THE PIZZA GUY HALL OF FAME: CHAPTER ONE- The Car From The Swedish Guy and the Chair From the Uncle's Basement, Part One (In case you missed it.)

![Pizza Guy Cover Art.JPG]()

AUTHOR’S WARNING:

Although this book does contain some statistics, facts, people, and anecdotes, all are either made up or the result of faulty memory and therefore are of no statistical or factual value. The Pizza Guy Hall of Fame should not be misconstrued as an almanac of pizza delivery statistics, delivery drivers, local pizza shops, and/or small college towns. Nor is it in any way an instruction manual for one seeking to deliver the most pizzas or experience the wonder and awe of the fabled Pizza Guy Fantasy.

Pizza Guys of note depicted in this book such as The Whirlwind (A.K.A. Special Sauce), Chuck Luv (A.K.A. ‘40’s Man), Rose (A.K.A. Rose), Big Daddy (A.K.A Big D), and Ninja Driver (A.K.A G-Love, A.K.A. Big G) are, indeed, followers of The Way Of The Pizza Guy, but whether they are legitimate members of the Pizza Guy Hall of Fame is still in question and up for debate, as is the actual existence of the Hall itself.

-Make pizza, not war

Sincerely,

Driver #52

*Readers read at their own risk, and author assumes absolutely no responsibility for valuables, belongings, family members, friends, jobs, or time lost while immersed in book. Pregnant readers or those with heart conditions should enjoy reading book as much as those who are barren and or in full health.

*You must be taller than this page to read this book. (but not in stature)

*You must be able to turn pages on your own or assisted by friend, guardian, machine, or hired page turner.

*Should not be used as food substitute, paperweight, doorstop, firewood, drink coaster, floatation device, or bug swatter unless absolutely necessary.

*Readers should not lend this book unless prepared to have it returned six months later with coffee stains, wine stains, beer bottle and/or coffee mug rings (see above), unidentifiable stains, bug guts (see above), dog eared pages, broken spine from borrower having rudely bent read pages behind unread pages (you know who you are), scribbled phone numbers scrawled across front or back pages, dog bite holes, and faint smell of mold between water warped pages. Lender should, in all reality, never expect to see book again after having lent book out (unless lender happens to casually peruses borrowers book shelf during dinner party some undetermined time in the future.)

CHAPTER ONE:

THE CAR FROM THE SWEDISH GUY

Unexpected travel plans

are dancing lessons from God.

-Kurt Vonnegut

When I woke up the next afternoon, the Swedish exchange student who looked like a young, gap-toothed, out of shape Jean Claude Van Damme was gone. He’d spent just one drunken night visiting my roommate Chuck. I don’t even remember his name. To me he’s just the Swedish guy that gave me my first car, a car that would alter the course of my life.

I walked downstairs to find Chuck sitting by himself on the couch, remote in hand, eyes half open, same Grateful Dead t-shirt and army green khaki shorts from the night before, and still half drunk. I think it was Tuesday, or a weekday of some sort. My head was throbbing and full of cobwebs and mysteries regarding everything after the flaming 151 shots. This was normal; we were in college.

Chuck barely moved a muscle as I stepped over the pizza boxes on the floor. I crossed past him and sat on the edge of a piece of our legendary college furniture. Usually, furniture comes from a furniture store. However, college furniture comes from somewhere else entirely. This piece in particular had risen from the basement of Chuck’s uncle’s house, Uncle Donny. Its age was unknown but it appeared to be from the sixties. It had that “I’m the chair of the future” look that never really became “the future” look. Think of a chair you could recline on while tripping on acid at Andy Warhol’s apartment. It was shaped like a loose s-curve turned on its side. The idea was that it would contour to your body like a craft-o-matic bed; wide enough for two (but not wide enough for two dudes), low to the ground, and free of any armrests, the only comfortable way to sit in it was lying on your back like you were waiting for lift off.

