Short Story: Pizza Mix Up

One time while I was still in school my mom made me order pizza on the phone and pay for it. This was part of her ongoing effort to make me a Responsible Adult. TM

Now, I hate talking on the phone. It is the worst. I don't know if it's because I can't see the other person's facial expressions and body language or what, but the whole thing fills me with dread every time the ringer goes off. Or when I call and get voice mail. Or a phone tree. Or a person. Basically any phone interaction.

So I felt some trepidation when my mom made it pretty clear that it was going to be up to me to order our pizza. We had no dinner plans that night and there was no way out of it. So after mentally rehearsing what I was going to say a few times, I finally called the pizza place and placed my order. And it went surprisingly okay. I was pacing the whole time and speaking with my "mousy voice" but I got the pizza ordered and told them our address, 17811 Skippy Lake Boulevard. I was just relieved I'd managed to do it without bungling things.

A half an hour later, ding dong! the pizza man was there, some fresh faced teenager like myself holding two pepperoni pizzas and a liter of root beer. I said hello, he said hello, then "seventeen eighty-one please."

"You're at the right place," I assured him.

Long silence, blank stares.

He narrowed his eyes. "That's seventeen eighty-one."

"No, that's the right address," I repeated, wondering why he was missing the last 'one.'

More staring, and things were starting to feel uncomfortable.

It suddenly occurred to me then, that perhaps this young man was not unsure of himself, and in fact, the last 'one' was not missing because there was a silent decimal and dollar sign hovering in his '17-81.'

Without a further word, I handed him a twenty, grabbed the pizza and pop, and fled back into the house without bothering about change.

Just goes to show, even if you get the one thing you're stressing about right, there are bountiful opportunities for confusion.