Piece of the Pie
Adventures in pizza delivery

Story: Matthew Forte
Photos: Rachel Kasunic

As I walk down South Water Street, I begin to sniff marinara sauce wafting down the sidewalk. The aroma—a combination of tomato, garlic and spices—hits me like a left hook when I open the door to Guys Pizza. Behind the main counter are Dan Vincent and Jamie Ward, both wearing blue aprons and folding pizza boxes.

I’ve always wanted to be a pizza delivery guy. Seriously, what could possibly top zipping around town delivering fresh, circular, Italian love?

A view from the outside of Guys Pizza Co. displays N's masquerading as Z's. {larger}

Flanking me are two chest-high, gray counters with metal stools. On the end of the counter lay Jamie’s cellular phone.

“He can’t get reception back there,” Dan says, pointing to the back of the store.

John Belushi is on the wall wearing his Animal House sweatshirt, but the word “college” is replaced with “Guys Pizza Co.” A toothless Pittsburgh Steelers player, No. 58, is on the other wall.

“That’s Jack Lambert,” Dan says. “He played for Kent. Went to high school just up the road.”

Beside that hangs a piece of white paper with a hand-written message asking whoever took the Drew Carey poster to give it back. “Some drunk guy” wearing a Guys Pizza shirt stole it, Dan says.

But we don’t have much time to look around because Jamie has to make a delivery. We walk out to his car, and he clears out the back seat to make room for the pizzas.

“Don’t worry about sitting on anything,” he says. “There’s a bunch of papers and menus and shoes.”

He turns the key and when the engine turns over, Elton John starts singing “Rocketman.”

“I have this song on repeat, so I hope you don’t get tired of it,” he says. “If you’re going with a pizza delivery man, I am not the guy to go with. I get lost all the time. You could do a reality TV show on me.”

We get about 20 feet down the street when he realizes he’s forgotten something.

“In fact, I don’t have a 2-liter, do I?”

“You could do a reality TV show on me.”

There’s not a drop of soda in the car.

“I’m going to have to circle around to get one.”

We drive around the block and find a car in our minute-old spot. Jamie parks in a handicapped spot. Thirty seconds later, he has a bottle of Coca-Cola.

A Park Avenue house is the night’s first delivery. Jamie asks me for the receipt so he knows the house address. We drive past the house, and Jamie pulls into a driveway to turn around.

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