I hate delivering to these god damned apartments. There have been way too many stories of delivery boys getting their car stolen, getting beaten up, or having their money stolen (or a combination of either of the three), and it’s all thanks to these god damned apartments. See, when it comes to delivering pizza there are usually four kinds of people in the world: the rich upper-class, the average people, white trash and ghetto people alike, and then you have apartment housing people. Whether or not you would place them below the scum in their trailer parks, it’s painfully obvious that most of these people forgot what the term ‘further yourself in life’ refers to.
As I step out of my car I wince at the thought of someone else’s ass touching my seat, their hand grabbing a firm hold of my shifter, pushing the clutch in like they were driving a brick through the floor, and driving off with an intensity that was easily too much for my car to handle. My car may not be much, but it’s my chariot; my god damn steed and I am the knight in shining armour. I decided to jump on the whole Honda Civic bullshit bandwagon way back when it was just starting. Fortunately I was able to pick the colour of my car before the zenith of their demand became apparent. Unlike the people in the apartments that stood before me, I had taste, and decided to go with a jet black paint job. Nothing fancy, no flames or any of that needless garbage, just black. If it weren’t for the headlights, I would be able to sneak up on a bat in the middle of the night. The interior was something to rival the exterior: Black leather with red lights in the dash. Nothing useless was in this car, nothing that would waste space or add weight. This is my god damn steed, and I am the knight in shining armour.
The aroma of pizza wafered in the air. The smell might be nice, for a bit, but when it’s stuck in your car the only benefit is that your parents can’t smell the piercing scent of smoke from the cigarette you had the previous night. I awkwardly stepped in front of my car, trying to balance the pizza on one hand, and close the door with the other. The headlights of my car reflected off of my black pants, black shirt, and black hat bearing the Biogio’s emblem; a large B balanced in the middle of a delicious pizza pie. The street was nicely paved, probably new cement (the lazy construction worker bastards can’t figure out how multiply 2 by 2, but yet they get paid over $33,000 dollars a year). You can tell when you have entered an area with an apartment just by looking at the concrete: broken and suffering from a major case of bi-polarism.
Walking up the stairs to the complex, I could see a sign under a street lamp’s glow for a room for rent,
ROOM FOR RENT: ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A CLEAN, NEW APARTMENT IN A GREAT NEIGHBORHOOD? WE ARE CURRENTLY LOOKING FOR TENNANTS WITH A GREAT ATTITUDE THAT ARE INTERESTED IN A FANTASTIC PLACE TO RAISE THEIR KIDS OR JUST HAVE FUN!
How ridiculous. The sign might as well say, “ATTENTION TO EVERYONE WITH AN I.Q. BELOW 90 AND LIKES WASTING MONEY! THROW AWAY YOUR MONEY BY RENTING OUR APARTMENTS!” I lie awake at night thinking about how people like this wake up and look at themselves in the mirror every morning.
“Well, hey there Doug, how’s life? How is the wife and kids? Oh, she’s cheating on you and ran away with the kids? You can always make the best out of it! Wait, you say you’re stuck at a dead end job and the only thing you look forward to is a painful exit from this waiting room we call Earth? Well, nice knowing you, Doug!”
The kind of people that live here are the kind of people that buy those exercise machines you see in infomercials at 2 in the morning. They’re the kind of people that think that living within a block of a McDonald’s is a great benefit (that way they can feel less guilty about eating grade F meat by walking 1 minute to McDonald’s and back). They’re the kind of people that have yellow t-shirt’s that used to be white, but they just don’t care anymore. This particular apartment building, lucky number 205 William’s Street, has a beautiful stair set from the sidewalk to the front door; obviously this kind of luxurious décor is only reserved for the pristine of the pristine. Judging from the sidewalk I would expect that the building was about 6 meters higher than the sidewalk. The feeling of being higher than the people on the sidewalk create a sort of, raised mindset. The wooden stair walkway is about 7 decimeters wide, making it as pointless as the people inside.
When I eventually completed the exasperating trek up the monumental cliff known as the front lawn of the building, I could finally make out the front of the apartment. It was made out of something, I’m not too sure, but either way it was covered up long ago by wood, making it out to look like a large cabin with a modern roof of shingles and gutters. The numbers ‘205’ were placed below the crest of the roof (which happened to be in the middle of the building), like testicles dangling under a light. Though, I doubt you would be able to tell if it was a light at all seeing as how the amount of bugs covering it and flying around it could only be compared to the amount of over weight morons at a blue light special at K-Mart. Directly below the numbers was the front door, the only door as far as I know. I grab the metal handle (it was painted gold at one time, but that has long since faded and chipped away. Did I mention this place was luxurious?) and start to carefully open the door while still trying to balance the pizzas on my hand. The small, 3x8 foot waiting room is a sign of what’s to come. The carpeting is red, as are the walls, and the only decoration is a painting of a grassy landscape. Probably stolen out of a gas station bathroom. As I look down at the pizza ticket to see which apartment I need to buzz (the only other door out of this small cell of cheesy decorations is locked. The only way to unlock it is to ring their doorbell. Hopefully the fat ass watching Jerry Springer upstairs can get off the couch long enough to let me through the door) I see a cockroach scamper across the floor and hide under a floor board.
“My god... This place too luxurious to handle” The buzzer finally goes off after what seems like an eternity and I open the second door. The next room leading to the apartments is so much better than the last. The carpets are red, as before (though now there are mysterious dark stains), but the walls are different. They look as if someone had painted them white and directly afterwards someone else dragged a bleeding body across the middle of the room. The paint was chipping and you could see the wood underneath, something that was a rarity in my life. The second you set foot in the building, the unique smell of urine and cheep beer started to creep in to your nose and hunt out every single crevice until you’re entire head was filled with, what I had thought at the time, the smell of death. As I started half jogging, half walking, up the stairs the sound of my flip flops smacking against my feet drowned out the sound of babies crying and loud televisions. Finally I had reached my destination: apartment 9, belonging to a "Mr. Kenderson".
