It’s not Delivery; it’s Discouragement

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“Oh no, honey, I can’t do single life!” said my pizza delivery guy.

You might be wondering why my pizza delivery guy was talking to me about relationships.

I might be wondering why my pizza delivery guy was talking to me about relationships.

No part of this is in his job description. His duty is simple. Bring me my pizza and leave. That’s it. I’m pretty sure the rest of the world is doing a phenomenal job attempting to indoctrinate me on what love is and isn’t, and congress seems to be revising that definition usually to fit a much larger plan, but the last person I need to join in on this is the man who delivers a large pizza to the apartment where I am usually at alone.

Some background:

I get an insane discount from this nearby pizza place. It’s cheaper to order a pizza than it is to cook, so that is exactly what I do. Yes, my body feels like death afterwards, but I knew what I was getting into when I ordered, and I still ordered.

This pizza guy is gay and thinks we have some sort of kinship that goes beyond me ordering pizza. We have no such thing. I like to think I’m making this clear via my body language and usually not tipping, but he seems to be pretty bad at hints.

“So, you go to any clubs around here?” he asked me, out of the blue.

Gay men talking about clubs is the equivalent to straight people saying, “read any good books lately?” or “lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” You’re looking for an excuse to have a conversation. I didn’t disclose my sexuality when ordering my pizza over the phone, so the conversation was unwarranted.

“I don’t. I pretty much stay in my apartment, go to work, and go to class. I’m not really into clubs.” I explained signing off for my pizza.

We then had a lengthy conversation about his favorite club, which he likes, despite the clubs reputation for drugs and police-raids.

He could just give me my pizza and leave – this is definitely typical delivery protocol.

But I’m fake as shit, so I pretend to be interested, then when there’s a break in the conversation, I repeat myself, verbatim and explain, I’m really not into clubs.

One visit, I learned the pizza gig was his second job. His first job was at a furniture store.

He learned, somedays, I prefer Alfredo and baby spinach to my usual bacon pizza. It’s hard to write after eating an entire bacon pizza, alone, and the switch makes it easier for me to indulge while still managing to get some writing done.

Another visit I learned he was stressed out from apartment hunting. I live in a pretty small college town. I’m accustomed to bigger city life where usually, you’d welcome the idea of cohabitating with an axe murderer so long as a train could comfortably get you into and out of Manhattan at a reasonable time. I informed him I had little sympathy for his predicament, and took my pizza.

I admit, I could do a lot better in the friend department of my life. Fickle associates, I have something close to three dozen, and tragically, they all think we’re friends, and never question why I’ve never seen them outside of work, or classes, or whatever place obligates our association. I recognize there is a potential friendship that could bud between me and pizza guy, should I desire that.

But I don’t desire that. Please just give me my pizza.

Today was the day he overdid it.

The vigorous and excited knock on my door. The feigned surprise as if I didn’t call in my order almost a half hour earlier, and he doesn’t see me upwards of three times a week.

“I’ve got a date this weekend!” he shared as he handed me my usual bacon pizza. I’ve been in a slight writing slump and I might as well hit rock bottom with some force.

I laughed, not in a, wow that was funny, thank you for sharing, sort of way, but more of a, good fucking luck type of laugh. I signed off for my pizza and grabbed the warm box from his pudgy pale hands.

“sounds great, for you.” I said emphasis on for you, as in, keep that shit over there.

“What? You don’t date?!” He exclaimed.

Sir. You might not know me, but you know enough to know I eat pizza too often and too alone to be actively dating right now.

“Nope, not my thing.” I explained in no further terms.

“Oh no honey, I can’t do single-life,” He shared, “Everyone needs someone,”

That last bit hit me. I don’t know if I felt offended, or if I was just taken aback by how wrong and dumb that sounded. Does everyone need someone? I have a very serious pet peeve about misusing and misdiagnosing the ideas of love.

People are social creatures. Yes. I need to occasionally be out in the world living instead of behind my computer writing and eating discounted pizza, I’ll give you that pizza guy. But do I need a someone to fill that entire void?

Fuck No.

You know what I need right now? My pizza, and perhaps the number to your corporate office, because the person I need right now, and not forever, is your district manager, because I’ve really had enough of you coming to my place of residence and talking to me as if we are friends.

We are not.

I eat pizza.

You deliver pizza.

Those are the dynamics of our relationship.

Anything further is uncalled for and burdensome.