Working at a College Town Pizza Shack

From the warm hours of the day, and well into the bleak ones of the night, my platoon (usually 3-4 per shift) keep guard at our outpost. A small little pizza shack on 109 Draper Rd. The hearth of downtown Blacksburg. A college town. Swarmed with hoards of horny college students. Often hocked up on a volatile concoction of alcohol and testosterone. And it is our sword duty as staff members, recruited by the fictitious Benny Marzano himself, to feed and satiate these lecherous mongrels.

Their mating seasons are frequent, and usually extend well into the dead of the night. Especially on the weekends. Their breeding grounds, the various bars and house parties located throughout Blacksburg. These territories are noticeably marked with wooden displays of Grecian letters, noise-complaint eliciting levels of trap music, and a reprehensible amount of ’spirits’. When prompted, these vagrant beasts will begin to display their mating call, something more earsplitting than the culturally appropriated songs that drew these vagrant beasts in the first place. Inaudible yelling. Females of the breed tend to emit their from the nasal cavity, resonating a flat pitch (often to accentuate their flatter breasts) that signals to the males a lack of intelligence, thus a lack of effort in procuring said mate. Males on the other hand, primitively sensing and seizing upon this state of submissiveness from their coy counterpart, continue to speak with a loud and aggressive boldness produced from the base of their diaphragm to showcase bravado. These mating displays often spill into our our settlement, located in close proximity.

As the designated cashier of our little troop, it my duty to decipher their slurred down dialect in an attempt to take their orders, and execute a mutually agreed upon exchange of crumpled up dollar bills for abnormally large slices of pizza (I forgot to mention, our Pizzas are 28’ wide. It’s kinda our gimmick). Failure to do so could result in an audit, or worse. A customer complaint soon in their brief moments of sobriety, followed by a half-hearted apology, that trickles down the chain of command until finally amasses and lets loose into a berating from a manager. I’m proud to say, “I got no complaints”.

Besides my keen acumen for comprehending our patrons clearly enough to push buttons and do basic math, I am frequently called upon as the cashier because of my “people skills”. Behind these wide, dilated eyes, and this innocent smile, lies a darker, more devious purpose behind my apparent hospitality. Like our university, we wanna squeeze as much money out of as we can. And not wanting to sacrifice our ingredients we opt for the more lucrative, nontaxable, method: tips. Working for a menial wage of $9.00, we are as greedy for your money as a Wall Street stockbroking firm, and I am the Jordan Belfort of assuaging your doubts with my rhetoric to gain your trust (and my commission). I’ll do whatever it takes. Whether it includes flirting, cracking a witty joke, or giving out compliments (even if there is nothing warranting said compliment). Anything to put a smile on your face, and to put a little extra spending money in the pockets of myself and my band of conniving co-workers.

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