By sitting on its front downward slope I had chosen one of the myriad of uncomfortable seating options. In this position, one risked slipping to the floor if they were not diligent in holding their place. Which brings me to the chair’s most important feature; it was completely covered in deep, soft, black velour. You just wanted to pet it. And people did pet it, and stroke it. You couldn’t resist. It was softer than a baby’s bottom. I’ve never, honestly, really, ran my hands across a baby’s bottom though, so I’m kind of lying. I bet baby bottoms are probably a bit wrinkly, fat babies especially. Plus comparing the chair to a baby’s bottom conjures up images of sitting on babies, and I’m not one that enjoys or promotes sitting on babies, so I’ll just say it was softer than silk. (and thus the slippage factor).

Something that people pet deserves a name. Therefore we named it “The Love Chair.” It could be named nothing else. You even had to lower your voice two octaves when you said it. The Luuuuv Chaairr. Makes you want to sit in it, doesn’t it?

The great irony of The Love Chair was that if by the remarkable circumstance that any of the four of us were lucky enough to bring a girl back to the house and get into the chair with her it was only possible to lie next to her like an astronaut on an Apollo flight. There was no rolling to your side in any way on the Love Chair. There was no cuddling, snuggling, or curling into a fetal position in the Love Chair. You couldn’t toss, you couldn’t turn, you couldn’t rock, and you couldn’t roll. It was the worst chair in the world on which to hook up and/or pass out drunk. If you tried, your spine and neck would pay dearly.

In all honesty, the Love Chair was cruel and abusive. It promised freedom and comfort, but it was full of deception. Conform to its wishes or pay the price. It was like a lover that everyone knows is no good for you. Yet it wasn’t until the fourth or fifth time you woke up with a sore neck and aching back that you accepted the truth; you should’ve listened, the Love Chair was a deceitful liar that would only hurt you in the end. Ahh, there was such poetry in The Love Chair, such metaphor, such meaning…

It had only become The Love Chair when we moved into the house at the beginning of the summer, so, at the moment, we still believed in its promise. Four of us had rented the house for our junior year of college. …Well, our parents rented it. …Well, except for Gary, he put himself through school. Our lease went the full year from June through the following May. We were eager to experience our first summer on our own so Gary, Rose, Chuck, and I took advantage of the included summer months and moved into 15 East Oak. They delivered pizzas and took summer school. I just took twice as much summer school. Who was lazier is still up for debate.

That summer we got drunk and played air hockey, Galaga, and Cyclone pinball at the bar. We played Frisbee (that I lost with a bad throw), watched bad late night TV (Skinimax), and shot beer cans in the backyard (A plastic toy pellet gun. Rose had found the gun in his parent’s attic. He’d stumbled across it while looking for the Bo Derek issue from his dad’s collection of vintage Playboys. The gun was from the good old days before toy companies had to make toy guns look like fake guns. This one was modeled to look exactly like Dirty Harry’s Magnum .44. It was harmless, but a lot of fun. Sadly, Rose never found the Bo Derek Playboy.)

After we lost all of the little yellow gun pellets we played more air hockey, got drunk some more, played more pinball, got drunk again, passed out in The Love Chair, and woke up with sore necks and scoliosis. And then just like that, before we knew it, like a barely remembered momentary dream, the endless summer was a few short days from being half forgotten memories. Our junior year was due to start the following week.

But I digress. But isn’t life just one digression after another, possibly leading to transgressions, causing aggressions, then regressions, always looking for a sense of progression.

I sat on the front slope of The Love Chair and glanced at the TV. A music video for a song from a band called Temple of the Dog was playing on MTV. Apparently, it was a group with members of two new Seattle bands called Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. I wasn’t yet schooled on who was who yet in the temple. Grunge was still just a way to describe dirt in places rarely touched. It was near the start of the Seattle sound explosion into the mainstream. Neil Young wasn’t even cool again yet.

Chuck moved his eyes from me back to the TV with a deliberate speed that said, “I’m only up because I had to be and the alcohol in my body won’t allow me to drift back into a sweaty, hangover slumber. So don’t even think about trying to talk to me right now. I’m serious. Don’t fuckin’ talk to me.” I took this as my cue to start conversation.

