Tip Your Delivery Guy

Welcome to a story of the Owenverse. Tales of the Owenverse are completely stand-alone stories, so don't worry. You need have done no homework to enjoy this tale. If you have read other Owen stories, be advised that they skip around chronologically. This one is from back in Owens freshman year in college. If you like Owen and his strangely serendipitous life, then you will find more stories about his world over time on my works page, or just by searching for 'Owenverse'. Expect new tales to show up on and off!

As always, and especially with Owen, I do not seek deep truths or high drama in my writing, just a fun, plausibly ridiculous story! Cheers!

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Tip Your Delivery Guy

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Okay, so it wasn't a car. It wasn't even a motorcycle. It wasn't even a genuine Vespa brand scooter. But it had a motor, it had a tiny cargo deck in back, and it was mine. For a freshman on a giant urban campus, it was a huge step up from riding the bus everywhere.

It also had a long seat that let me, in a pinch, offer a ride behind me, or 'pillion', to someone, though usually my only passenger was my fortunately scrawny roommate Doug, who did not even have a shitty, off-brand scooter of his own on which to go to the store. I did manage to get Jo Silverman to take a ride on the scooter with me to see a movie a few times, but I unfortunately was always unable to get her to take any subsequent rides on

me

.

But most importantly, a ride meant more than just being able to buy better chips than were available at the campus store. It meant I could get to a job, which meant I could earn some money. My parents made sure I could afford school, but they were adamant that I needed to earn my own movie, snacks, and other entertainment cash.

All I needed was a job that I could keep up with, given the schedule of a college student--a college student who actually did his homework.

Sigh.

When I became an upperclassman, there would be internships and the like. Right now, I had a full schedule of classes of the big lecture type. The kind I could easily skip attending... but not then subsequently easily ace if I did so regularly. I needed a job with weird hours.

I had driven over to a strip shopping center where there was in independent video game store that had placed a help wanted ad in the free paper, only to find the position there already filled. As I came out, my eye was caught by a hand-written Help Wanted sign at the little hole in the wall pizza place next door.

I shrugged. Maybe they had something that would work for me. And if not... well, I could use a slice at the moment, regardless.

And thus, a career in the exciting and remunerative field of Pizza Logistics was born. Turns out, an insulated pizza bag would fit just perfectly on the back deck of my scooter, and that made me just peachy in the eyes of Angus, the owner of Giuseppe's Pizza. (Why not Angus's Pizza? Would you buy a pizza from

Angus's

Pizza? 'I'll have the Haggis Special, please!')

I started immediately, as in, Angus said, "Scooter, huh? You're hired. Take this pie to 347 Juniper Ave. And hurry, it's late already."

The tips were not bad actually, unless I was delivering on campus, where my fellow douchebags, er, students were as cheap as, well, I was.

Doug, whose parents gave him actual cash to live on, so he wouldn't have to take time off from his studies to work (like he ever studied anyway), thought my new job was hilarious. He didn't laugh when he needed to ride to the store behind me on my scooter. When he needed that, it was like he was my little bitch.

"You are learning valuable life lessons, Owen," Angus was fond of telling me in the rare moments where I was not dashing in and then back out of the shop. I was not so sure at the time.

I did learn to make and toss a mean crust though--a skill that would later indirectly earn me the most oral sex-filled weekend of my life, but that's another story.

"So we have to know," Doug asked me one late Saturday after I came back to the room to find him and a few of our buddies already a joint and six-pack into the night, "Have you had any women come to the door naked yet?"

I sighed. "I've been on this job for three whole weeks, dudes!"

"And?" Wilt Meeks prompted eagerly. I happened to know that Wilt watched far, far too much porn, and thus had quite unrealistic beliefs about the life of a pizza delivery dude.

I sighed again. "Two," I admitted.

There were cheers and raised beers.

"Details," demanded Reggie James. Reggie was an Un-Flushable. He was not our friend, and we didn't want him around, but we could never seem to get rid of him.

I just grumbled and grabbed a beer of my own.

"I hate to agree with Reggie, but come on. What was it like?" Doug asked in betrayal.

"I'm not going into it," I sad firmly.

That was met with a chorus of 'Why nots?'

"Because both women were No. Thank. Yous."

"No!" howled Wilt despairingly. He was pretty stoned already. "Ugly? Old? Mean? What?"

