This is just a little snippet from a day in the life of HitokiriKurisuta. Feel free to ignore it, but I wanted to share. Bare with me for a moment, please - this takes some introduction, and it isn't the most interesting reading.

Some of you know what my current occupation is already, but for those who don’t, I work at a pizza place. I wipe down tables, I clean windows, I take out the trash, I do dishes, and all sorts of other cleaning-related odd-jobs. I also actually handle food, including but not limited to cutting pizzas, packaging pastas, and painting (spreading either garlic butter or cinnamon sauce on) breadsticks. Along with that, I answer the phones, take orders, cash people out, and all sorts of other things.

Basically, I’m the workhorse. I do anything and everything in the store that needs doing. And I do it well. And know what? I get paid minimum wage. And I am fine with that. Know why? Because I enjoy my job, my co-workers, and my general manager.

Aside from that, though, I also work as a delivery driver when I’m needed to (we’re short on drivers, so, as the Workhorse, I fill what roles I need to). This still pays minimum wage, but I also get tips. These range from nothing, all the way up to over 20 dollars per delivery. It all depends on how much the customer wants to give me. An average tip is from around 1-5 dollars.

For the most part, my tip money goes towards my gas, and other car-related expenses. So, considering that, I’m only getting marginally more than the hourly 7.25 that I get not taking deliveries.

Alright, now that you know the basic background of my job, I have a story for you. It’s actually the point of this whole journal.

Last night, I was working as driver. There was a Husker (for those who don’t know, I’m in Nebraska – the Huskers are our team) football game on last night at 6. I repeat: I work at a pizza place. There was a home game going on at the same time as dinner. It was Saturday.

Basically, we got slaughtered. Phones ringing off the hook, oven constantly spewing out food, and a good half of those orders were for delivery. And we were short a driver. So Frank and I were pretty much taking two and three deliveries at a time, desperately trying to keep up with the insanity, and still get these people their food on time.

And when it all finally slowed down, there were only two deliveries left to take, around 8pm. Frank took one, and I took the other.

When I arrived at the house, I walked up and rang the doorbell. From inside, I could clearly hear (a window was open) a woman say, “Well it’s about time!” So I already knew that I was going to have to be especially friendly. I gave my cheeriest smile when she opened the door and pulled her pizza out of the insulated bag we carry all our food in. She gave me a sour look, made an offhand remark about how long it had taken me (when she had called at 7:50, and I was there before 8:30 – we give a minimum delivery time of 45 minutes over the phone, and that night we’d been giving 45 min. to an hour times, just because of how busy we were) and promptly handed it off to another woman standing beside her. And then she glared at me and asked where her breadsticks were. I blinked, realized that, yes, there had been breadsticks with that order, and checked the bag again. Simple mistake, really – the bags are awkward, and it’s hard to pull out a 16” pizza box when you only have two hands. The breadstick container had simply slid off the top of the pizza when I pulled the box out, and they were light enough that I didn’t notice the extra weight. So I smiled again, apologized, and quickly handed those over, too.

Her response was, “Were you just hoping we wouldn’t notice?” I chuckled and gave her a confused look. Only later that night did I realize that she’d been serious, and accusing me of trying to steal her breadsticks. Breadsticks which I can get for free any time I want them.

She then asked me how much it had been again, and these were her words: “I normally write it down, but I forgot to, and it took so long I can’t remember…” So again, another jab at how long it had taken me, when I’d gotten there in 40 minutes.

I looked at the ticket, told her the info, she wrote a check (needless to say, there was no tip), and I was on my way again.

It may seem like a little thing to you, but that entire exchange bothered me. Immensely. So much so that I couldn’t sleep properly, despite being exhausted. Didn’t fall asleep until around 2am, and I woke fitfully, each time to that lady’s face and her bitter expression.

I imagined how I could have said or done things differently, I played out in my head a re-meeting of her where I could explain things… I even pretended that I would go back to her house and get payback somehow.

None of this helped me. I realized eventually that, no matter what I had done, this was the woman’s problem, not mine. I should simply move passed this. After all, it was a 5 minute exchange – the blink of an eye in my life.

That still didn’t help. I just couldn’t get over it. By this point, I was almost in tears. My mind’s eye just wouldn’t stop replaying the scene and trying to re-write it so it was better.

And then I realized something else.

Perhaps she’d had a bad day, or had previous bad experiences with deliveries or thefts, or maybe she’d just had a bitter, unhappy life, and she was like that all the time.

Then I felt sorry for her. I pitied her. And I forgave her.

And know what? I’m no longer upset.