Pizza

When I was a kid I lived at my dad’s house with my older brother and sister. My dad was, still is actually, a disgraceful alcoholic. Every Tuesday night he would come home, at varying times between six and nine pm, with a brown paper bag full of tacos from the bar next-door to his office. Other nights we would cook for ourselves, white rice or ramen or quesadillas. He would order pizza once or twice a month. Rather, my sister would order pizza and use his checkbook to pay for it. I don’t really have the best recollection of this time in my life, not even sure how old I was, like eight or nine. I do remember a few times hearing my sister tell my dad that Pizza Hut wouldn’t deliver until we paid the balance from the checks that bounced.

I don’t know the ins and outs of the pizza delivery restaurant business, but I can imagine that the manager and the delivery drivers must have been aware of us. When that phone number or address came up I’m sure they knew we were the three poor, hungry white kids who always paid with bad checks.

I wonder how they felt about that?

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