THE PIZZA GUY HALL OF FAME: CHAPTER 9- Ninja Driver

      

If you’ve ever delivered pizzas on a slow night, you know the truth about clocks. They tell you that time is continually moving forward at a steady pace, but it’s all a big lie. They’re just like The Love Chair, full of promises, but built on deception. Clocks tell you something will all be over soon, but some things never end. Or at least they keep coming back again, like Pink Dress. 

The cafeteria wasn’t the last place I’d see Pink Dress. A little over a month into my pizza delivery career, October of junior year, there was a sighting on a Tuesday. 

Rose was on a delivery to the Candlewood apartment complex. Pink Dress was waiting for the Miami Metro at a nearby bus stop. 

“Are you sure it was her?” I asked him. We were standing in the driver area. Rose had just returned from the run.

“Marflake, I’m positive.” Rose dropped his hot bag in the pile already on the floor.

“Was she coming out of Candlewood?” I asked. I couldn’t help but be curious. A blast from the past. Recalled to life.

“I don’t know. She was just standing at the bus stop on the corner there at Foxfire and Locust.” Rose was enjoying my interest in his sighting. He was once again proving me a liar for claiming loss of desire for the now fabled Pink Dress. “I thought you didn’t care about her?” He smiled slyly.

“I don’t. It’s just interesting.” What a liar I was.

“Then why do you find it interesting?” Rose said. He had me by the tail.

“I don’t.” I said, as I looked away. 

“But you just said you found it interesting.” He wasn’t going to let me go. I looked for a box to fold. There were always pizza and sub boxes to fold.

I ripped the plastic from a bundle of large pizza boxes. “No, what I meant was that I find it interesting-“ Before I could finish digging my figurative hole, the driver door buzzer sounded, saved by the bell. No, not by the bell, but by Ninja Driver! The door opened and Ninja Driver pounced into the driver hallway like a chubby, barrel-chested cat, ready to attack evil-doers and defend the innocent, and maybe deliver a pizza or two in between. 

Who’s Ninja Driver? Why he’s only the town of Oxford’s greatest superhero! (and the world’s 82nd greatest, but according to Ninja Driver it’s only because he’s in such a small market and the international superhero ratings system unfairly favors heroes in larger metropolitan areas. He’s positive his ranking would shoot up to at least the top thirty if he ever went to the big city but Oxford needs him and he’s not really concerned about rankings anyway. Although he will point out that in a world of thousands of heroes, he is in the top 100 and considered not only a hero but super, and it’s not about rankings or records, it’s about how much good a do-gooder does when a do-gooder does good. Not that he cares though.) 

Raised in a Tibetan pizzeria, Ninja Driver was taught and born to fight for truth, justice, and the pizza guy way. With all the skills of a ninja and all the shenanigans of a pizza guy, Ninja Driver patrolled the chilly and damp nights, righting wrongs and saving the world one delivery at a time.

No one knew ninja driver’s true identity, but the discerning citizen may have happened to notice that whenever Ninja Driver was around, our friend, Gary, was nowhere to be found. In fact, Gary always seemed to show up just after Ninja Driver had left. Surely though, that’s just coincidence and these points all mere frivolous conjecture.

However, the discerning citizen may also point out that it’s also quite peculiar that Ninja Driver always happened to show up on only chilly or damp nights. More peculiar is the fact that the top half of Ninja driver’s uniform looked alarmingly similar to the dark blue, hooded windbreaker that Gary wore whenever it was chilly or damp outside. Identical even, some would dare say.

But this is all poppycock and hullabaloo. All these claims can be easily debunked when one considers the obvious fact that Ninja Driver wore a hood that had a flap he fastened across the lower third of his face to safely conceal his true identity, whereas Gary never wore his hood. He wore a TDF hat. 

One must also consider the fact that Ninja Driver always pulled the hood’s drawstrings tight in order to maximize concealment of his identity, leaving only his eyes, the upper half of his nose, and his thick eyebrows that almost met in the middle exposed to onlookers. Having never been seen without the hood, it was entirely plausible that it was, actually, impossible for him or anyone else to remove it. 

It is true that Gary’s windbreaker had a hood as well, but I repeat, Gary never wore the hood because he wore the fluorescent TDF ball cap. One wore a hood, one wore a fluorescent cap? It’s one or the other. They’re two entirely different people.

If one thinks otherwise, it’s totally ludicrous to make such outrageous claims. The evidence is circumstantial and full of holes. I mean, based on this argument, you could say that me and Superman are the same person simply because we’ve both been known to wear our underpants on the outside of our outfit when we thought the occasion called for such an ensemble. Superman’s considered a hero, and I’m labeled and slapped with a restraining order, but we’re not thought of as being the same person. Besides there’s no way that Gary, our roommate, could’ve been the world’s 82nd greatest superhero. 182nd greatest, maybe, but 82nd greatest?  I mean, c’mon!

