D.C. Pizza Guy
by David Randall

Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Reagan - they all got their pizza from me, and I got the pictures in my truck to prove it. I seen some strange things in my day, hustlin' pies to the White House, but this Clinton bunch beats all I ...well, let me tell you about it.
Must have been January of '93, right after the first inauguration party - you remember, when all them fags was marchin' naked down Pennsylvania Avenue with the other weirdos. Christ, it looked like someone had opened the doors to all the nuthouses in three states, and the inmates all showed up here. Nuthouses or zoos, take your pick. Not that it made no never mind to me. I ain't political, and I don't care what the assholes do, as long as they got exact change, get me?

But I'm getting off the track. Anyway, about 2 a.m., boss gets a call from the White House, they want an extra large pepperoni and mushroom, extra cheese, so I'm workin' the night shift, see, and I take it over. The guards all know me, like I said I been doin' this since Hector was a pup, so they wave me through, and I go up to the back door and knock. This big, tall goofy lookin' doofuss answers and says come on in, so I do.

God Almighty, was that place a mess! I remember thinkin' Mrs. Bush would shit if she saw this, excuse my French. I mean there was empty booze bottles all over, holes burnt in the rug, women's underwear hangin' from the chandelier, you name it. And you could tell they had been smokin', and I don't mean tobacco, neither. I knew what wacky weed smelled like because Carter used to smoke it all the time - Hodding Carter, I mean, not Jimmy. Hell, Rosalyn would have cut his balls off. And there was little piles of white powder on the coffee table, and I could hear people laughin' and carrying on upstairs.

So I'm standin' there with the pizza when this guy comes in, eyeballs red as a bulldog's ass, staggerin' like he could hardly stand up. It was the President's brother, Roger, of course I didn't know it at the time, and he takes the pizza, pops the lid, takes a deep breath and says, jokin' like, "These aren't the kind of mushrooms we used to get back in Arkansas." Then he says something about munchkins or munchies, something like that, and heads off upstairs with the pizza, leavin' me and the tall guy starin' at each other.
I didn't know who he was either, until later I find he was Al Gore. He had this kind of shocked look on his face, like he didn't really want to be there but couldn't leave, you know what I mean. So I says, "That'll be $16." And he reaches in his pocket and hands me $16.

Now it's 2 o'clock in the friggin' morning, and this guy is acting like he never heard of such a thing as a tip, so I just stand there and kind of clear my throat and count the money real slow, and finally he takes the hint, but he says, "I'm sorry, that's all they gave me. Wait a minute." And he goes somewhere, but instead of coming back with a fin or sawbuck, he has this damn book. He writes his name in it, and hands it to me like he's givin' me the friggin' Hope Diamond or something. It was called Earth in the Balance or something, and I tried readin' it later, but it didn't make any sense, so I pitched it. Anyway, I knew I was stiffed, so I left.

It always takes a while to figure the angles when a new Administration comes to town, and after the first few trips I learned never to deliver the order to Gore, because he never had any money, or to Hillary, because she was such a tightass, she'd tip you a quarter on a $200 order. Dick Morris would always treat you right, and Betty Currie, she'd tip you pretty good out of the petty cash, so I always took the daytime orders to her desk and tried to find Dick at night. Once in a while Clinton would come to the door himself, but not often, which surprised me, because he looked like a guy who had scarfed down quite a few pizzas in his day.

So this goes on for a couple of years, then one day Slick Willie himself calls the shop and says he wants a large pepperoni and sausage, pronto, and to deliver it to the Oval Office, so I hotfoot it over there, but instead of Betty there's this young chick, 20, maybe 21, dark hair, a little on the chubby side, but not too bad. I figure she's one of Chelsea's friends. She's waitin' for the pie, so I give it to her, and then - so help me, God, - she hikes up her skirt, and she's got her money stashed in one of those old-fashioned garter belts. And she ain't wearin' nothin' else but that garter belt under her skirt, if you follow me. I could see what little Tommy saw at the picnic, and it didn't seem to bother her one bit, in fact, I think she liked showin' it off, cause she smiles at me and kind of licked her lips, but that might have been because she was thinkin' about the pizza, who knows? She give me a $3 tip, though.

Well, we start getting' these calls from the President ever so often, usually on a Sunday, and this girl, who I later find out is Monica Lewinsky, is always waitin' for the delivery. Then one day we get a call for a large Italian sausage, so I take it over as usual, but when I get to the Oval Office, there ain't a soul there, no Betty, no Secret Service agents, no reporters, no nobody, just a funny lookin' little guy with a big nose and one of them Arab towel things on his head standin' outside in the Rose Garden.

Now I got three other deliveries to make, and I'm thinkin' "Jesus Christ, where is everybody, I ain't got all day," so I walk down the hall, and just as I'm turnin' the corner, there's Clinton leanin' up against the wall, with this Monica chick on her knees. Now I don't have to paint you a picture of what they was doing, let's just say that the sausage on the pizza wasn't the only one hot that morning. Well, I'm no idiot, so I step back around the corner before they see me and go back into the waiting area. I mean, I might be in a hurry, but this guy is the friggin' President. Then I hear him kinda moanin', and Monica yellin', "You got it on my new dress, butthead!" Fine way to talk to the President, huh?

Well, I'm there maybe five minutes, tops, when Clinton comes in and pays for the pizza. I act like I just got there and apologize for being late, so he won't know that I saw him and this Monica babe playin' swallow the salami. And I got enough sense to keep my mouth shut. I remember what happened to Vince Foster and Ron Brown, and I want to be around to collect my Social Security, you know what I mean?

Still, it does kind of tick me off to know that Ken Starr spent $40 million tryin' to prove what I knew all along. If he had just asked, I could have saved him a lot of trouble. You see, when Monica paid me for that first pizza, I noticed there was something on those bills, and they were kinda stuck together. And I thought, "Hell, that looks like ... no, it couldn't be." But I stuck those bills in a safety deposit box, anyway. Because if there's one thing you learn from delivering pizza in this town for 35 years, it's never miss a chance to cover your ass. Excuse my French.