The cook deposited a fresh-baked pizza pie into the insulated bag. He printed the ticket for the order and placed it in the pocket attached to said bag. I looked at the number: “38”. I looked at the dispatch. The orders started at 40 and went on from there.
“Hey, did that order just finish?” I asked the cook.
“Yep, just now. It might not show up as complete yet,” he said.
“Huh,” I said. I looked at the screen again. “It doesn’t show up at all. It’s like someone else already took it.”
The cook furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. He went back to making pizzas and I searched for Cap’n. I found her. She wasn’t sure what was up.
I left the store, delivered a pizza, returned and was on my way to another delivery when the manager flagged me down in the parking lot.
“You know, 38 is in your name,” she said. “It was a super short drive time, so it must have let you take other orders for some reason. Make sure you take it first. It’s cash.”
I hopped to it. I called the number and let the person know I was a bit behind. I got there as quick as I could.
The house was nestled next to a drive-through liquor store. The door was nondescript. Old cars were in the driveway. I saw the door open just a tad when I parked. I got out and walked up. There was someone there: a young boy with a few bills in his hand.
“Hi, how much is it?” he asked.
I read him the total. It was a little under $26.
“Que le des los $26 dolares, que no quiero cambio,” said a woman inside. I presumed it was his mother. (“Just give him the $26. I don’t want any change.”)
I answered in Spanish.
“You don’t want the change, señora?” I said.
“No, that’s ok, thanks!” she said in Spanish. She was laughing.
“Whoa, I didn’t know you speak Spanish,” the young man said. He was clean cut. Early teen. He had a fohawk in his hair and genuine surprise in his expression. At this point, a young woman came to the door and watched. I assumed it was his sister.
“Most people don’t,” I said. I exchanged pizza for cash and thanked them. They closed the door. I crossed the street to my car and opened the driver’s side to get in.
“Thank you!” I heard come from the house. I turned around and waved. It was the young woman. She had opened the door just to say thanks.
That expression of gratitude is what stuck with me yesterday. I was late with the pizza, but she was thankful anyway. It warmed my heart. I decided to try a bit harder to be grateful, even when my metaphorical cheesy gluten mass isn’t in my metaphorical belly as fast as I want it to be.
Gratitude. Intense.
ROE INTENSE
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