Pizza. The world renowned fast food, with more takeaways and businesses built and destroyed on it than any other. If only Raffaele Esposito hadn't decided to make a good old peasant pizza pie when the king and queen came to visit, I wouldn't stink of cheese and tomatoes 4 nights of the week. Fact-time: America eats 350 slices of pizza a second. If we're going to do this right, an average pizza has 10 slices, so 35 pizza's a second. 2100 pizza's a minute, every hour 126,000 pizzas are eaten. An average shift for a delivery driver - probably six hours? Most hours ran into the next as I poured over maps and fought off drunken idiots who didn't have the right change. So, for six hours every night the takeaway providers of America and I combine to deliver 756,000 pizzas. I sure as hell couldn't fit that many pizza boxes in my car. Sounds like fun, huh?
My boss is an asshole; he declares on his flyers, that I deliver for an extra ten dollars every now and then, that his seedy little backstreet shop makes 'The best pizza's in New York!" Brooklyn's pretty big when you're delivering the best pizza in Brooklyn. Only, nobody had bought into that 'best pizza' shit since the 90's, now the only people who call are drunken shits that lived in creepy apartment blocks that send those shivers down your spine. So I braved the ghetto areas and drug dealer's front doors for crappy $15 gas money and a $2 delivery charge to any place in town. Maybe I complain too much, that $2 delivery charge kept my head above water after my university fees came off. Advice – if your parent's couldn't do it, you sure as hell can't.
I'm a third year medical student, at the supposedly beautiful age of 21 that works two shitty jobs back-to-back before shoving on a white med coat and turning into a motherfucking genius. And curtsy. My life was a shit-show. But god, how many times did my mom tell me that was what life was like? Maybe I just didn't figure when my acceptance letter came through the post I would be known as the 'pizza girl' to half of Manhattans alcoholics.
Anyway, back to the job at hand. Pizzas. Two of them were currently burning through my passenger seat as I wheeled through the busy streets with my music blasting loud. Two a.m. seemed to be the only time I could work without having to wait at every traffic light in the city. This delivery however, was all the way across the bridge.
"Look at it this way signorina," My boss – Pascal told me in his fake Italian accent as he tried to catch a glimpse down my blouse. "If you meet someone famous, it's all down to me!" Yeah, maybe I would I thought, after I yelled for five minutes straight that $2 did not even begin to cover a forty minute car journey. He waved me off and told me to get an autograph, taking another call. I qualified that as my last delivery of the night. I had an anatomy test in the morning - the smell of stale pizza just seemed to beckon good test results. I'd told Pascal I quit so many times my fingers and toes couldn't cover it. The man was a bastard, but he let me come back every time, probably because he saw my boobs once by accident, but whatever, he kept me employed.
Columbus Avenue, god I couldn't wait for the disapproving glances at my greasy hair and stained t-shirt from the tweens ready to inherit half a billion but couldn't even give a few dollars tip, whilst I busted my ass out here, providing a service to New York City. Really, I was just fucking jealous; it'd be nice to go home to a million dollar house with a soft bed and hot water instead of my cramped apartment I shared with my fellow student, where I'd slept on a stupid sofa-bed for the past few months after my ex got a little adventurous one night. Although I didn't even get to experience the adventure, it was another slut who broke the last goddamn comfy thing in my room. I'd buy a new one the day Pascal gave me $15 for travelling to the Upper East Side. Fucking never.
Jesus I felt ill. The stench was getting to me, and my front windows were jammed shut and unmoving until the next car check-up. Fucking never. See? Money can buy happiness, or at least a little stress relief. One day I'm gonna wipe my ass with $500 dollar bills and send them to Pascal.
By the time I got to the lobby of the fancy building, I was convinced this pizza was for drug dealers. Who knows? Maybe Pascal had made a special little pizza a la brownie style, I sniffed inside a little, but nope it smelled pretty margarita, anchovies and extra peppery to me. No-one in the Upper East Side ordered pizza from Brooklyn without an agenda, apart from the guy from Gossip Girl who I'd reported back to Leila really was English and she'd spent the rest of her morning crying over her Cookie Crisp. The fabulous life of students.
Apparently our pizza was greasy enough for the British unlike Dominoes, bastards. Those smug motherfuckers who drove around on cool motorbikes with cute little matching hats and t-shirts. I think everyone should know that wearing a nice t-shirt on the job usually meant you would never wear it again ever in daylight, it had been christened to the smell of pizza and once a t-shirt smells like pizza – it never stops.
I was greeted by a pompous idiot, who asked me where I was from blah blah blah. Seriously though, I was offended that he even thought I was a prostitute or a drugged up idiot, I mean I would have brought out the fur coat for that side job. Fact – prostitutes make more money than me on a good night, especially after this run.
