There’s this driver named Fred at the Pizza Hut where I work. Actually, his name is “Fardin,” but for the sake of making him seem like a white person, we call him Fred. He’s a middle-easterner with blue eyes, which is weird. Anyway, I want you to know right now that although this story features a blue-eyed foreigner with a fake name, it totally peters out at the end. Consider yourself warned.
Fred is an interesting guy. The first thing you notice about him is that he calls everyone “Bobo” all the time. The second thing you notice about him is that everyone hates him because he calls them “Bobo,” which sounds like the name of a monkey. Nobody wants to be called a monkey, not even hard-core evolutionists. The third thing you notice about him is his full and curly head of black hair, which looks like he borrowed it from The Romantics circa 1985.
Fred is kind of an a-hole. He tries to make everyone think he’s their friend, but he’d totally take their cheesesticks without a second thought. He also complains about the deliveries the managers give him, and his famous phrase is “Don’t f___ my night.” It’s famous because Shock Manager now loudly proclaims that every time he walks past Fred, as a way to mockingly punish him for saying that in the first place.
All of which brings us to the story of the day, which happened last Saturday night. I’ll tell it from my perspective, because that’s the only one I have…
I got back to the store after a particularly banal delivery and noticed several of the cooks standing behind the front counter, transfixed by a story that a large Mexican man was telling. When I walked in the door, the first thing I heard him say was, “I don’t care…I’m a man and nobody’s going to do that to my wife, you know what I mean?” I quickly walked past, hoping he wouldn’t kill me for looking at his wife, even though I didn’t. In the back, I got the story from Ajay, the guy who cuts the pizzas. Ajay told me that the large Mexican man had shown up 5 minutes earlier, loudly accusing Fred the driver of these crimes against humanity:
1) Spitting in his beloved wife’s face;
2) Violently grabbing the door from her and slamming it in her face; and,
3) Calling her an F___ing B__c_.
Since all the cooks were up in the front listening to the man’s rant (and probably making sure he didn’t go after the manager — they have a weird sort of Pizza Hut gang loyalty these days), I had to make my own cheesesticks, and after that wait 10 minutes for them to get out of the oven. I didn’t mind waiting this time because I really wanted to see what would happen when Fred came walking through the door calling people “Bobo.” As I waited, the Cops arrived in their white SUV and took a statement from the wife, whose tear-stained face I finally caught a glimpse of. She looked like she’d been crying for days, and could barely keep it together as she told the cops of Fred’s misdeeds. After a couple of minutes, the man and wife agreed to leave and let the police do whatever they were going to do. They got a free Pizza Hut pizza out of the deal, so I’m sure that makes up for everything.
As I was pulling out of my parking space (having exhausted all possible means of delaying my next delivery) Fred pulled up, as friendly and Romantic-haired as ever. I believe unsuspecting is the word I’d use to describe him. He didn’t seem to notice the Police SUV double-parked in front of the store, or fact that all eyes followed him as he moved. I pulled out and sped off, and when I got back, Fred was dead.
And by dead, I mean gone. Not arrested, not fired (yet). Just gone.
He did show up the next day, but was “sent home early pending termination” (Shock Manager’s term). Shock Manager was pretty mad that he had to deal with all that crap the previous night, and felt that Fred pretty much f___ed his night as badly as anyone in history has had their night f___ed. Yeah, I’ll be surprised if I ever see Fred again.
(Fred’s side of the story: They didn’t tip him. Think about that.)