"All of the above, and add a few more gnarly things from your imagination," I grumbled, slugging back half my beer and noting sadly that the roach was too far gone to attempt relighting.

Okay, only one naked customer had been outright mean. But... no.

After being told that there was no more pot for a second joint, I ditched them all for better company in the common room.

Better company included Lucinda, a mousy-haired, mousy-attitude, fellow freshman who lived the next floor up. But she had nice tits, and that goes a long way in a college guy's book.

"I hear you are delivering pizzas on that scooter of yours," she asked me after I opened a beer for her.

"Everyone is fascinated by this," I grumbled. "Am I the only person in this dorm who has a fucking job?"

Lucinda shrugged. "I think so. Is the pizza any good?"

"Yeah, actually," I said, glad to change the subject to anything other than the spectacle of my putt-putting around on my scooter.

She whipped out her phone. "Cool. Give me the number for next time I need late-night sustenance. I'll be sure to ask for you!"

Swell. Another on-campus cheap tipper I thought, as I gave her the number.

But there were the nice tits...

Now, if Lucinda were to answer her dorm room door naked, she could outright stiff me and I'd be happy. I'd be ecstatic if she let me stiff her...

Most nights that I worked over the next week, I got through the boredom with the strange fantasy of Lucinda ordering a pizza in the buff. It was pathetic, honestly. But she was nice, in addition to having what seemed to be a superstructure worth studying.

The big problem was, I hit a run of a lot of campus deliveries, each one of which got my hopes up when Angus would hand them to me, then result in no Lucinda, naked or otherwise. All that week delivered was a streak of three, low-tips-per-mile evenings.

"Are you intentionally saddling me with just the campus deliveries, Angus?" I growled as I returned to the shop late on Thursday.

"Bad tip night?" was all he replied, but with some sympathy. "Sorry kid, we've had a lot of campus orders this week. It's mid-terms, isn't it?"

"Yes, and I'm here delivering your pies instead of studying for them myself," I retorted nervously. "Least you could do is shoot me a few off-campus runs so the evening isn't a total bust!"

Angus had the good graces to look sheepish. "Sorry, Owen. Really. There haven't been that many off-campus runs tonight."

"'That many'? I've gotten none!" I spat.

"Look," Angus said levelly, and inside my rational mind, I gave him credit for not telling me to fuck off. At a surface level, I was still irrationally hot. "I've got three pies here for Thompson dorm," he said levelly. "You

should

be taking them now, since only you are here." I looked askance at the order. Thompson was a freshman dorm, just like mine, and a tip wasteland. "Three pies, one run. Or I can wait five minutes to see if Joey or Debbie get back here, and if they do, I'll let them have it. There is a single pie order for the hotel out on Exit 5 that's in the oven. You choose... unless neither of them gets back in the next five."

Three pies, even with shitty college freshman tips, would likely be a slightly better run. But I petulantly did not want to bring pizza to more of my school mates, and there was the slight chance of a big tip at a hotel.

"Give me the motel run," I said. I knew the address. The place was a motel. It barely even aspired to be a hotel.

Fortunately, Debbie showed up at four minutes and ten seconds and was instantly saddled with the dorm run. I grabbed the motel pie when it came out of the oven, and hopped on my scooter.

As I putted off away, I realized that there was a decent chance I'd just cost myself five, maybe ten bucks. A better chance, to be honest, than the slight possibility I'd make an extra five. Choosing this run had been a lousy bet.

I felt bitter about having been a prissy asshole. This night was just getting shittier and shittier. Never go Full Prissy Asshole, I advised myself.

The motel, as I pulled up, was worse than I remembered it. It was clean, sure, and there were no hookers in the parking lot... so it was better than some deliveries I'd made by then. But it was just... so goddamned drab. I grabbed the single medium pie out of my thermal case, and hopped briskly up the steps to the second floor, finding I had chosen the wrong stairs to get to Room 227 quickly. I hustled the long way down the outdoor pathway/balcony to the other end.

I rapped on the door.

I heard a kind of girlish shriek of laughter inside, followed by an almost angry retort. All in the same voice.

Sure enough, when the door opened, I had been right. It was all the same voice. She was on her phone as she opened the door.

Um.

