Outside Your Office Window

OUTSIDE YOUR OFFICE WINDOW By: Robbie Pryor

Pryor, Priest & Harber

IT’S JUST PIZZA

Mid-June 2021. I was in Destin, Florida along with 85% of Earth’s population. Family vacation. This was one of those family vacations where “family” means parents, siblings, kids, their boyfriends, a dog, etc. - all under one roof. It was the first night, and my wife and I were the first to arrive. We took the responsibility of handling dinner. My parents, their dog, and my sister were en route from Knoxville, as were my brother and his family from Smithville. The skies were full of my children. One daughter and her boyfriend were flying in from Washington, one daughter from Arizona, and that daughter’s boyfriend from Virginia. Weather was horrible. Lightning and storms popped up all over the Southeast.

I called a couple of places for pizza and wings. One place told me two hours, the other didn’t even answer the phone. Finally, I got Pizza Hut on the line - the corporate line. Who wants corporate pizza on vacation? It’s hard not to like a fifteen minute wait for carryout. POW! It was 6:45. On my way to get the gigantic order, and yet to relax, my phone started going nuts. Because of weather, my daughters were now arriving at separate airports…at the same time. As I pulled into the strip mall where the pizza should have been just about ready, I was figuring out how I was going to be at two airports at the same time. No worries. I had time to figure it out. They weren’t landing until 9:00. When I looked up after parking, I noticed the line to the Pizza Hut.

It was a store-front delivery and carryout location. The line started inside the tiny entrance, extended out onto the sidewalk, and ran around the side of the building. I walked up to the end of the line behind Hazel from Kentucky. “This is a real mess,” she said. She went on to explain that the national call center had directed all the orders “from here to Pensacola” to this one little store. When I started asking questions (as lawyers tend to do) like “what time did you all call?” and “how big was your order?” it became apparent that most of the people around me hadn’t asked anything. They just ordered on the phone, drove up, and assumed their place in line without asking a thing. Within five minutes of asking questions and making suggestions, I was elected group spokesman and granted the power to approach the small opening in the store front to get answers. As I collected names and order sizes to take with me on my quest for information, I learned this was Hazel’s first time visiting the panhandle without a camper. She was a self-declared “hillbilly” and mourning the fact she’d rented a beach house. I told her I was a hillbilly, as well. She laughed. “Hillbillies don’t wear golf shirts.” Point taken. I made my way down the path to see the Wizard.

As I made my way, more and more people began telling me their order and asking for my help. Most were angry, some anxious, and a few simply apathetic. It started raining. By the time I reached the end of the path I was cloaked in the power of the people, the designated representative of no less than 20 people who had themselves been duly elected by their families and friends (we’re talking hundreds of people) to find out just what in the Hell was going on. When I reached the counter, I carried with me the anger and betrayal of a community. I was ready for the Wizard. Standing behind “COVID glass,” he was my age, the hair beneath his grease-streaked ball cap soaked in sweat. He was a broken man. His 3 young employees were running back and forth in a kitchen the size of a port-a-potty. Wearily he looked up, his eyes already pleading for reprieve and forgiveness. I looked at his name tag and respectfully asked, “How’s it going, Mark?” Mark and I talked as angry customers looked on. It became apparent that the rumors lining the path were true, and it was going to be a long time before mine or anyone else’s pizza got made. It was 7:30. I walked outside, called my constituents together and announced the bad news. I offered few details as they would not have improved the mood. Many gave up and walked to their cars, cussing Pizza Hut and making threats that would have placed them in jail if made near airport security. I had a choice. Leave and start the process over or wait it out. I couldn’t go home empty-handed. I got back in line and met Chris. His family owned a bunch of chicken restaurants in Georgia. He was a Bulldog fan, and we chatted about the upcoming season and our kids. It was 8:00. Then Trevor walked up. He wore a Budweiser tank top and was accompanied by his three-year-old son, Trevor, Jr, who was barefoot. Trevor (Sr.) was drinking a Budweiser tallboy, which led me to inquire whether he had a sponsorship of some kind with Anheuser-Busch. He was from Louisiana and had a Cajun accent so thick I began craving gumbo as I listened. Trevor had grown up poor, a child of the Atchafalaya basin. I noticed he and Chris weren’t angry about the pizza. I wasn’t angry. All the angry people had gotten in their cars. We waited and talked. It was 8:30. I got on the phone and made arrangements for my girls and my likely future sons-in-law to be picked up from their multiple airports, promising everyone that pizza was on its way and would be there for them.

When I reached the front with Hazel, Chris, Trevor, and Trevor, Jr. it was after 9:00. Everyone was gone except us and a man about my age and a little girl, swishing her sundress back and forth. The man introduced himself as Tony. As it went, we all had more time, so he joined in our talk about life. He had the kind of Georgia accent that made you wish you were from Georgia…if only for a minute. He got around to telling me he was Daryle Singletary’s brother-in-law. Daryle was a country musician with several big hits in the 90’s who died suddenly at the age of 46 in 2018. He told us Daryle’s death left Tony’s sister-in-law with 4 kids under the age of seven, and that the whole family had been pitching in with the kids. I knew this story. I lived this story. Then he introduced me to Daryle’s youngest child, sweet little Charlotte Rose, only six years old and standing in the doorway of a Destin Pizza Hut. Then we all noticed. We all noticed no one was angry. Tony and I marveled out loud, with Mark and his team that never quit, with Hazel, Chris, Trevor, and Trevor, Jr. We marveled how happy we were to get our pizza despite having to wait two hours in the rain. “Why aren’t y’all mad?” asked one of Mark’s guys. “It’s just pizza,” Tony said with a smile. He picked up his large order, left a hefty tip, and reached for Charlotte’s hand.