So there we were, face to face with Ninja Driver once again. 

“Ninja Driver!” I said like a character in a poorly acted comedy sketch, “Is it really you!”

Ninja Driver abandoned his action pose and stood with arms folded as he gazed heroically (super-heroically) into the distance, which wasn’t far, considering the hallway was only about five feet wide and the window next to him only had a view of the driver parking lot, but into the distance nonetheless. He glanced toward us and nodded in confirmation that it was indeed he, Ninja Driver, defender of the pizza guy way. Ninja Driver never spoke in public, so conversations with him were often reminiscent of conversations with Lassie or a guy in a Goofy costume.

Rose shook his head and leaned on the counter, “Oh jeezy peets.” He said with a groan. Rose had to be in the mood for a Ninja Driver visit. If he wasn’t in the mood he acted as though he was too cool to converse with Ninja Driver, but he always reluctantly played along like a dad getting a visit from Santa. You know, for the kids. And like a dad getting a visit from Santa, he often ended up enjoying himself by the end. Rose smiled half-heartedly and asked, “What’s up, Ninja Driver?”

Ninja driver shrugged noncommittally.

“What’s that, you say? Not much?” I asked for confirmation.

Ninja driver shook his head in the negative, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the ground.

“Not much crime tonight? Is Ninja Driver bored?” Rose asked.

Ninja driver nodded, put his hand on the window ledge, and drummed his fingers absentmindedly. He let his gaze drift around at nothing in particular.

“Ninja Driver craves excitement!” I said.

This elicited a double thumbs up from the hooded hero. 

“Ninja Driver?...” I started and paused. 

Ninja Driver hopped into a fight ready stance and nodded. This was his signal that he was ready for any question I could throw at him.

“Can you show us some of your moves?” I asked nicely.

Ninja driver waved his hands back and forth in front of himself and shook his head no. He didn’t like to be treated like anybody’s monkey.

I pressed him, “Oh, C’mon please! You’re moves are so awesome.”

 Ninja Driver put out his hand and pushed away my flattery, as if embarrassed. He was just being modest. 

“Pleeeaaasse!” I begged like a groupie.

Ninja Driver put his hand under his chin and rested his elbow in his other hand, as though giving deep consideration to my request. He liked to milk it for all it was worth.

I sweetened the request, “But Rose wants to see your moves,” Ninja Driver raised his eyebrow, enticed. I looked to Rose for back up, ”Don’t you, Rose?”

Rose was more into it now. Ninja Driver was making him laugh. “Yeah, Ninja Driver. I want to see your fancy kung fu.” 

Ninja Driver skipped his feet up and down in a little one-two, skiddely-doo dance, pointed at Rose and gave him a thumbs up. 

He was going to do it, but only because Rose asked. 

“Yay! Go Ninja Driver.” I cheered. 

Rose let out a whoop.

Ninja Driver held up his index finger, as if to say wait for it, here it comes. 

He hitched up his pants, straightened the bottom of his windbreaker, I mean, ninja uniform, took a deep breath, then unleashed a flurry of two low kicks, and a ridge arm, then a hook. Then for the grand finale he exploded with not quite a spin kick, but more of a labored, multiple step spin, a moment to regain his balance, then, finally, a kick (If you asked Ninja Driver, he’d tell you that the only reason it lacked fluidity was because it was hard for him to slow down his kung fu enough to be caught by the human eye). He hitched his pants back up and stood with his hands on his hips as he gazed super-heroically into the driver parking lot.

I cheered wildly. Rose cheered. Kevin, who was working dispatch and caught the heroic demonstration cheered and drummed on the counter.

“Amazing!” said Rose.

“That was bad-ass!” said Kevin.

“You’re the man, Ninja Driver!” said I.

Ninja driver waved off the praise, as though undeserving of our appreciation. Then, suddenly, he cupped his hand behind his ear and put his index finger to his lips. He stood like a motionless cat, like a cat statue.

“Do you hear something, Ninja Driver?” Rose asked. Rose was now completely onboard.

Ninja Driver nodded, held up his hand, and jutted his head closer to the window as if to listen more intently.

“His ninja senses are tingling.” I said, “There’s crime to be fought.

Ninja Driver gave us one last hands on hips hero pose and a double thumbs up, then did a little skiddley-doo, skip jump, and bounded out the door and into the setting sun.

We waived like children and called out, “Thank you Ninja Driver!” 

I turned to Rose, “Gee it’s too bad Gary missed that again.” I said, as though I was talking to a four-year old after meeting a costumed character at Disney World.

Rose played along, “Yeah, I wonder where Gary was? I bet he’ll be coming back from his run any second though.” 

