I worked tonight from 5 o’clock to around 11. It was my last day delivering pizzas before Christmas, and the holiday spirit was inescapable. Light 101FM filled the shop with festive tunes, Christmas cookies were popping up out of nowhere, and “have a good night” was replaced with “Happy Holidays!” when addressing customers. I guess you’re not allowed to wish people Merry Christmas unless you are completely sure of their denomination. The last thing you want to do is offend a Jewish person before they decide how much to tip you.

Despite all of the holiday cheer, it was turning out to be a shitty night. It was raining, nobody was tipping, and I wasn’t in a mansion having sex with a model on top of a pile of cash. Things were looking glum.

I made a run to one house that was covered with decorations. I’ve found that if I’m not sure which house I’m looking for on the street, it’s probably the one with the most lights. Holiday nuts love pizza. It was certainly the case for this house. A bubbly middle aged woman answered the door in a holiday sweater and, after completing the transaction, offered me a Christmas treat to take with me. She handed me a festively wrapped apple covered in chocolate and caramel and sent me on my way with a Merry Christmas.

The night suddenly wasn’t so bad.

The last delivery of the night was somewhat of a landmark for me. I had heard talk about a mysterious regular customer… a customer who would order every week…. a customer who would order enough food to last him several days at a time. Not just pizza, but desserts and drinks and everything but the kitchen sink. They called him “Charlie Manson.”

A huge order popped up on the screen; three pizzas, two subs, a couple of two liters, some brownies, a cannoli. The total came out to be around $55.00. My boss asked me if I had ever been to Charlie Manson’s house before, and I told him that I hadn’t.

“So, is his name Charlie Manson or does he just look like him?” I asked.

“He looks just like him. A younger Charles Manson,” he replied.

Charles Manson has always kind of fascinated me. The way people talk about his hypnotic presence, the fact that he is one of the most famous serial killers in the history of the world, and his frightening appearance… he sounds like a scary guy.

As I drove to his house with his humongous order sliding around in my trunk, I was anxious to see this guy. I flicked on my overhead light and took a glance down at his address; he lived at the very end of his street.

The street was dark as I turned onto it and it only got darker as I neared the last block. I finally spotted his house in the shadows on my right. The ticket said to use the side door. There were no lights on in his house. I grabbed his food and made my way towards the entrance. The yard between his house and the next was, again, dark. The wind funneled through the make-shift alley and kicked around what was left of the rain.

His door had leaves around the entrance, a few cobwebs, and a black trash bag covering a torn screen. I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty creeped out. I knocked on the door and took a step back as my heart pounded.

I heard some faint footsteps and a cough before I saw the knob start to turn. It flew open and right in front of me, lurking beneath a pale hallway light, was Charles fucking Manson. I almost jumped when I saw. He looked EXACTLY like him; disheveled beard, raggedy flanel shirt, psychotic eyes, and all. There were mysterious bags full of God knows what strewn about his entrance way and the place gave off a funky smell.

He was actually a really nice, mild mannered guy though. But the entire time I dealt with him I couldn’t shake the idea that I was talking to the real Charles Manson.

After I got off of work, it was pretty late and I decided to hit up a drive through for dinner. Taco Bell had a thousand people waiting so I went to McDonalds.

As I waited in line the kid in the passenger seat of the car in front of me stretched his arm across the back of the drivers seat. I followed the line of his arm with my eyes and ended up at his hand… which was giving me the finger.

What?

“There’s no way that was meant for me,” I thought. Maybe I had misinterpreted what I saw. That’s when I saw him look back at me. That motherfucker looked me right in the eyes, flicked his head as if to say “what are you gonna do about it?”, and then he gave me the finger again!

I didn’t know what to do. He kept sneaking me the finger and then looking back to see my reaction. I just stared at him in disbelief, shaking my head occasionally in disappointment. It crossed my mind that he might be with a big brother or someone who would kick my ass if I retaliated in any way.

Their car pulled forward a bit, and I saw that he was with his mom. At the time I thought this eliminated any chance of me being able to say or do anything, so I didn’t. Now that I think about it, I should have just walked up to the car, knocked on the window, and said politely “I would appreciate it if you would please stop giving me the middle finger. Thank you” without even looking at the mom, and then walked away.

That kid would have gotten his ass beat so badly when he got home.

1. k322, December 28, 2007:

   lol the finger. so much for merry xmas (or happy holidays or however u prefer)

2. Will., December 30, 2007:

   I couldn’t help but think of this kid when I read that last bit:

   http://thedarkcyde.net/gallery/albums/userpics/Funny/Forums/normal_kid_finger.jpg