By the time I got into the elevator on my way to the 'penthouse' (definitely a drug dealer) I was done. Why could elevators not time their break down's perfectly? I would have enjoyed a nap on the marble floor that was cleaner than my kitchen counter at home; I could see my face reflected in it, which most definitely reminded me to wear a hat more often. Greasy hair and day old makeup didn't suit anybody, and if you tell me that Julia Roberts could pull it off in Pretty Woman then fuck you.
Maybe this could be my calling, I mean I always figured I'd be a good drug mule, and maybe this guy would put me in a bit of a predicament and I'd cave, the coward that I was, and surely I would make more money selling a few bags of cocaine a night shoved in a pizza box? But then would come the awkward day when I would get my medical degree and bam – treating an overdose. 'Hey didn't you used to hide my coke bags in those pizza boxes?' Medical degree, sucky years of life and soft bed down the drain for an extra fifty bucks. Yeah, I should just stick to pizza and trying not to be a coward.
The top floor of this building was pretty much bigger than every room in my apartment, all wooden panelling and dim lights with those views that entice every tourist in the world that New York truly is the city that never sleeps. Jesus, the plants looked more expensive than my whole outfit. I made a last minute decision to wipe my hands on my jeans before pressing the doorbell, thank god. Paw marks all over the door screamed cheap delivery and I shifted uncomfortably against the stupid 16" pizza. This t-shirt was definitely going to be relieved of duty tonight. Trash can for you sweetie, I stroked it lovingly, my nose scrunching when I found some leaked tomato paste. Life.
They took their sweet time to answer, and I rang again impatiently leaving a nice little red stain for the maid or whatever to clean. Hats off to the woman that scrubbed those floors though, she deserved a tip more than I did. But, when they did decide that oh! The pizza they ordered an hour and a half ago was here, I gawped like the weirdo geek I usually kept hidden for special occasions and very close friends. It was that bad. Bad's a bad word to use, maybe freaky? Let's go with freaky.
Boom, blonde chick all in my face nearly knocking me out with the stereo blasting behind her and the booze from her breath. Damn, she needed some mints or chewing gum or something with an essence of mint. Ugh. Now, she'd clearly just got laid or maybe her rich drug dealer boyfriend just handed out t-shirts left right and centre. It couldn't be her place; she was white trash like me. We belonged together, heck we probably went to kindergarten together. Whatever, her fake tan was too patchy and she had too many layers of mascara on to even allow the slightest idea that she owned this place. Now I know why Columbus Avenue was buying from Pascal's Pizza Portions. She giggled and fumbled about like a friggin' idiot, had she never drunk-dialled before? Amateur, I could go pro with my meticulous counting of pennies before my takeaways arrived, I always tipped generously too, gotta let the others know you have their back.
Turns out she didn't have enough change, silly her! Yeah, silly bitch. But of course the customer knows best, but that didn't mean I couldn't picture stamping her pizza into that lush cream carpet peeking out from behind the door. If I didn't get a tip for this I swear to god, I quit. I quit medical school, I quit pizza, and I quit New York. I'm moving to Ireland so they can seduce me with their accents.
"Mr Salvatore have you got any change?" She shouted, and I nearly dropped to the floor. She was SO totally shacking up with an old man. Mr Salvatore, oh god this was a Hugh Hefner worthy story. Or maybe, it was Hugh Hefner under a false name? I would totally take up the opportunity to be a Playboy bunny, I mean my boobs weren't that bad, and he would tell the press I was his diamond in the rough, but I probably wouldn't be able to cope kissing old man lips. It would be like your gramps sexually harassing you, so wrong. If he asked me if I wanted to join him on the private jet back to L.A after seeing my bootylicious body all wrapped in pizza perfume with some greasy strands of hair hanging over my face, I would graciously decline, Mr Hefner I have a career ahead of me, but never forget me, the one girl who resisted your pervert eyes, cue eyelash flutter.
So, you can imagine my surprise when holy goodness mother of god mister panty dropping most beautiful man ever came up to the door behind her. Here I am all ready for a smoking jacket wearing grandpa lookalike and what do I get? A freaking sex god. I needed support, like that really comfy looking door-frame that would keep me upright long enough for him to claim me as his and hopefully be hiding a bed in that apartment. I wasn't greedy; I would share him with skanky stupid blonde bitch. Whatever works for him. Oh god I felt warm, his eyes flicked to mine and goodness gracious this wasn't fair! The one night I risked not washing my hair and leaving my hat at home. I needed one of those remote control things in the film Click so I could pause, run back to my apartment and shove on my fuck me heels and some red lipstick. And shower.