As if on cue, the driver door buzzed. Kevin put his hand to his mouth, “Who could that be?” Rose hit the driver door lock button and none other than Gary sauntered through the doorway. It was chilly outside, so he was wearing his windbreaker. 

“What’s up guys?” Gary said innocently.

“Gary, you’ll never believe who you just missed!” I said excitedly.

“Who??” Gary’s eyes widened.

“Guess?”

“Frank Sinatra!”

“No.”

“Wink Martindale!”

Rose scrunched his nose, “Who?” 

“You know, Wink Martindale! From The Jokers Wild.” Gary answered. Rose and Kevin stared at him blankly. “You know, the big lever? Joker, JoooKER! JOKER!” Kevin and Rose shook their heads and shrugged. Gary looked to me, “Joker?”

“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.” I replied in a comforting manner, “They just didn’t watch enough TV as kids. But that’s not who it was.”

“Well, if it wasn’t The Chairman of the Board, Old Blue Eyes himself, or the second greatest game show host reference ever, right behind Bert Convy-“

Kevin and Rose looked at me for help on that one. “Password, ten a.m. Monday through Friday, NBC.” I said quickly, filling in the lost reference.

Gary continued, “- Then you got me. I don’t know. Who?” He threw his arms up in exasperation.  

I gave Gary a super serious look and told him, “…Ninja Driver!”

“Nooo! Ninja Driver was here?!!” Gary began a display of the Italian stereotype in his blood by gesticulating wildly, “I missed him again? I always miss him!’

“I know!” I agreed. “You missed him by, like, less than a minute.”

“I don’t know how I didn’t see him!” Gary looked out the driver hallway window as if searching for a glimpse of Ninja Driver.

“Well, he is a Ninja” Kevin pointed out as he walked away from the counter to do something in the kitchen, probably something like work or cook, or something. Who knows what they did in the kitchen. We were drivers, we didn’t care. There were more important things on the docket.

Gary dropped his shoulders dejectedly, “Well, maybe I’ll catch him next time.”

Rose thoughtfully stroked his unshaved, scraggy haired chin, “Kind of funny that you two are never in the same place at the same time.”

Gary narrowed his gaze, “What are you suggesting?’

“Nothing.” Rose backed off.

“We’re just on some kind of different universal schedule, that’s all.” Gary added.

“You know who else I saw?” Rose said, poking Gary in the arm, “And it wasn’t a game show host.”

Gary shrugged. I knew what was coming. 

Rose looked at me and smiled slyly, waiting to get a rise out of me before saying, “…Pink dress!” (And let the badgering of me re-commence!) “…By Candlewood. And Marflake won’t admit he still wants her.”

Gary had to stop and think, “Wait, which one is this? Is she the one from the movie theatre?”

Rose answered without skipping a beat, “No, that’s Popcorn Girl. We don’t like her anymore because she cut her hair.”

“Without consulting with us first? How could she be so selfish!” Gary picked up a pizza bag and threw it back down in mock disgust.

“I know,” Rose said hanging his head, “People just don’t think when they should. We could’ve saved her beauty.”

“I don’t think Popcorn Girl looks that bad now.” I said. 

“Just like you still like Pink Dress.” Rose said.

Gary shook his head, “I still can’t picture her.”

Rose looked at Gary, “C’mon, Big G! The Egg White Incident?”

“OH! Pink Dress!” Gary’s face lit with the light of recognition, “The one you revealed your deep seeded hatred of black people to!”

It just so happened that the black dishwasher, Daryl, was clocking in at the dispatch computer at that very moment. And it just so happened that the comment just happened to catch his attention. And it just so happened that he was so stoned, he probably wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard what he thought he’d just so happened to have heard. Daryl looked up at me. (Well, actually, he looked down at me because the kitchen area floor was about six inches higher, than the driver floor.) 

“He’s joking.” I said to Daryl.

Gary and Rose loved watching me squirm, so Gary stoked the fire, “C’mon, it’s okay Marflake. Everyone knows you’re a racist.”

I looked at Daryl again, who was still looking down on me, “I’m not a racist. …We’re all equal.”

Gary and Rose could barely contain their joy. Rose threw another log on the fire and said, “Name one black friend that you have.”

Everyone stared at me. I couldn’t tell if the softness in Daryl’s eyes was the same as the eyes of a panther just before attacking or simply the soft, glazed eyes of a stoned dishwasher. I stammered. Scanning my brain, I said, “Well…” then I frantically scanned my brain further. It wasn’t my fault that Miami University attracted so few minorities. Plus, I grew up going to a high school of two thousand students, only four of which were black. (Yeah, I knew the number. How could I not? They stood out like flakes of pepper in the salt. They must have loved growing up in my town. Was I friends with them? Well, no, but that’s beside the point. I wasn’t friends with most of them, the students, I mean. -All of them, not just the blacks. I mean, the African Americans. I mean… -I didn’t have friends. I was like a speck of nutmeg in the salt.) I looked at the three of them staring me down like the Mount Rushmore of judges. I said, “…Well, I’m friends with Daryl.”

