Of Crusties and Pizza

Some time ago, one of my young Facebook friends complained about the bad behavior of a “crusty old white man.” I don't think I'm particularly crusty, but I am an old white man, and I apologized on behalf of all crusty old white men (whom, for the sake of brevity, I will henceforth refer to as "crusties"). I couldn’t help but think of some of the horrible things crusties have done, and continue to do.

Case in point, this week's Senate Judiciary Committee hearings, in which some exceedingly crusty crusties publicly displayed a flagrant disregard for truth, for justice, and for women—not to mention a couple of temper tantrums worthy of a three year old.

We crusties can't change the fact that we're white, that we're men, or that we're old (and that may be part of the reason we're crusty). But we can certainly strive to be less crusty. In other words, we can try to be more kind, tolerant, patient, respectful.

In other words, we can try to be more like my father.

Thirteen years ago, Loretta's job required her to travel to the Philippines for six weeks. After listening to me whine incessantly about being left alone for such a long time, she proposed that we invite my parents and my mother's last surviving sister to California to keep me company. They were all at an age where travel had become an ordeal (an age I am rapidly approaching), but to our surprise they agreed to come.

I had misgivings about entertaining guests without Loretta, but she made it easy. She spent much of the time before her trip ensuring that we were amply supplied with ready-to-microwave, home-cooked meals. After she left, I had very little to do other than to take them out for a few meals (always paid for by my father) and a little sight-seeing. The rest of our time was spent at home: watching TV or lounging on the patio, happily reminiscing about the old days.

However, there inevitably came an evening when we had run out of Loretta’s home-cooked meals and nobody wanted to go out, which left me responsible for dinner. I rose to the occasion, doing exactly what anyone else with my level of culinary skill would have done: order out for pizza.

I called Round Table, our go-to place for pizza delivery. We were regular customers, so they already had our address in their computer. The manager, who took my order, said delivery would be in approximately half an hour.

A half hour went by.

Another half hour went by.

We were well into the third half hour, and people were getting hungry. I was especially concerned about my mother, who was diabetic and was supposed to eat regularly scheduled meals. I called Round Table and asked the manager very forcefully why our pizza had not yet been delivered.

“Just a moment,” he said. A minute or so later, he returned to the phone. “I just spoke to the guy. He says he is outside your house now.”

“Oh, really?” I said derisively. “Then why hasn’t he rung the doorbell?”

“He says he did, but there was no answer.”

I went to the door and opened it. As I suspected, there was no one there. I walked out into the driveway and looked up and down the street, thinking he might have mistaken the address and gone to a neighbor’s house.

“There is nobody outside my house.”

“I’m sorry,” said the manager. “What can I do? He says he is outside your door.”

“Then he’s a liar!” I said, slamming down the receiver. (Well, I would have slammed down the receiver, had this happened thirty years ago. Unfortunately, it was a cordless phone, and I could only press a button—an extremely unsatisfactory way to end an angry phone call, if you ask me.)

“It looks like I’ll have to go out and get our pizza,” I said irritably.

“I’ll go with you,” said my father.

As we headed for Moorpark’s second-favorite pizza place, I ranted to my father about incompetent, dishonest pizza delivery persons, all of them no doubt drug addicts.

In short, I was being a crusty. 

Then we drove by the neighborhood where we used to live, and something in my brain clicked. When was the last time we had had pizza delivered by Round Table? We had moved two years previously, our new street number was similar to our old street number, and I had not been listening that carefully when the manager asked me to confirm the address...

Crap.

“Change in plan,” I said, and explained to my dad what I thought had happened. When we arrived at Round Table, I left him in the car and went inside, feeling very sheepish.

“Hi,” I said to the manager. “I’m the guy who just called about the pizza that didn’t get delivered. Could you tell me the address you have for us in your computer?” He looked up our account by our phone number, which hadn’t changed. As I suspected, they still had the old address.

I explained my mistake, apologized profusely, and paid for the pizza, leaving a generous tip for the delivery guy.

“I feel terrible,” I told my father as we drove home. “Especially for calling the delivery guy a liar.”

“But you admitted your mistake and apologized for it,” said my father. “I’m proud of you.”

“It’s what you would have done,” I said.