DGA DETECTIVES & DGA BAIL BONDS 

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How Would You Like Your Pizza?

by Dale Gustafson

             I'm not a telephone person.  I don't have one in my car, or carry one around.  The only reason I'll usually answer a phone is if the noise is distracting me from something else. 

             My wife is quite different.  If the phone rings, regardless of what she is doing, Joan will rush to answer it as if she was being chased by a pack of wild dogs. 

             I'm guilty of extracting a small amount of pleasure from her obsession.  On occasion, like when she is washing one of our big dogs, I'll use my business phone to call the house,  just to watch her rush to the phone.  Then, just as she gets there, I hang up.  As soon a she returns to her chore, I ring the phone again.  When we were first married, I could repeat this process for six or seven times before she would figure it out.  But now, if the phone rings and the other party hangs up, Joan will usually blame me and I end up with a cold dinner.

             Fact is, I don't like answering the phone.  And I especially don't like answering the phone when it's a wrong number.

             Not long ago, while I was just getting ready to relax in front of the TV one evening, the phone rang.  I let it ring four or five times before it started to give me a headache, I answered it.

             "Hello," I said.

             "Hi, I'd like a medium pepperoni with extra cheese and two cokes," said a young man's voice on the other end of the phone.  "Oh , I also have your 'half-off' coupon from today's paper."

             "Sorry buddy, you've got the wrong number," I replied.

             "Oh, sorry man," said the hungry young man as he hung up the phone.

             I thought that would be the end of it, but within a few seconds, the phone was ringing again.

             "Hello," I said as I again picked up the phone.

             "Oh, sorry again man," replied the young man's voice.  "I must have wrote down the --"

             I hung the phone up before he could offer any pitiful excuse for disrupting my evening.  The tactic apparently worked, the phone was silent.  I returned to my couch potato position and flicked on the TV. 

             With the remote control in hand, I was about to embark on tour of the different channels when the phone rang again.  "To heck with it," I mumbled to myself, "let the answer machine do its job." 

             I have an answer machine that lets me screen my calls.  I can hear who ever is calling and all they hear is an old recording of my voice that tells them I'll get back with them if they leave their number.

             "Since when does a pizza place use an answer machine?" inquired the voice of a pizza hungry woman being screened on the machine. 

             I was a bit surprised when I heard the voice.  This one sounded like a middle aged woman.  "I suppose it could be the young man's mother." I thought to myself, as I flicked through the television stations.

             Within a few minutes the phone was ringing again.  This time it was still a different person who took the liberty of leaving their order on the machine and saying that they'd be by in half an hour to pick it up.

             "Won't they have a big surprised when they show up at the pizza place," I thought to myself.

             After still more calls, it became apparent that there was more to it than just a wrong number.  "What was it that first guy said?"  Searching my mind for a clue to the Pizza Call Mystery, "Oh yeah, he said he had a coupon from today's paper."  All those years of being a Private Investigator come in handy now and then...

             Palmdale, being the metropolis that it is, has only one local news paper, "The Antelope Valley Press."  (Actually, there are no antelopes in the Antelope Valley, just jack rabbits)  It's a community paper that also serves Lancaster, Little Rock and a number of other small communities in the valley.

             I picked up the paper, shook it, and out flew a handful of circulars, ads, and flyers from a variety of different merchants and restaurants.  After sorting through the small mound for a bit I found one that looked promising, "Pizza Place, eat in or take out...." 

             The full color brochure was from a national chain of Pizza Places proclaiming the opening of a new franchise.  "Grand Opening In Palmdale" was plastered across the first page of the ad.  It was very impressive with large photos of different pizzas, smiling people eating pizza, and coupons for pizza discounts.  In fact, since it was around dinner time, I thought that I may as well give them a call.  I looked at their phone number and realized why I was receiving pizza orders.

             Palmdale was a small community when I moved there fifteen years ago.  It was not impossible to know everyone who lived there, and remembering a persons phone number was easy because there were only two different prefixes, "273" and  "967."  It was sometime in the late "1970's" that the place became a boom town with an increase in aerospace manufacturing.  The 1980 Census called it the fastest growing town in the United States.  Suddenly, there was a need for more than just two prefixes.   The telephone company, in their infinite wisdom, added a few more.  One of them was "272".

