The Pizza Delivery

Our son Garrett, who was born with Smith-Magenis Syndrome, had just locked himself in the bathroom.  It was time for “The Garrett Show”.  The evening re-cap of the day’s festivities.

We have always assumed that he locks himself in the bathroom because the acoustics are the best in the house. 

“The Garrett Show” sounds something like this: 

I rode on Heather’s school bus. Good Morning, Heather! 

Good morning, Buddy, how are you? 

I have bad, bad news. 

Oh, no Garrett!  What is it? 

My mom doesn’t have any bananas. 

I’m so-so-so sorry Garrett. 

It’ll be okay, Heather!

It can go on for over an hour, depending on the number of characters.  Garrett plays all the parts.

My husband, Charlie, was out with our other two sons.  I was thrilled when I hung up the phone after placing my pizza order and realized that “The Garrett Show” had begun early that night.  I could pay the delivery man and have the table ready by the time Charlie and the boys returned home.

We just recently experienced that “Modern Marvel”: The Pizza Delivery.  The whole household usually rushed the door as if he was the return of The Prodigal Son.  

Living out in the county, we don’t have street lights or even sidewalks in front of our homes.  So, when a new pizza place opened “in town” and realized that people in the country would pay for anything delivered to our door; it was like we died and went to New York City.

Seriously, if someone sold warm cat food in a shoebox I would pay twenty bucks just to keep from having to warm up my car.  

Garrett was always the worst assailant when the delivery man came to the door.  He had a list of questions that we must go through:  

                      What’s your name?  Is that your car?  Did you make this pizza?  

                      You going back to the pizza place?  You go this way or that way?  

Unfortunately, the delivery man was early that night.  No sooner had I pulled the glasses out of the kitchen cupboard and the dog started barking.  Oh man!  I wanted to open the door before he had a chance to knock.

“Who is? Who is?” Garrett called out from the bathroom.

“Pongo is barking at Miss Kitty,” I lied.  I lie a lot.

Garrett opened the bathroom door as I ran by.

“Stay in the bathroom!  I’ll get Pongo.”

I opened the front door.  It was a new delivery guy.  Good thing Garrett was distracted.  New people get the most questions.

“Is it Dad?  Is it Aunt Patty?” Garrett ran up behind me.  I didn't even turn around.  I just held out my arm and blocked him.  So much for him being distracted.

The man looked up at Garrett. I recognized that look.  Some people are just uncomfortable.  I get that.  I remember feeling awkward around disabled people before my son was born.

   

“Hello Pizza Man!  What your name?  I’m Garrett McGrevy!”

The man did not answer.  He just continued wrestling our two pizza boxes out of the company’s insulated carrier.

“I can help!” Garrett tried to get around but my arm was still held against the door frame.

 

The man looked…almost terrified.  Really.  It was a look of horror.  I should have been offended, but I actually felt sorry for him.

“Get back, Garrett.  He can get it.”

Then, both boxes fell to the ground, upside down.  Fortunately, the lids stayed closed. He was so nervous!

“I’ll fix it!  I’ll fix it!”  Garrett went low. I moved my hip and completely blocked the door.

“I’m so sorry,” the man said.

“It’s fine.  We can scrape the cheese off the lids.”  I wasn’t joking about the warm cat food. 

“I can go back to the shop...” he continued.

“Really, it’s fine.”  I assured him.

He handed me the boxes and turned to walk away.

“Wait a minute!”  I called him back.  “I didn’t sign the receipt.”

“I can sign my name!” Garrett reminded me.

“It’s okay,” the delivery guy waved his hand; “they can run it through back at the shop without your signature.”

“But I was going to write in your tip.”  I never have cash. Never.

“I don’t need a tip.” He turned back around.  He was really going to leave.

“No.  I want my receipt.”  I insisted.

I’m no fool.  He’d mark our name as “no tip” in the system and every pizza thereafter will have a little something extra.  And I don’t mean cheese!

He walked back to our door. 

“I don’t need a tip,” he repeated.

Garrett was still right up against me. 

“Back up!” I told him.  “Here, you take the pizzas to the kitchen.”

I turned around to hand Garrett the boxes. 

And that’s when I finally looked at him. 

And that’s when I realized he was buck ass naked.  Not a stitch of clothing.  Not even socks!

I was mortified.

I could only assume that he had been naked during this entire exchange. Apparently, this evening’s episode of “The Garrett Show” involved full frontal nudity, but I had not looked at Garrett when he came out of the bathroom.  

Oh, the poor delivery guy. I looked back at him.  No wonder he couldn’t get away from us fast enough.  He had been standing at the threshold of hell, but he was the only one of us who knew it.

I tried to channel my calm.  The calm that keeps Garrett from learning this behavior gets extra attention from me.  And learning that…only leads to him repeating it in the future.  (If you recall, I tried to find my calm at the grocery store in this older blog story.)

I turned back to Garrett and took a deep breath.

“Oh MY God!!"

He looked shocked.

"What are you doing?  You do not come out of the bathroom without your clothes on!” Seriously, how could I even be fake calm at a time like this?

Somehow the “don’t come to the front door naked rule” had escaped his attention these past fifteen years.

Garrett handed the pizzas back to me.  He turned around and ran back into the bathroom.  His departure scene was not an improvement.

“I am so, so sorry.” I didn’t even know where to begin with the pizza man. 

The entire time I had been thinking that something was wrong with this guy…a naked teenager had been dancing behind me!  Oh, Lord.  Something was wrong with me.

“I don’t need tip.”  He repeated.

“Okay!” I agreed and mule-kicked the door closed.

Looks like I’ll be warming up my car on pizza nights.