She was not naked. Nothing was exposed, in fact. But she was there, wearing just a short robe, tightly pulled around her waist, with her phone to her ear. She had a waist that was narrow. A waist that seemed even more narrow, because, no matter how bulky the short, gray robe was, there was no mistaking how much flesh was inside it above her narrow waist. Even pulled tightly closed as it was, there was cleavage to be seen up top.

This customer was stacked.

And about three years older than me... at most.

She finally bothered to look at me. She froze for a full second, then shrieked with laughter again and said earnestly into her phone. "No fucking way, Cindy!"

I lifted the box in offering, non-plussed about her phone conversation that had her almost completely ignoring me.

"No!" she said, staring at me while not meeting my eyes. "Not going to happen! Why would I..." She listened slowly. "No!" she said, turning away from me. She hugged her robe against her body even closer as she turned away like I wasn't standing in her door with a hot dinner. I clearly was not going to get a decent tip. No customer this rude or this distracted had ever been a good tipper in the history of pizza.

"Okay," she said, suddenly bargaining. At least she was smoking hot to look at as my hopes for some actual cash dwindled. Her ass was not big, but sure seemed curvy as hell under the robe in back. Her legs and feet were bare. And they were spectacular. She might well have just gotten out of the shower.

"But you have to do the same... within 25 minutes. Or you owe me two weeks of notes." She paused, listening. "Deal?" she said, sounding caught out at being taken up on her offer. She stared at the phone, and hung up without saying goodbye. She looked at me.

"Um, sorry. I had to deal with that, um, bitch. I apologize," she added, a trace of manners that she hadn't shown 'til then peeking through. She looked at me for the first time, and paused. Then she shrugged as if saying, what the hell.

"Look, uh, what's your name?" she asked, still nervously distracted. She retreated back away from the door.

"I'm Owen," I said, getting tired of the whole thing. My plans to be able to buy an ounce of weed with this week's tip proceeds had been looking shaky already tonight, and were fading even fast now.

"Close the door, would you? You are letting out the heat," she asked peremptorily.

It is a hotel, I thought irritatedly. It is not

your

power bill. I shook my head hopelessly as I stepped inside and let the room door close.

One does not step into a customer's place and let the door close. It is not safe. But I was distracted and irritated by her own distraction, my bad night in general, and how full the top of her robe was. When I realized I'd closed myself in with her, I still didn't panic, because, well, I had seven or eight inches of height and probably 50 pounds on this girl. Later in life, I would learn that was not necessarily enough, but I was 19 then, and stupid.

"I'm, uh, Bunny," the customer said. "Uh, thanks for the pie..." she hesitated again. "Um, could you do me a favor?" she asked quickly. I just stared at her. "I need a picture of me with the pizza for a bet... It's... it's a whole thing, sorry," she said, tumbling over her own words. She held out her phone to me.

I rolled my eyes and traded her the phone for the pie. "You need to memorialize getting a pizza delivered?" I asked doubtfully.

She didn't give my dumbass question the courtesy of an answer. "You know how to..." she started ask anxiously.

"I know how to use an iPhone camera," I interrupted, rolling my eyes. I opened the camera app and held it up toward her. I hated to admit it, but I'd probably be whacking off later, to the mental image of this hottie, in her short but boring robe.

"Ready," I grumbled. Spank bank material was all well and good, but enough total cash for a fresh supply of pot that would have been all mine... at least until my buddies discovered I had it, would have made a better evening's earnings.

Bunny opened the pizza box, held it out before her... and shrugged the robe off her shoulders to hang from her forearms that held out the pie.

She wore nothing under that robe but a very small, yet very utilitarian pair of flesh-toned panties that covered... just enough to make me sad. But it didn't make me very sad, because the naked tits she was displaying for me and her camera were works of art--Leonardo Da Vinci, Botticelli, Claude Monet-level works of art. They were rounded, and firm, and creamy, and bouncy, and had delicious round aureoles in a pale pink, with visibly embarrassed nipples that were a much darker shade than the surrounding circles. And by embarrassed, I mean they were perked up like two pop-up timers on a pair of well-cooked turkeys.

I just stood there, gawping at clearly the best chest I'd ever seen at that point in my life. In retrospect, I'd say they were the best tits I would see in my life until at least my 27th birthday, when I saw Sue Ellen Yale's, and even then, I would say it is still up for debate which were better.