             The problem with the pizza place was obvious, there number was the same as mine except theirs started with "272" and mine was "273."  Anyone who had lived in the area for a year or two would just naturally dial "273" because that was the Palmdale prefix. 

             "This is going to be a problem," I mumbled to myself as the phone started to ring again.  "They are going to have to change their number."

             I guess, like most people, I try to avoid conflict.  In this particular case, it looked to me that the real culprit is the phone company for allowing such a thing to happen.  I decided to give them a call.

             "Hello," I said for the fourth time as I was again transferred to another operator to explain the situation.  This was beginning to become a game.  I say "hello," explain my problem, and then the operator says "Let me connect you with so-and-so, I'm sure that they will be able to help you."  Then the process starts over.  In my mind I pictured a room full of operators, giggling and holding up the number of fingers for the times I've been switched to another operator. 

             Finally, operator number six was able to give me a definitive answer, "If the calls persist, we will gladly change your number for you at no charge," she said.

             "But I've had the same number for years," I whined, "I don't want my number changed, I want the Pizza Place to change their number."

             "The only way that I can change their number is if they request it," said the operator. 

             "Thanks for all your help," I said sarcastically as I realized that this was a problem that I would have to handle myself.

             I decided to give the Pizza Place a call immediately and inform them of the problem.  "I'm sure they'll be cooperative," I thought to myself, "maybe they will even throw in a few pizzas for my help with redirecting people to the correct number until they have their number changed."  But my expectations were soon dashed.

             "Hello, what would you like to order?" said the young man who picked up the phone.

             "I need to talk to your manager or the owner, or whoever is in charge," I replied.

             "Well, I think he's busy right now, but I can take your order," said the young man.

             "I don't need to make an order, I need to talk to your boss,"  I said gruffly.  "I don't care if you think he's busy or not, tell him that it's important to talk to me on the phone - now."

             The phone fell silent except for the shuffling of pizza dough and people in a busy kitchen.  I waited on the line for a full five minutes before it was picked up again.

             "Hello," said the voice of a young girl, "could I take your order?.

             "Yeah," I said with a touch of sarcasm, "get your stupid boss on the phone now."

             Again the phone fell silent except for the sounds of a busy kitchen.  Another few minutes went by until someone picked up the phone and placed it back on the receiver. 

             "Now you've pissed me off," I told the telephone as I pulled it away from my ear and looked it squarely in the receiver.  The phone made a couple of clicking sounds and then returned to the dial tone.

             I hung the phone up for a second so I could retrieve a beer from the refrigerator.  "This is going to take longer than I had figured," I mumbled.  I had barely left the room when the phone began to ring again. 

             By the time I got back to the living room the first caller had already hung up and the phone was ringing again.  I picked up the receiver, held it above its cradle for a few seconds,  long enough to hear the faint babbling of a pizza starved teenager, and then replaced it. 

             Before some other pizza rabid youth could dial my number, I called the Pizza Place for round two.

             "Hello," said the by now familiar voice of a young man, "could I take your order."

             "Yes," I replied in a sharp, but calm and business-like tone, "put the manager on the phone right now. 

             The youth apparently remembered my voice also.  He now realized that he had gone off and forgotten me earlier.  "Yes sir," he said with his voice cracking a bit, "I'll get him for you right now."

             "Hello, this is Angelo, how can I help you?"

             "We have a small problem...," I explained to Angelo the problem I had with his number and the business he was losing. 

             "I'm not going to change my number," said Angelo.  "I've spent money on brochures and refrigerator magnets, signs, and advertising...  Even my car has that phone number painted on it."

             "I've had the same number for ten years," I replied.  "I'm not going to change my number, and I'm not going to put up with calls from you customers tying up my telephone.  I understand your problem, and I'll help you by redirecting your customers until your number is changed, but you are the one that is going to have to change your number."

