One Large, With Everything

ONE LARGE, WITH EVERYTHING

         "Speedo's Pizza, how may I help you?" I said, balancing the receiver between my chin and shoulder so I could write on the blackboard beside the telephone. "Got it. One large with everything, 2370 College Drive, Mr. Laird. I'll have it there in half-an-hour, sir. Thanks for calling Speedo's!"

         Business was brisk this Friday evening. My pizza restaurant was slowly gaining in popularity and, though I was operating at little or no profit, I could see success in the future -- if I managed to stay open. After working for other people for fifteen years, always in the food industry, I finally saved and borrowed enough money to open my own restaurant: John Bynam's Speedo Pizza No. 1. It could be the first of many, or just another small business failure, depending on my management abilities.

         I prepared the large pie and slipped it into the oven. "Jimmy! I'll have one for delivery in ten minutes," I shouted at one of my three delivery boys, and part-time cook, Jimmy Raye.

         "Okay, boss. Where to?"

         "2370 College," I answered, deftly spreading tomato sauce on several circles of pizza dough, trying to stay ahead of the rush.

         "Hey, that's the place that stiffed me last Friday...remember? Said it took longer than thirty minutes, and demanded the pizza for free."

         I remembered then. Money down the drain. I shrugged. "We'll give them the benefit of the doubt, and make sure we deliver on time this week. We do guarantee the pizza free if it takes longer than thirty minutes, after all."

         The timer on the large oven "dinged" to signal that the pizza was ready. I slipped it out and slid it into a cardboard box. Jimmy then stuffed the box into an insulated carrier and hit the back door on the run. I hoped for his sake all the traffic cops were busy having donuts and coffee.

         I was up to my elbows in pizza dough when Jimmy returned a short time later. He slung the insulated pouch into the corner and walked toward me with compressed lips and squinted eyes. "Cheap s.o.b. did it again, John. He opened the door, took the pizza, handed it back to one of his porky kids and looked at his watch. Said 'Umm. Thirty-two minutes. Sorry, kid. Better luck next time,' and slammed the door in my face!"

         "You've only been gone thirty minutes, total."

         "I know! I didn't take ten minutes getting there. It couldn't have been more than twenty-five minutes from the time he called. Probably less."

         "Well, forget it for now. Take these three pizzas to Mr. Blake over on Clifford. You know the address."

         Jimmy nodded and took off with his next delivery.

         Though trying my best not to show Jimmy my anger, a customer who cheated to get his meal really hacked me off. Too many of that breed could mean my failure. I worked automatically, spreading sauce, tossing on up to fifteen toppings, shoveling them into the oven and taking them out when they were ready, all the time watching as my two counter girls brought me more and more orders from the front dining area.

         While I worked, I thought of the guy who had stiffed Jimmy twice. A hot anger festered. The idea that someone would take advantage of our guarantee to deliberately get free food was beyond me. Worse, the address was in a good neighborhood--better than mine--and money surely was not a consideration.

         Figuring Laird would call again the following Friday, I would make sure he got the pizza so quickly he couldn't complain.

         After a hectic week, Friday rolled around again and, sure enough an order was called in by a woman at Laird's address. I looked at the clock as soon as the woman gave me her order and address, and noted the time on the receipt. My hands flew as I prepared the pizza and slammed it into the oven. "Jimmy! Your friend over on College just called...let's move!"

         Jimmy was running in place as I shoved the boxed pizza into the insulated bag he held. He was out the door in nanoseconds. I heard his tires lay rubber as he left the parking lot. Thirteen minutes from call to departure. Jimmy couldn't possibly take more than ten minutes to reach the deadbeat's door. A satisfied smile lifted the corners of my mouth.

         But not for long.

         Jimmy slammed the door and spewed a string of curses with such vehemence that tiny drops of spittle flew from his lips. "John, he did it again! This time he didn't even pretend I was late...he just took the pizza and closed the door! "And get this: as I drove up to his house a Papa Pete's Pizza truck was just pulling away. I caught up with the driver at the second traffic signal. This was his second time to get screwed by that creepy dude!"

         Now I was angry. The Laird telephone number was automatically printed on the receipt when the call came through. I snatched the receipt from Jimmy's shirt pocket, grabbed the telephone and punched in the numbers.

         "Hello," a man's voice answered, indistinctly, probably because his mouth was filled with my pizza.

         "Mr. Laird? This is John Bynam, the owner of Speedo's Pizza. I want you to know that tonight's pizza is the last free one you're getting from me. Your little game is over."

         "I think not, Mr. Bynam," he said in a cocky tone. "You have a guarantee. If you can't live up to it, that's your problem. And if you refuse me service I'll sue you. Your pizza joint could be mine in the near future."

         "Listen, you..."

         "Ah, ah, ah. Careful. When my wife calls next Friday see that you are courteous and attentive. Good evening," he said, a heartbeat before the connection was broken.

         I gripped the receiver so hard my knuckles turned as white as my pizza flour.

________________________

         Another week gone. Friday morning my alarm woke me at four A.M., hours earlier than usual. But I had work to do. I was in the shop by six-thirty. We did not begin serving until 11:30, so I had the place to myself for a while. Always looking for a way to get a jump on the rush--that's me.

