The Birds And The Pizzas

A humorous story I like to share. Yes, this really happened.

Little more than a dot on a map, Crest Hill, Illinois, is an overgrown village of approximately twenty-one thousand people and a few strip malls.  In one of these strip malls stands a pizzeria with a shrewd owner, a complacent yet fun-loving kitchen staff, and a horde of delivery drivers.  I was one of those delivery drivers in the summer of 2013, and this is one of the more interesting things that happened to me.

It was a warm summer day as I waited in the parking lot behind the pizzeria for my next taxing errand.  The annoying little bell rang and, as it did so, I rolled my eyes, wondering where this order would take me and how much I would make off of it.  Considering that my income was entirely dependent on delivering food, I suppose I should have been more ecstatic.  Nevertheless, I begrudgingly entered the pizzeria through the screen door, walked over to the food warmer, took the lone pizza, and put it in a hot bag. I printed the receipt for the customer and put it in the clear pocket on top of the hot bag before walking to my car.

After starting my car, I looked at the receipt again to make sure I had the address memorized.  The address listed was on Eich Drive, not too far up Gaylord Road from the pizzeria.  After making my way through the exhausting six-way intersection, I drove north on Gaylord Road, turned right on Eich Drive, and found the house.

I parked in front of the residence next to a small tree.  I got out of my car and walked over to the passenger side door and opened it. As was usual for me, I didn't bring the food to the door while it was in the hot bag; I always removed the food from the bag unless there was inclement weather.  

After removing the pizza box from the hot bag, I held it in my hand under the tree and fumbled with the receipt in the hot bag.  I managed to fish the receipt out of the little pocket and turn toward the residence.  It was then that I noticed a pile of white, almost plaster-like material.  I looked up into the tree and my suspicion was confirmed.

On a branch in the thin, nearly naked tree was a finch.  While I was getting the receipt from the car, the bird had pooped on the lid of the box.  I panicked, not knowing what to do.  I couldn't just deliver the food.

Or could I?

I put the box on top of my car and searched for a napkin.  Soon enough, I had found one and wiped the bird's waste off of the box, leaving only a white stain which might be mistaken for a Wite-Out smudge.  I breathed a sigh of relief, walked to the door, and rang the bell.  The customer answered the door and didn't notice the stain on the box.