'I Have An Idea'

fiction by Phil Kochik, contributor

"Phil, pass the bread. Thanks." Another night of dinner made of free bread and refillable fountain drinks. When the waitresses see us coming, they run and hide--we are known as notorious un-tippers. I figure 5% of a Coke is only about 7 cents anyways. It does nag at my conscience--not leaving a tip, I mean. I doubt Phil or Rob have ever worried about it, but I used to have money--I used to give generous tips; they never had any money so they never gave tips.

Lucky for us, the manager at Parrason's has not yet barred us from the premises--we only ever order drinks and then take maximum advantage of the complimentary garlic bread. That red-haired fellow (who always wears an apron, but by his own admission, never cooks) might just hold it as a possibility that us three slackers may one day become real meal-buying customers. 'If they start buying food every time they come in, I might need to hire some more help,' was my interpretation of his sourly look whenever we would come through the door.

I do not foresee Phil, Rob, or myself buying anything other than Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew, and Coke, anytime soon, though.

None of us has much. Phil lives with four other friends from Seattle Central in a two bedroom apartment on Galer, right down the street from Parrason's. Rob lives in the basement of his ex-girlfriend's house (that is a long story). And I live some of the time with my Aunt and Uncle in South Seattle and most of the time with either Rob or Phil--all three options are quite uncomfortable (even though Rob's ex is quite attractive).

Between the three of us, we have: one car, one bicycle, one membership to the EMP (a gift from my Aunt), and one battered old basketball. We share each equally, and since none of us as a job, we spent a lot of time playing the guitars in the EMP and shooting hoops next to Denny Park (when we are down the hill) and by the school on Blaine (when we are up the hill).

That night something felt different as we sat at our usual corner booth chewing on ice and pieces of napkin as we waited for the disinterested waitress to return with our refills. It wasn't the bread; it was as buttery as usual. It wasn't the Coke; it was as close to being flat as it could be without actually being flat--as always. It wasn't the songs on the radio; 96.5 plays the same '80s music every night. It was something, though.

The answer hit me suddenly: That night, I had an idea.

It was a brilliant one, if I may say so.

"I'll be right back."

"Whatever."

"Whatever."

I went and found old Red. "How's the pasta slash pizza business going, Marv?" (We come in so often that I feel comfortable calling him by his first name, even though I hardly know him.) "Same," he predictably replied. "Listen, my friends and I need jobs. Can you help?

"All three of you? Gee, I don't know, Jake. Times are tight."

"Tell me about it."

"I can hire one of you, but that's all."

And that is how Phil, Rob, and I started delivering pizzas.

Like I said before, we only had one car, and with only one job, our choices were limited. But the decision we made was obvious almost from the start. Here is how we worked it out:

We rotated who would drive, who would take the pizza to the door, and who would go into the kitchen and get the next pie.

Any given night went like this: I would start first as the driver with Rob sitting next to me holding the pizza and Phil in the back just being Phil. I would drive up to 6th and Garfield (or some such Queene Anne or Belltown location); Rob would jump out of the passenger seat and take the pie to the door; Phil would jump into the front seat; and on his return, Rob got into the back with the money. Then I would drive back to Parrason's; Rob would get out of the back and take the money inside and grab the next order; I would jump to the back; Phil would stay in the front; Rob would come out, give the pizza to Phil, and drive to the new location. It was a well-thought out rotation, if I may say so, quite clever even. It took us a couple of nights to get it just right, though.

Working this job did not change our lives much. In fact, all it did was provide a meager source of income and a permanent pepperoni and cheese body odor. Other than that our nights were the same; our days were the same. At night, the three of us still drove around together (taking turns with the driving and shotgun positions) in the beat-up '94 Saturn. In the mornings, we would still manage to wake up slightly before noon and play basketball or guitar (depending on who the EMP pass belonged to that day) until we started to cruise around--I mean, work--at six. Even our driving radius was minimally affected; prior to pizza, we hardly ever were far removed from our present delivery area.

Marv also gave us one meal per shift. Since he technically hired only one of us (and definitely only paid one of us) he insisted on only giving us one meal per night. But remember, a third of a real meal, plus the abundant bread and cola, was a step up for us.

After a couple of weeks, we were the most efficient pizza men in Seattle--not to mention the most popular. Marv said that his to-go orders increased three-fold once word got around that their was a three-person tag team delivery service. I guess there must have been an unfulfilled need to have your pizza or pizzas delivered by more than one person--call it a "security factor" or a "quality assurance factor" if you will--and Phil, Rob, and I tapped into it. (I still find it curious that our three-man team would increase sales exactly by three.)

Whatever the novelty was, it was working. I should point out, though, that the old way of delivering pizzas cannot compete with Phil, Rob, and I. I mean, there is so much more that six arms and legs can offer the pizza-consuming public than a mere two arms and legs can. I should further point out that other pizza chains have still (as of this writing) not taken advantage of Marv's managerial genius--we remain the only three-man delivery tandem in Seattle--and as far as I know, anywhere.

Pretty soon--as you can imagine--we achieved local celebrity status. An article in the Queen Anne News declared us to be "a triumph of the possibility of friendship." An article in the Stranger mentioned that it was an "outrage" that we three were only paid as one: "This entrepreneurial spirit deserves the equivalent salary of at least two standard deliverers." Staring this media cacophony in the face, Marv gave in and started paying us twice what he did before. (We also started getting two full meals per shift.)

Do not worry yourself, though, I have not grown cocky even with all this fuss--I am the same person I was before I started to deliver pizza. I look at it in simple terms: We only had one car and one available job; it was the only plausible solution.