She blushed as my delay went beyond a second or two. "The picture, um, Owen? Right?" she hissed, then smiled sweetly, with only a little crazy nervousness in her eyes.

"Sorry," I gulped, and took about fifty shots with the fast shutter function.

She instantly shrugged the robe closed, and held her hand out for the phone. "Sorry, um, I mean, thanks. I need these to win a bet," she blushed.

"Sure, uh, sure," I babbled, still in shock at what had just happened, and even more so at how high quality what I had seen had been. I froze for a second, then added, "Um, you're incredible. Could I maybe... take a picture on my own phone?" I hated myself for asking instantly. It was a douche move.

Bunny looked at me for a moment, as if not sure why she was not kicking me out. But those nipples had been super horny-looking when she was flashing me earlier... "Two seconds," she said, dropping the pizza on the bed, and grabbing her lapels in each hand.

This was a

yes

??

I fumbled desperately for my own phone, managing somehow not to drop it. I lifted it up, framing Bunny in the viewfinder. "R-ready," I stammered.

Bunny seems to be regretting her agreement already, but also still a little excited too.

She whipped her robe open again wide. She smiled as if happy, but ground out between her grinning teeth, "One... Two..."

She snapped the robe closed. She blushed again. "Thanks, um, for the help... and the pizza."

She looked around, uncomfortably. Then she looked at the door, and sprung to open it for me.

"Um, that was eighteen fifty," I said slowly.

"Shit! Sorry!" she said, and grabbed her purse from the formica table in the room. She grabbed a twenty (on an $18.50 order!) and pressed it into my hand as she rushed me out the door.

Fuck!

Less than a ten percent tip on my fucking first off-campus run of the night... I shook my head as I headed back to unlock my scooter. I had less than an hour left to pray for a standout run to salvage the evening. Yeah, right.

I stopped and opened my phone. I looked at the seven photos I'd taken in those two long seconds.

Probably, worth it, I sighed.

I was halfway back to the shop when my phone rang. Frowning, I pulled over and looked at the unfamiliar number. It was the shop. Angus had never called me... ever!

"What's up boss?" I asked, returning the call.

"Never had this happen before, but the nice lady you just delivered to, called to say she had forgotten your tip, and to send you back for it," Angus laughed. "I don't know if it is worth it to you to go back, or blow her off and hope for maybe one more run tonight."

Last runs were often good tipping runs. Sometimes. Occasionally.

The nice 'lady' (so much for Angus's perception of phone voices) would hopefully actually pay me well, or why bother to call me back after stiffing me. "I'll go back," I sighed. "See you Wednesday?"

"Good call. She seems embarrassed to have stiffed you, kid. And yeah, knock off for the night, and I'll see you tomorrow." Angus signed off. The boss was not a generous soul. He just knew things could be slow as the evening waned on weeknights.

I turned around and headed back. Would she have called me back for less than a ten? Really?

God. She might have.

I thought of the photos I had. Doug might pony up at least a six-pack to have copies. Would it be right to sell them, though? I didn't really have permission for that...

Fuck it. If she called me back for a measly fifteen percent, I'd sell her pix to fucking Reggie James. But she seemed like too nice a person, actually, to do that to me.

And those tits had been amazing. I kind of wanted to see their outlines again in person, just to help remember them forever.

I parked my scooter and locked it swiftly. The motel was not in a bad neighborhood, but it was not in a Just Leave Your Scooter Unattended neighborhood either. I bounced up the steps. Maybe she would give me a twenty, just for convenience sake, though that was unlikely. She didn't look like she was more than a couple years older than me. A senior at some other school? Maybe just graduated?

I knocked.

I saw the peephole darken for just a moment, then she tugged the door open, wordlessly inviting me back in. It was a consciously polite gesture, as if she was aware that, beyond stiffing me with a buck-fifty tip, she had been pretty rude the first time.

I consciously stepped in this time. I still wasn't worried. I wanted her to feel good toward me, which stubbornly standing outside like I was suspicious would not accomplish. And I was pretty sure that merely standing around talking to this hottie would improve the evening all on its own.

"I'm sorry I forgot to tip you," Bunny said quickly. "I was so focused on the bet."

"What did you win?" I smirked. If she had been talking to a boyfriend or some other guy on the phone, and showed him those pictures, then he was the one who had won.