Thankoman

I hold certain service positions in high esteem. Not for the job itself, but for the joy the worker brings to me. On Tuesday nights, the local pizza parlour offers a spectacular deal on 'za. My pick is always the buffy buffy chicky chicky, smothered to death in a sea of liquid moulds. The moulds do bring me much cheer. Anyways, I call in the 'za around 6pm usually. I settle down with a beer and my favorite 20-dollar bill. I make sure to keep a keen eye on my phone. When I least expect it, the sounds of Stereolab's Outer Bongolia tickle my reptile brain. Like Pavlov's dogs, the saliva collection tubes on my cheeks begin to fill with the anticipitory juice. The tinny speaker on my phone begins to chirp as I lift the call to my noggin, "Hey this pizza here for you." The beer can whispers with carbonation. "I'll be right down." I slide my duct tape slippers over my naked feet and scample to the door. The man pauses and says the magic words, "Thankoman."

Something about the word 'thankoman' brings me great joy. It is simultaneously the name of the person speaking it and an act of gratification. I depend on the pizza delivery driver and he depends on me. For a moment, there is a mutual harmony in the world.

I zip down the world's worst 125-feet-per-minute elevator and greet a small fellow with a dark complexion. He smiles and holds the pizza far away from his body. "How it go tonight?" Thankoman says. "Very well thanks," I reply. I give him my preferred twenty and ask for a few dollars back. "You got it," he chuckles, calculating his $7 tip mentally. I take the money and the 'za in one hand. "Have a good night!" I say as he begins to turn. He quickly opens the front door. I know he has other people to bring joy to. He pauses for a second, turns his head, "Thankoman."