Blow Up

Blow Up

    Yesterday, my seventeen-year-old son told me he plans to apply for a job delivering pizzas. Most parents would be proud. His mother was all for it. Me? My life flashed before my eyes. Actually, not my whole life, just one night when I was his age and delivering pizzas. I never told anyone about this, but maybe now’s the time . . .

    I was driving a red, ‘84 Chevy Cavalier, my first car. It was a convertible, and the roof leaked when it rained. But there wasn’t room in the garage for it, and I didn’t have money for a cover. So a lot of the time, I sat on garbage bags so my butt wouldn’t get wet.

    My summer job was delivering pizzas for Tony’s Trattoria. I made minimum wage -- $4.25 an hour in those days. But usually, the tips made up for it. There were three Italian restaurants in the area, but Tony’s was the only one that delivered. The weekenders from New York and New Jersey were used to ordering out, so they were our best customers.

    The backseat was folded down, and six large pizzas were sitting behind me in an insulated bag. I checked the list, and all my deliveries were within a ten-mile radius. Two went to different addresses in Englewood Lakes, a big development; two went to a rental cottage on Lake Lenape, and the other two went to addresses in the town of Hailey.

    I was sailing along with the top down, sitting on a plastic bag, feeling pretty good because I’d just smoked part of a joint. It was a Saturday night, getting dark, and I figured the people I was delivering to must be having parties, because it was too late for dinner. I’d already delivered another carload at dinner time, and this was my last job for the night. 

    The radio was turned up and 2 Unlimited was rapping “The Twilight Zone.” I had to laugh, because my dad loves this old TV show with the same name, and whenever something weirds him out, he starts singing the lame theme song, like “dododododododo.” He made me watch the show with him a few times, and it’s actually pretty cool, especially the episode with the doll that says it’s gonna kill you.

    Anyway, I was cruising along, bopping my head to the music and slapping my hand on the steering wheel for emphasis. I was the only car on Route 5, which was odd for a weekend night. I pulled my ball cap tighter on my head so I wouldn’t lose it in the wind and enjoyed the scenery whizzing by: trees, cottages, a glimpse of the lake on the right.

    I swung a left into the entrance to Englewood Lakes and slowed down. The security idiots in these developments liked to nab you for speeding. I squinted at the bill from Tony’s to find the address: 124 Westbrook Ave. I knew where this was because I’d delivered there before. The road was right off the main drag and a few houses down. The driveway was full, so I parked on the road. I unzipped the heating bag in the back and slid out the top two pizzas: one cheese only and the other, sausage and pepperoni.

    Walking toward the house, cradling the warm pizzas, I got a funny feeling. Maybe it was just the pot I’d smoked, but the smell of sauce, cheese, and meat drifting through the cardboard made my stomach do a flip flop. Then I burped and threw up in my throat. I hate when that happens. I stopped, swallowed hard, took a couple deep breaths, and tightened my grip on the pizza boxes. Shit, suppose I’d dropped them? I was feeling better, so I finished walking to the front door and rang the bell.

    A few seconds later, it opened and a woman my mom’s age stood there, dressed in one of those fringed flapper outfits. I could hear people laughing inside the house. The woman giggled. “We’re having a Roaring 20’s murder mystery party,” she explained. “I guess they didn’t eat pizza then, but who cares?”

    She put the pizza boxes on a table while we settled up the money. She had exact change, which made it easy. Then she gave me a two-buck tip, closed the door, and that was that. I turned and walked back down the driveway, got in my car, and headed to my next customer. My stomach had calmed down, but now my head felt funny. I wondered if I should lay off the weed for awhile, at least when I was driving.

    Turning left onto Route 5, I headed for Lake Lenape, this dinky lake with a bunch of overpriced houses around it. The customer was at the end of the road, in one of the rental cottages. The name on the bill was Ploranski. Probably some dude from Jersey up for the weekend. The store down the road got so sick of these guys complaining about their bagels and stuff, they put up a sign that said, “We don’t care how you make it in New Jersey.”

    I hoped they wouldn’t complain about the pizza. Didn’t matter, though, because I’d be out of there before that happened.

    I turned right onto the private road, then made a quick left into the cottages. They weren’t numbered – none of the houses on this road were – but the customer had said it was the third one on the left. I counted 1, 2, 3, found it, parked, went through the same routine with the zippered bag in the back seat, and headed for the door. I balanced the pizzas in my left hand and lifted my right hand to knock. But before my knuckles hit the door, a voice behind me said “Don’t.”

    I jerked around, felt the pizza boxes shift in my left arm, and grabbed them with my other hand before they fell. Whew! Close call. There was no one behind me. But I swear I heard a voice. Then the door opened and a guy in gym shorts and a black, Evil Dead T-shirt was leaning there with a big smile on his face.

   “You’re just in time,” he said, stepping aside so I could enter.

    Except I didn’t want to. Something felt off, had felt off all night. My feet wouldn’t move, and I stood there like an asshole, holding the pizzas. The guy kept grinning. “Pizza’s here,” he called over his shoulder. Then he turned back to me and said, “Party’s just starting. Sure you don’t wanna come in?”

    I looked past him and saw his friends sitting on the couch. Three guys in shorts and T-shirts. And four naked women with their red mouths wide open. Wait – holy shit, those were blow-up dolls!

    The guy kept on grinning. Then he grabbed my upper arm and yanked. I wrenched away and the pizza boxes landed on the floor. I tripped over my feet running back to the car and jumped in like some kind of clumsy action hero without even opening the door. Luckily, my keys were still in the ignition. I heard raucous laughter as I pealed out of there like the devil was chasing me – and maybe he was.

    I sped down Route 5, blubbering like a baby. I don’t know how far I drove until I realized I was going the wrong way. My last delivery was in the opposite direction. I calmed down enough to pull into the parking lot of the Methodist Church. I figured I’d sit there until my heart stopped hammering. Maybe even pray a little. Tomorrow, this would all seem funny. My buddies would get a big kick out of it.

    I leaned back in the seat, took a deep breath, and looked up at the starless sky. Something touched my neck, and said, “I’m hungry.” I whipped around and saw a red, open mouth – and screamed. 

    The sky was just turning pink when I came to. What was I doing in the church parking lot? Then it all came back to me and I scrambled out of the car, breathing hard. The back seat was empty. Even the two pizza boxes were gone. But whoever, or whatever, had been in my back seat had left me a ten-dollar tip.

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