             "Listen Jerk," Angelo's patience had obviously run out, "I don't know who you think you are, but I'm not changing my number, and you can kiss my ass,"  he said as he slammed down the receiver.

             Like everyone else, I get mad or upset now and then, but I've learned that getting mad is not very productive or self serving.  I prefer to be more constructive and follow the philosophy:  "Don't get mad, get even."

             "Let's think this one through," I thought to myself.  "What kind of hand have we been dealt here?"  Angelo doesn't want to change his number because it will cost him money for additional advertising and printing.  I want him to change because his customers keep calling me. 

             I guess what it boils down to is:  Angelo's motive is money, and the only way to make him change his telephone number is to make it cheaper to change it, than to keep it.  So, until Angelo decides to change his number, I guess I'm going be his "not-so-silent" partner in the Pizza business.

             I didn't have long to wait, the phone started ringing almost immediately.   "Hello, how can I help you," I greeted.

             "I'd like a large combination please...," said some unsuspecting pizza eater.

             "Our delivery vehicle is in the shop," I explained, "but if you come by and pick up your pizza, we'll throw in a six-pack of Coke or Budweiser, which ever you choose.  Oh, and be sure and mention that 'Angelo' said it was OK when he took your order.  Thank you..."

             "I wonder how long it will take for Angelo to figure this one out?" I thought to myself.

             That first night, I took orders for twenty pizzas, and everyone got their beverage for free.  I know this because I was curious about the fervor this must be causing at the Pizza Place and decided to take a look for myself.  It was only about half a mile from my front door, so I grabbed one of the coupons and drove on over. 

             As I entered the establishment, one of my customers was chewing out the counter boy.  "I called this order in more than half an hour ago and you haven't even put it in the oven yet!" he grumbled. 

             This looks like a good time to make my entrance.  "Hi, I'm here to pick up the pizza and free six pack of beer for 'Smith', "I said as if I was "Mr. Smith" a typical  unsuspecting customer.  "I have a coupon too."

             "Who?" said the counter boy.

             "Smith," I said, "I called the order in almost half-an-hour ago."

             "Mr. Angelo Sir," whined the pimple faced counter boy, "I think we have another one..."

             "Tell him there will be a delay and take his order," replied a noticeably agitated Angelo. 

             The Pizza was actually quite good.  The free six-pack with every pizza wasn't going to break Angelo's bank, but it was a good demonstration of what my interference in his business could cost him.  I'm almost positive he'll want to reconsider changing his phone number now.

             Later that evening, just before I was headed for bed, I gave Angelo another call.

             "Have you decided to change your number yet." I inquired.

             "Screw you meat-ball," he bellowed over the phone, "You can't make me change my phone number for the price of a few six-packs.   I'm just getting more customers because of it..."

             "I'm sure you'll want to reconsider," I replied with a slightly sinister tone of voice.

             Angelo just yelled a few obscenities at me and slammed down the receiver.

             I decided it was time to change the message on my answering machine before heading to bed.  I figured that if I'm sleeping or not at home, I still want people to take advantage of the specials that Angelo was going to have.

             "Congratulations," the message starts, "You're our one-thousandth caller and dinner is on me!  Leave your name and dinner order, and we'll have it ready for your pick-up in 20 minutes.  Remember to mention that Angelo took your order over the phone...."

             I activated the answer machine, turned off the regular telephone, and headed for bed.

             The next day, a Saturday, I had planned a fishing trip with friends to a local lake and had completely forgotten about Angelo and the Pizza feud.              I returned home slightly after dark and the little red numbers on the answer machine were brightly flashing "23." 

             "Gee," I said to my fishing buddies Ed and Darrell, I didn't know the thing could count more than nine or ten messages.  We played the machine back and listened to order after order of excited pizza eaters thinking that they had won a free pizza dinner.  Then at about call number fifteen, it was a very irate Angelo.

             "I'm calling the police you ass hole, and I'm calling the phone company and have your phone cut off."  Screamed Angelo.

