let alone cook. I was up at 8:00 am to catch the bus to West Jones Street. I worked from 9:00-12:00 in the Legislative Office Building, reading mail and typing documents for a visually impaired state employee—my first real taste of affirmative action. Once that was over, I rushed home to change and either went to my job at Charlie Goodnights on Hillsborough Street, where I worked 3:00-8:00 tending bar, or I headed to the Domino’s store on Oberlin and jockeyed pizza.
“No eating the supplies!”
The note greeted me one evening when I got to work.
“Someone’s been eating in the refrigerator,” Dave explained. He clearly suspected the new guy, Cody.
Cody had just graduated high school and had the physique of a football player—wide shoulders and narrow waist—the blue Dominos polo shirt strained to cover his muscular biceps. Dave and the assistant manager, Kevin, sent him on runs to the sketchier neighborhoods, worrying that it was too dangerous for me.
Once, when Cody was on vacation, they had no choice but to send me to a dicey location. It was a run to a video store near the Moore Square bus station. They were pretty sure the owner, who had ordered an extra-large “meat deluxe” pizza, dealt pornography.
“Just drop it and come straight back,” Dave instructed. “If you’re not back in 45 minutes, we’re calling the cops.”
I picked up the warm pizza box, slid it in the blue pizza sleeve to retain the heat, and tipped my red ball cap at them as I rushed out the door.
I rang the buzzer alongside a dark, unmarked door when I reached the destination. The door lock clicked opened and I pushed my way into a narrow vestibule. The walls were bare and grimy. Straight ahead was a counter of sorts in front of a closed, tinted window. The room was completely empty. I felt a chill run over my neck, despite the heat, and was deciding that maybe I should leave when I heard a rustling behind the glass. A heavy-set man with strands of greasy black hair plastered over his nearly bald pate slid the window open, a bank of VHS tapes behind him.
“Just set the pizza down,” he said, gesturing to the empty counter.
He gave me a $50 bill and told me to keep the change.
That was the best tip I received all summer.
The bartender at The Mousetrap also tipped well. Dave hadn’t told me much about the place when he sent me off on a run to the club at Five Points.
“It’s next to the Rialto movie theater,” was all he said.
I had walked past the club earlier when I went to the Rialto with Tim Silva to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show but hadn’t even noticed it.
I pushed open the doors and found myself in a dark room that smelled of stale cigarettes. It was still early, and no one else was there except a man behind the bar washing glasses. He looked up at me and then went back to his task, his face darkening slightly.
“Just leave it on the table.”
There was a large photograph on the wall next to the bar of two men kissing.
I breathed a sigh of relief, realizing I didn’t need to worry about him hitting on me.
He opened the register and put two twenties on the bar, gestured for me to take the cash, and then turned back to his washing.
As I walked out with my empty pizza sleeve, stuffing the change in my pocket, I could see the signboard in front of the Hayes-Barton Baptist Church across the street.
“Life’s battles are won on our knees.”
Hayes-Barton was the church Senator Jesse Helms attended, when he wasn’t busy in Washington, D. C. opposing civil rights, disability rights, women’s rights, gay rights, or any other expression of individual freedom.
I couldn’t help but snicker at the brilliant irony.
The following week when The Mousetrap ordered again, Dave sent Cody.
Kevin and I could hardly stifle our laugher, imagining the surprise our resident jock would find upon delivering the pizza. But he returned to the store none the wiser. He bragged though about the tip he received.
“They sure are friendly there. Best tip I’ve made since I started here!”
The worse tip I made was on a run to a house full of junior-high-school girls. They must have been having a slumber party. Cody had delivered to the address a few weeks earlier and told me to expect a lot of giggles and a sizeable tip.
I pulled my Chevy Nova in front of the sprawling two-story Colonial and slid the two large pizzas out of the portable warmer and into the carrying sleeve. When I rang the doorbell, I heard three or four sets of footsteps. Giggles erupted as the doorknob turned and three gleeful faces peered out at me.
“It’s a girl!” one of the partiers announced.
The others turned and slouched away, repeating “it’s a girl” dejectedly.
The leader snatched the pies and, shoving the exact amount for them into my hand, slammed the door.
Well, if they’d been expecting Cody again, I can see how they might have been disappointed.
The worst run I had that summer was to the dorms at NC State.
There must have been a game or some kind of sporting event going on. AC/DC’s “Bad Boy Boogie” blared out over the sidewalks between the buildings and students hung out of the windows screaming and jeering at whoever passed below. A few began to pelt me with water balloons. They thought it was hilarious.
Most of the missiles missed.
The few that hit almost felt good as the cool water sprayed over my neck and back.
When I got back to the store, I told Dave about it, and he got angry.
“We’re not going to deliver to campus anymore. I can’t have my people treated like that!”
Dave meant it, too.
“Another wrong order,” Kevin shouted as he pulled a large pizza out of the oven. “They asked for sausage, Dave, you loaded it up with pepperoni.”
“Oops. Looks like we’ll have to eat this one ourselves.”
Kevin slapped the pizza down on the counter and sliced it up, beckoning for me to take a wedge. I snapped it up, folded it longways and took a big bite. The cheese was so hot, it burnt the top of my mouth, but I didn’t care.
“You can take the rest with you,” Dave said.
I’d noticed that they’d been making “wrong orders” fairly regularly. Either that or they cooked the pie too long and “ruined” it. Whenever that happened, they let me carry the damaged pizza home.
I ate pizza every morning for breakfast. When I got home at night, I’d finish off what was left.
I don’t know how I would have survived that summer without all of those “mistakes.”
And, I’m pretty sure Dave and Kevin knew.
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