“Is that the dude from Pearl Jam?” I asked.

“Which one?” Chuck’s voice gurgled.

“That one, on the left.” I pointed at the TV as though he could tell from his vantage point where I was aiming my finger.

“No, I think he’s the one singing now.” Chuck didn’t like the choice of conversation.

“Oh, I thought it was the other one. –Wait, you mean that one?” I pointed again.

“No, that one right now, singing now.” Chuck threw me a look that was like him saying, I’ll turn this TV off right now!

“Their voices sound alike.” I said offhandedly as I glanced out our living room window. I could see the Swedish guy’s piece of shit car in the drive. “Where’s the Swedish guy?”

“He went back to Sweden.” Chuck mumbled matter of factly. The Swedish guy had stayed with Chuck’s family for a semester as a foreign exchange student when they were both in high school. That’s how they knew one another. They hadn’t seen each other for three years.

I watched Temple of the Dog sing about being hungry. Chuck was still giving me shut the hell up vibes. I took this as my cue to ask him more questions. “He went back to Sweden?” I asked.

“YES.” Chuck said. His voice raised just enough to indicate his disinterest in our conversation. My butt started sliding down the soft velour on the front slope of The Love Chair. I applied more pressure and tightened my cheeks.

"But his car’s in the driveway?” I looked over at Chuck like I was telling him something he didn’t know. This was all so confusing. Do Swedish guys always show up out of nowhere and leave cars behind? “Why’d he leave his car? Why’d he go back to Sweden?”

“Because his visa expired and he had to go back. The car isn’t worth anything. It’s a piece of shit. He said you could have it.” Chuck said this with little gravity to the statement, as though he was allowing me to eat the last chip in the bowl. …If there was a bowl of chips, which there wasn’t. Chips would have been good at that moment, you know, being hung over and all.

“What? Do I have to buy it?” I looked out the window. “You said it’s not worth anything? How do you know I want it?”

“Because it’s free, Marflake.” Chuck thought I was cheap. I wasn’t cheap. I was frugal. I didn’t waste money like some certain people talking to me at the moment who will remain unnamed in this sentence. “You just gotta pay the registration and title fees.”

“Really? Why don’t you take it?” I asked him.

By this point, Chuck’s unconscious mind had realized that there would be no more sleep. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He picked up his Marlboro Reds from the floor and fished out a cigarette. He lit it and looked at me with a glassy, stale, alcohol twinkle in his eyes, “Now you can get a job delivering pizza with the rest of us.” Then he began coughing for about fifteen seconds before he took another drag.

“Holy Crap.” I said. “I have a car,” My eyes were drawn to the TV. The new Seattle bands singing in the field were going hungry and I had my first car… for free… from a Swedish guy… a Swedish guy that looked like Van Damme’s dumpy nephew.

Chuck had now fully accepted and embraced being awake. He looked at me and said, “You wanna go check out your new ride?” Chuck lifted his eyebrows and flashed a closed mouth smile. That was Chuck’s “let’s open Christmas presents early” look, his “wanna go to the bar? On a Tuesday afternoon” look, his “you wanna drink these guys’ secret beer stash/smoke their secret marijuana stash” look. The look was like he was part of a whispering kindergarten gym class hiding under the big parachute and he was peeking out, inviting you to join them under that parachute. It was a look that was never followed by the word NO.

In accordance with the way of the pizza guy, a pizza guy’s car is an extension of himself, it’s part of him. Some novice pizza guy’s may not realize this, but it’s always been true. It’s like a superhero’s equipment, like the Batmobile, or Wonder Woman’s invisible jet, or Superman’s Fortress of Solitude- Well, that wasn’t a vehicle but, anyways, your car has to fit you, and you it, whether you like it or not. The fate’s brought you together, like Perseus and Pegasus or Han Solo and the Millennium Falcon. Think about it; Han Solo could have just as easily gotten the Falcon from Chewbacca’s foreign exchange student friend who had to go back to the Alderon System because the Empire revoked his visa.