             We found his ranting rather hilarious.  "I think he's about ready to crack," I commented.  "I figure by Monday he'll be ready to change his phone number."

             We continued to listen to the messages of excited, unsuspecting, pizza lovers, until:  "I'm going to find out where you live,"  Angleo had definitely lost his cool, "and I'm going to come over there and beat the shit out of you and your whole family with my baseball bat you ...." 

             The irate message from Angelo actually went on until the end of the tape.              I didn't take the threat seriously, and having see Angelo (all five-foot four-inches of him), I seriously doubted  that he could do me any harm.  But I figured the Sheriff's Department would like to hear this tape. 

             I called the Sheriff's Office and told them that some crazed pizza maker was threatening me on my answer machine and that I had his comments on tape. 

             "We'll send a patrolman over as soon as we have one available," explained the curt voice of a female Deputy.

             "No hurry," I replied, "I'll make a copy for them before they get here."

             Ed, Darrell and I were finding it hard to keep a straight face.  "Wait till the cops visit him," Ed quipped.

             "I wonder how many free Pizzas he has given out today?"  Darrell laughingly said.  "Hey, I'm hungry, why don't we go down and pick up our free pizza before the Sheriff gets here."

             Ed and Darrell know how to play up a joke and headed off to the Pizza Place to try and talk Angelo out of a free pizza.  Meanwhile, I would wait for the Sheriff.

             They had barely backed the car out of the driveway when the phone started to ring again.  "Another pizza order," I mumbled as I picked up the receiver.

             "Hello, how can I help you?" I answered. 

             "Pizza, Large one, with everything," mumbled the voice of a definitely drunk man. 

             "We don't serve drunks," I replied, "especially stupid slobs like you."

             "What?" responded the unsuspecting drunk.

             "You heard me barf breath," I said, trying not to laugh out loud.  "We don't cater to low lifes like yourself."

             I could hear him turn his head and yell to his friends, "Hey, this guy says that I'm not good enough to be served by him."  By the grumbling in the background and the sounds of a baseball game on the television, I could tell that this was a group of five or six men who had gathered for a typical Saturday of Sports, food and beer. 

             Another man came on the phone, "What's going on here?" he said.

             "Another drunk," I retorted, "Get off the phone you louse, I run a family pizza place and I don't need business from scum like you and your friends."

             "How about if me and my friends come down there and give you the business," said the intoxicated sports fan.

             "Come on down," I snapped, "I've got a baseball bat with your name on it.  Be sure and ask for Angelo, I'd hate to miss you.

             My new friends hung up.  "Gee, I wonder if Angelo will be getting a visit," I thought to myself as I started the task of gutting the day's catch of trout.

             I had finished cleaning my five trout and was almost finished with Ed's and Darrell's fish when a Sheriff Deputy's car pulled into the driveway.  Like I said, Palmdale was a small town and the Deputy assigned the dispatch was one of my neighbors.

             "Howdy Gus," greeted Deputy Steve, "What seems to be the problem."

             I played the message on the answering machine for Steve and was about to explain the whole problem when Ed, Darrell, and a large combination pizza rushed in the door.

             "Officer, Officer," exclaimed and excited and out of breath Darrell, "We just came from the Pizza Place and there's a big fight going on down there!" 

             Deputy Steve dashed out the door while at the same time talking to his dispatcher on his walkie-talkie, "Send me a backup to the Pizza Place on 20th and Palmdale Boulevard."

             Ed and Darrell both started talking at the same time, oblivious to the other, and excited to the point of hyper-ventilation.

             I've know these guys for years and when they get like this, you just have to wait until they run out of oxygen.  Then they start taking turns talking and you can make sense out of what they are trying to say.

             "Five big guys came into the Pizza Place looking for Angelo," panted Ed.

             "And the biggest one said, 'You got a bat with my name on it shorty,'" wheezed Darrell.

             "Then Angelo said 'Ya - right here,' and he pulled out a bat and all hell broke lose," panted Ed.

             "Sounds like a case of mistaken identity to me," I replied.  "Did you get a free pizza?

             The following Monday, Angelo changed his telephone number.

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