The story I’m about to share is one of my classics. All of it is true, despite the fact that it will sound wholly embellished and as if it was a major plot line in a Revenge of the Nerds sequel.
Summer after freshman year of college, a friend and I got jobs at Domino’s Pizza as delivery men. We would work for (maybe) three hours a day doing the lunch “rush” in our small radius of towns in Northern New Jersey.
The way the system was set up–so as to not display favoritism to higher tipping areas–a call would come in, the order would be placed and a computer that, as I think of it must’ve still been running MS-DOS, would link up the next driver in the cue to that order. And so it randomly went, on and on.
One midsummer’s day, my friend got an delivery and shortly after, I received mine. We left at around the same time. By the time I came back, I had this story for him.
I parked my car in the driveway of a monstrously sized house on what was easily the hottest day of the summer to date. Following strict Domino’s protocol, I went up to the door and rang the bell. No answer. Tried again, still, no answer.
Then, just as I was about to return to my car–a white, 1997 Geo Prizm–to call the house number, I heard a voice shout from what I perceived to be the backyard: “We’re back here!”
Figuring I had nothing to lose outside of possible intrusion on someone’s private life, I goofily headed behind the house. I use that qualifier because I think it’s important to point out, once again, that I was delivering for Domino’s, and in that shallow, tan hat and those shirts and that cargo short I was wearing, it’s impossible to be anything less than a full-on member of the fucking Goof Troop.
As I rounded the corner, I saw not one, not two, not three… but between five and seven completely topless women. All of them were relatively in shape and all of them were at least my age or older (likely older).
I think I only got between two to three milliseconds of staring in before I was “caught”, at which point they “shrieked” in horror and all covered up. The ringleader of this fucking fiasco pointed to the pinned wad of money underneath a folding chair she’d been previously tanning on, so I could collect my money.
I use quotes around those words because I have a strong suspicion I was setup. What joy they got out of it, I’ll never know. Frankly, I never got to enjoy it and even if I had more time, I probably would’ve looked away or just freaked out and said something stupid and awkward. I can’t be expected—hell, no one can be expected—to be delivering pizzas like a doofus, then suddenly get hit with naked women as a shocker and react cool and calm.
But yeah… who calls for delivery and then goes out suntanning nude no more than 20 minutes after making the call? This is Domino’s, brah. We didn’t fuck around.
Either way, then you also pin the EXACT (they were terrible tippers, but I guess they figured the show was the true reward?) amount you want to pay under a chair outside? Doesn’t add up.
Point is… you need to be prepared for the peek. I wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a great feeling.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Getting caught? I’m not sure what to put here, because the whole idea is that it’s not some sort of disgusting, peeping-Tom thing to begin with. But getting caught sounds right.
scott spinelli 