Pizza Delivery and the bar

July 15th. 2008

Before I begin with the scheduled post I came across this and thought I would pass it along. I left one of 200 comments on her temporary blog. Tis a shame.


So, one of the other guys came over and gave me a quick run through on the pizza making process and on Ann. I never bothered to ask her again to make me a pizza and she was probably happy I didn't.

The main Job I had there was to deliver Pizza in the mid 70's in Bakersfield, California. I certainly had some memorable moments from that job. I have written about these experiences in the past and wish I had access to them now so I could just copy and paste, But I shall post them fresh for you guys.

One time that comes to mind was a delivery I had to start off my day. I had probably been doing this job for about 6 months and thought I had seen quite a bit in the Pizza delivery business in good old Bakersfield. Was I wrong. The address took me to a bar off off what is now known as Buck Owens Blvd. (Yep, named after the singer - a local legend) Now this was about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. It was hot and steamy, typical for summer here. I had a 1965 Ford Mustang with 289 cubic inches under the hood and an automatic that I drove the dog you know what out of. It was a great car. Anyway. I walked in the front door and came to an area by the counter. There was a line of Bar stools that were mostly empty. I didn't even really look around. I was on a mission.

Get the money and get to my next delivery.

I could tell it was going to be a busy day.

I stood at the counter admiring the huge collection of liquor being present against a huge mirror when this voice came to me from the stool next to me. I looked over then looked down. Here was this old drunk man with out hardly any hair or teeth staring up at me. He must have weighed about 100 pounds sopping wet and was about 5 feet tall.

Here I was, 6 foot 2 inches tall, weighing in at a good 270 pounds, hair past my shoulders, mustache, 17 years old, in a damn bar with a damn near toothless dude asking me sumpin'.

I asked Him "What did you say?"

"I want to dance with you." I listened as I heard Tammy Winette was wailing about D-I-V-O-R-C-E, God, how I truly disliked that song. Hardly a song I could dance to with a chick, must less this guy.

I turned and shined him on. Where the heck is the person that ordered this pizza? He said it again only louder. Now he was standing, sort of. More like trying not to fall down.

"I want to dance with you. Your pretty." I looked at him in Disbelief. "I like your hair."

"Nah, that's all right" I heard other bars stools scraping against the wooden floor.

"He wants to dance with you. I think you otta." This loud gruff voice came booming at me. I looked over at these 3 huge dirty oilfield workers as they were walking around this old man. One guy was pumping His fist into his hand. Apparently, they heard our little conversation over the great singing of Tammy and were wanting to contribute their thoughts on the matter at hand. Damn, that song lasted a long time.

I swallowed hard.

"Look guys, I just want to deliver this pizza and get my money and get the hell out of here, ok?"

"Nope, you going to dance with this old man."

I was about to get my arse royally stomped for my long hair and because some old drunk fool had a hankering to swing the light fantastic with me. The one guy still had his dirty yellow hard hat on and the others were damn near bald with their extremely short hair cuts. See, back then, that meant trouble for long hairs, Hippys, as these guys would refer to us as. We were scum in their eyes and deserved a good butt chewing or kicking any time it was made available.

"Guys, Look ..." I am now turned facing them with my palms pointed at them pleading my case. I'm thinking good luck with this, 4 extremely drunk guys in a bar on then Pierce Road In Redneck Bakersfield. This Job is not paying me this much to put up with this.

Click ... Click

I heard two rounds getting loaded into the chamber of a shot gun. Here was the bartender coming around from behind the bar to save the day. Thank God.

This Bartender informed these drunk sob's that I was just going to get my money from him and I was going to leave pronto.

"Isn't that right, young fella?" He had the shotgun leveled at the gut of the one closest to me. But It was a sawed off shot gun and with the way that thing would spray, he'd probably hit all five of us, including me.

I said "That's right." He threw me some dollar bills, I grabbed the money, dropped the pizza on the counter and left like there was no tomorrow. And then just to top it off, this song was playing on the stereo in my car as I burned rubber out of there:





I swear to God.


(More to come)