Rose and Gary looked at Daryl. Daryl looked at them, then shook his head at us crazy white boys, and said “…Yeah, we cool.” Then he walked away, mercifully letting me off the hook.

I half waved to him, “Yeah, cool, we’re cool. …See ya’ later Daryl, bro. …I mean bud.” Gary and Rose snickered and shook their heads at me. “We’ve got a bunch of boxes to fold.” I declared, as I grabbed a pizza box. 

While I folded the box methodically, Rose brought us back to the conversation I was trying to avoid. “Pink dress, Gary! Marflake’s long lost love.”

“She’s not my love and she never was.” I said dismissively. 

“But Pink Dress, she’s your soul mate! Don’t you understand, Marflake?” Gary said, starting to take on the demeanor of an inspirational coach. “This sighting is a sign! It’s like an eclipse or something!” He turned to Rose and asked, “Was she alone?”

“Yeah, it was just her.” Rose nodded.

Gary faced me again, “She’s waiting for you, Marflake! Your destiny awaits. Somewhere in Candlewood Apartments she’s waiting for you to find her.”

“She doesn’t even remember me.” I said. “I only said a couple words to her, and she never said anything back.” The dormant pain from every crush I never had the courage to go after was awakening.

“Marflake! Believe in yourself!” Rose snapped as he pushed me in the shoulder for emphasis.

“You’re one to talk.” I said.

“Hey! We’re not talking about me we’re talking about you and Pink Dress.” Rose shot back. He picked up an unfolded pizza box and began folding it, “C’mon, there’s work to be done!”

Kevin dropped a run on the counter and yelled, “Who’s up?”

“Me.” I said, grabbing a hot bag and stepping in front of the run. I looked where I was headed. It was a two stopper, Fox and Hounds and Candlewood. My heart gulped. I didn’t say anything out loud though. Instead, I hurriedly stuffed the run in the hot bag and headed to the door. But I wasn’t fast enough.

“What’s the hurry? …Where you going?” Gary asked.

I didn’t say anything for a moment, then reluctantly revealed, “Fox and Hounds. …And Candlewood.” 

Rose and Gary looked at each other and made overly dramatic faces. Rose put his hand on his stomach, looked to the sky, and let out a loud and extended, “…Whoooooop!” then in a meaningful whisper added, “Candlewood! …Maybe she’s still there waiting. Waiting for the man. And you know who the man is don’tch ya’?”

Gary pointed at me and shouted, “Destiny Marflakio! …Destiny!” He put his hand in the air, clenched his fist, and slowly lowered it beneath his chin. He looked up at me and raised a comical eyebrow, “…Pizza guy hall of fame.” Around that time we’d ratcheted up the jokes about putting ourselves in the Pizza Guy Hall of Fame, but only if we did something to deserve it. …And, also, if we could pick the lock on the glass because one day we went so far as to try opening the case, but couldn’t find the key.

I rolled my eyes and walked out the door, yet I couldn’t help but entertain the thought of Pink Dress and destiny together in the same sentence. Sure, it was random and a coincidence. Sure, there were plenty of other people around town I continually ran into, like the woman from the bank with the big hairy mole on her cheek, but that was different. That was only proximity and prominence. Maybe this coincidence, the Pink Dress sighting at Candlewood and the subsequent delivery to that very place, was a sign. I couldn’t accept it yet though, so I told myself to shut up about it. I refused to give into my foolish hopes so easily.

As I drove toward Candlewood I gave into my foolish hopes easily. Even though it’d been more than a half hour since Rose had spotted her and I didn’t really think she’d be there on the corner, I ran through some scenarios of what I’d do and say to win her love. You know, just in case. The best I came up with was to stop and ask her for directions, then mention that she looked familiar, then I’d… well, I didn’t get that far; baby steps.

I became more anxiety ridden as the distance between the bus stop and me became shorter. It was like some kind of inverse supply and demand relationship in Econ 101, except this was an anxiety and proximity relationship in Marflake’s Issues 202. (If it existed, Marflake’s Issues 202, would be a second year course, and a prerequisite for numerous majors like psychology, sociology, physics for the non-major, and interpretive dance.)

By the time I was two blocks away from the bus stop my heart strings were tighter than laces on a fat lady’s girdle, and she was about to sing. I braced myself for contact. If I saw her, I was going to do it. I was going to speak to Pink Dress.

I rounded the corner from College Avenue and turned onto Foxfire Drive. The bus stop came into view. I could see a blond- haired figure standing next to the sign.