         The lunch run was fast and furious, and we were slowed somewhat because the walk-in cooler door wouldn't open. But I had plenty of dough and toppings in the small cooler from which I prepared the pizzas. The two-for-one sale was really bringing in business.

         The evening rush was just beginning when I answered the telephone and heard a nasal whine. "We'll take two large pizzas with everything tonight. My husband, Mr. Laird, told me how happy you'd be to accommodate me. I expect him home shortly, so I suggest that you hurry...you wouldn't want to make him angry."

         Gently returning the phone to the hook I made an additional pizza to go with the one I'd prepared earlier in the day for the Laird family. Fortunately I was able to get in and out of the cooler again for some special ingredients before it "locked" behind me again.

         "Jimmy," I called out. "Relieve me for a half hour. I'm making this delivery myself."

         Moments later I was in the driveway of Laird manor, a two-story white home with thick columns, set amidst a fanatically manicured lawn. I took the insulated pouches from the seat beside me, walked briskly to the door and leaned on the bell.

         The door opened and a great mass of a woman stepped forward. Two sadly obese children of around seven to nine years of age stood behind her clapping their hands with undisguised glee.

         I placed one pizza box in her chubby, up-turned palms. She handed it to the taller of the children, a boy. He ripped open the box, grabbed two slices, pressing them together like a sandwich, and stuffed them into his gaping maw. The other child, a girl, with cloudy blue eyes and oily-looking skin, snatched a slice and wolfed it down. The mother of these porcine off-spring turned and slapped the boy on top of his somewhat pointed head--not because of his manners apparently, but because she feared not getting her share.

         "Gimme," she snarled, snatching two slices from the rapidly emptying box. She tore off an enormous bite and chewed noisily with her mouth open. Crumbs fell from her thick lips. "Ovver wum," she mumbled around the food in her mouth, holding her hands out for the second pizza.

         I backed up a step. "Not this time. I want my money. I was here in under twenty minutes, and you are going to pay."

         She eyed the second box as an alcoholic eyes a shot of whiskey. "My husband will pay later. He isn't home yet."

         "Then I'll just wait," I said. Pushing my way past her, I walked into the house, carried the remaining pizza to the dining room and set it on an expensive-looking table covered with a lacy white tablecloth. The carpet, too, was as thick and white as cumulus clouds on a warm summer day. A spacious kitchen, accessible from the dining room, was stacked high with empty pizza boxes from several different chains.

         I felt like a rabbit surrounded by drooling wolves. These creatures gave me the willies. The first pizza was history, resting within the protruding stomachs of the trio. They advanced toward me and the second pie. "Did you enjoy the pizza?" I asked.

         "Yes, yes, very good," Mrs. Laird said, not taking her eyes from the box on the table.

         "I'm glad you enjoyed it," I said pleasantly.

         "Mama, look! The sauce is dripping all over the rug!" the fat-cheeked daughter squealed.

         True enough. The rich, thick, red sauce was draining from a corner of the cardboard box; flowing like a crimson waterfall to splash on the carpet.

         "Look what you've done to my carpet! I'll sue you for this," Mama Laird hissed. "When Stanley gets home..."

         I lifted the top on the pizza box, shielding it from the family with my body. "I wouldn't look for Mr. Laird tonight, Mrs. Laird. See, I got a little miffed about you stealing my profits, so I was waiting for your husband when he left for work this morning. I followed him and waylaid him in the parking lot of his office. Almost ruptured a disc getting him into my car. He must hit the scales at close to three-fifty, huh?

"I took him to my pizza joint . . . you know, to show him the inner workings of the place and explain about profit margins, supply and demand and just how much hard work is involved. He caught on real good. Seemed to make a pretty good pizza. At least, so you said."

         Through squinted eyes she cocked her head to see around me. "What do you mean?"

         I stepped away from the table as the three of them rushed toward the second pizza. Mrs. Laird was the first to notice that the pie bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Laird.

         It took some ingenuity and sweat to cut off his face and a couple of inches of scalp all in one piece, but I was motivated.

         His eyeballs were now replaced with large ripe olives; his nose an uncut mushroom. His ears were crafted of circular slices of pepperoni and his mouth was a smile shaped sliver of dark green bell pepper.

         Mrs. Laird's hand went to her throat and her eyes popped out comically. The children craned their necks to look at the Daddy Pizza. They seemed amused.

         "The first pizza was made up of smaller, less identifiable parts of old Stanley. But you loved it. And you have to admit, when you order a pizza from Speedo's with everything, you get what you pay...oh, excuse me...what you don't pay for."

         An exchange of curious looks passed between the thick-set trio, but I knew I had nothing to worry about from the law when six pudgy hands reached into the pizza box and took sections of Mr. Laird.

         I'd served the rest of him throughout the day to my regular customers. At half-price of course. The extra meat would really help my bottom line for the week.

         Though I did kill Mr. Laird I had no pangs of conscience.

         You see, as I was doing the slice and dice on the tub of lard I made a disturbing discovery: Mr. Laird had three stomachs! And no ribcage. Whatever he and his family were, they were natural-born eating machines. And pizza seemed to be their food of choice.

         I tipped my red and green Speedo's cap, smiled my most courteous smile and let myself out the door as the remains of Mr. Laird slid down the gullets of his loving family.

The End

DMM