By: Conrad E. Davidson I walked through the door of Lotsa Pizza, sent ahead on a mission: order two pizzas, the Monday Special large-for-a-small charge, my friends to arrive in ten minutes. "That'll be sixteen even, we eat the tax," she said on the phone. She had to be seventeen, a gum chewer, wearing the uniform of the day, black pants, purple shirt, no trim. "Delivery in thirty. Call again." She hung up the phone and looked at me. "May I help you?" "Give me the special. On one pizza, sausage and ..." The phone rang. "Lotsa Pizza. Yah, we deliver," Miss Seventeen-Year-Old said. "What you want?" She looked at me with please-be-patient eyes. "Twelve bucks. Three sodas? Thirteen bucks. Delivery in thirty. Call again." She inserted the order slip in the overhead order track and turned to me. "What you want?" "One pizza half sausage, other ..." The phone. "Lotsa Pizza." She mouthed 'Just one minute' at me. She smiled, the corners of her mouth moving a fraction, almost an eighth inch. No frown lines were visible as she concentrated on writing the order. Frown lines of the future would not likely be the result of serious intellectual activity. "Can't use coupons on the special. What you want?" I tapped a finger on the counter. "Nine bucks. Sodas are free. What kind? Delivery in thirty. Bye." After slipping the order in the overhead order track she turned to me. "How can I help you?" "Point to the nearest phone." |