Not Your Garlic Knot: letter from an irate Bacio’s driver

To the Students of Vassar College,


French kiss a cactus, go back to county (a misunderstanding, really), listen to Nickelback, slurp the raw yolk of an egg through a bendy straw, roll around in manure, eat at the All Campus Dining Center—all things I would rather do (quite fucking gladly, might I add) than go to work.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy making money as much as the next guy, but not if it means delivering greasy garlic knots and over-fried pieces of squid in -2 degree weather with a -35 degree wind chill.

Every evening for the past two months, I’ve had to venture out into that arctic tundra, like I’m on “Survivor” or some shit, just to go across the street and drop off some pizzas. Because that “Friends” marathon on Netflix is just so earth-shattering that you can’t take five minutes to come pick up your food at the restaurant, right? We know you’re not actually “studying” in the “library” and being “productive” with “friends.”

I should have known something was up when I applied for the job. The only thing the manager seemed to be interested in was if I had a car or not. I told him that my license was revoked (honestly, it was a misunderstanding…just…never mind), but I had a bike that I could use to pedal my happy ass around campus.

I ought to have left right then, though, because he started looking at me the same way my mom looks at a fresh pack of Twinkies. And let me tell you, any situation where someone is eyeing you like a Hostess snack cake they want to devour is not a good one. Nope.

But because I’m such a friggin’ genius, I took the job. Classic me. Little did I know that when he said they were looking for a delivery boy, he actually meant they were looking for a sacrifice­—someone who wouldn’t be missed if they suddenly succumbed to hypothermia. I believed I would be able handle it, but then my fingers and toes started to turn this bluish-purple (originally, I thought it was because of this new stuff my dealer turned me on to, but I WebMDed it, and now I’m pretty sure it’s frostbite), I can’t feel my lower body, which I’m pretty sure means I won’t be able to have kids, like ever, and I can’t even cry about it because my tear ducts are frozen.

Believe me, I’ve tried to quit. Ten times actually. But every time I open my mouth, my boss just looks me square in the eye, says, “See you tomorrow, Kevin,” and kisses me on the forehead. Kevin isn’t even my friggin’ name! And at least buy me an order of garlic knots or a bacon slice first.

So I had no choice but to resort to extreme measures. I tried leaving my bike outside, unchained and unsupervised, hoping that someone would steal it. They didn’t even have to steal the whole thing; just a wheel, the seat, even the goddamn bell on the side would have been enough! But I guess the people who steal bikes have enough sense not to be out in this shit. So, I had to up the ante. Twice I tried to ride my bike the wrong way in the roundabout hoping that someone would hit me with their car. Not enough to kill me, obviously! Just a little nick—a broken collar bone, a fractured rib or two, maybe a mild concussion—so that I’d be able to stay at home. But people just kept honking at me, and I’m pretty sure someone called the police, because I heard sirens in the distance, and I can’t risk having another arrest on my record because…you know what, that’s not important.

I’ve come to terms with it, this blizzardy reality, but I’m not going down without a fight! I’ll be really shitty at my job until my boss has no choice but to fire me. No, you did not order basil on your pizza, I just happened to drop it on the grass before I gave it to you. Yes, there are fewer garlic knots in your order; I ate six of them before I left the restaurant. If you ask for a calzone, it will probably be a little squished when you get it, as it makes a great seat warmer. Just don’t order the bread sticks at all, you don’t want to know what I do with those. It’s not anything personal, I swear. Unless you’re one of the douchebags who doesn’t tip at all, then it’s entirely personal. Anyways, if you could file a complaint against me of some sort, or give me boss an angry phone call, I’d really appreciate it!



Mike D.

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