Now to even begin to describe the man in front of me, um spread your legs fuck me hot? Seriously, I haven't got laid in a while; leave me and my too many sexual references alone. So, I hadn't seen such a fine specimen of a man in a while. His skin was pale, not like one of those Californian dudes, he had an actually believable skin colour, and did he have good bone structure or did he have good bone structure. His high cheek bones and jaw were delicious, I just wanted to lick them, goodness. I was going to let him keep his money and make him pay me in sexual favours. His hair was raven black, all over the place, total sex hair. Stupid Barbie letting me get jealous that she had ran her fingers through it. And now, to the eyes. I'd never seen eyes more beautiful and mischievous than his, and I'd delivered pizza to a lot of people. They were ocean blue, now I know a lot of people spout crap about how clear someone's eyes were, but his eyes were clear – like Mediterranean Sea blue, I don't know if you've ever seen it, but I have to say, it's really really blue. He was now my favourite customer ever. If only he would invite me in for a few minutes, maybe hours? Pretty please?
It felt as if he looked at me for the full zombie apocalypse, and I watched him watch my blush spread slowly over every crevice of my face. Thank you mother, for that beautiful gene. God dammit why did this have to be today? I did not need some hot guy making me all restless before this exam tomorrow. If I fail, I'm gonna pizza pie his face…before licking it all off. Yeah, not good.
He handed me a $500 dollar note and was my mouth open? Oh my god. This was my bed. He just presented me with a bed. I'm in love with this guy, he can keep me in his apartment forever and do naughty things and I won't even mind, my inner child wanted to grab his leg and kiss his face before stealing his clothes. But my momma raised me to be a good citizen, so of course I fumbled around like Barbie skank, even though I'd just mentally ripped her apart because of it, pretending that of course I made enough money to even be pretending to have enough money to give him any change.
"Keep the change," I nearly screamed "you filthy animal" back at him, but instead I decided to focus on the fact that he sounded as if he was spouting rainbows and glitter and everything beautiful. Cue blush and need to kiss his bare feet.
"Thanks!" I settled for, sounding like the overly enthusiastic pizza deliverer I'd learned all my lines from in Home Alone. I liked Kevin McAllister a lot, and if my kid didn't even try to have a Home Alone experience I would have serious worrying to do.
"No problem," Oh no! He was doing a cute little half smile and I swear he just wanted me to turn beetroot; no I wouldn't look at him anymore, so instead I looked over at Barbie skank and did a double take, because hot guys t-shirt had moved and holy bleeding hickey?
Blood was forming a sticky little coating on the black and damn did that look sore! I flicked my eyes to hers, hmm glazed. Slutty and drunk with a hot asshole taking advantage of her. Dammit, why were all the hot ones bastards?
"Damn, she's going to regret that in the morning." I commented to said asshole, crossing my arms over my chest. Dick. He wasn't getting my nice I-wanna-fuck-you eyes now, he was getting my serious I-fucking-dislike-you eyes. I hope he noticed the difference, and would stop with all the long stares and lovely half-smiles. Apparently he did, as he leaned towards me, his eyes going all intense and his pupils dilating. I knew he was a druggie!
"She scratched herself with her stupid long nails." Jeez, this guy was getting a little too close for comfort. Alert alert pizza girl safety rules in recognition. Step backwards – remember a kick to the groin is acceptable if you don't get a tip. But now that I thought about it – he gave me a pretty big fucking tip. Maybe I should just slap him. Yuck, I hated touchy-feeling guys.
"Of course she did," I scoffed, pulling a menu from my back pocket. "Enjoy your meal, Mr Salvatore. And call again." I handed him the crappiest excuse for a menu ever, and backed off as I saw him frown slightly. Why did he have a beautiful smile? Asshole that gives me big tips. Asshole.
Jesus Christ why couldn't this lift come faster, I heard him murmur something to Blondie skank and then it was me, him, and a whole lot of sexual tension that I was pretty sure only I was feeling.
"Call me Damon." Damon, I needed to get out of here before I sexually assaulted this man who apparently took advantage of drunken girls, did drugs and was insanely rich. So hot. "And what can I call you?" His face transitioned into a sexy smirk that made my panties damp. Oh my god, I was sending Pascal to do this delivery next time, it would only end badly in a one night stand and a half crushed heart.
"You can call me pizza-girl." I told him cockily, arching my eyebrows as the lift came right there and then. Yes! Now I looked super cool and powerful, I was taking this elevator home.
"I'll ask for you pizza-girl," He winked and then the door was shut and I was all alone in the hall, almost missing the elevator. I pressed the button again quickly, hoping he didn't realise my super power was gone. I collapsed once inside sliding down the wall like a love-struck teen.
"Holy shit!" I shouted to myself as I fanned my face with my first $500 bill that I had ever handled. I missed Damon already. And what a hot name – Damon, damn I think I'm in love. I mentally high-fived myself at how I had handled the situation – 'you can call me pizza-girl' that was the best line I'd ever came out with in the history of men. Why couldn't I just think of these things! I mean it was simple but beautiful and if he didn't want me and my greasy hair after that then god-dammit I didn't stand a chance.
2 hours later, still shivering from my ice cold shower I was still thinking of hot Damon and mysterious bloody hickey. If he didn't call for another pizza, then our imaginary relationship was over before it even began. He better call. Crazy druggie asshole.
