Saber 1

Megan Saber

ENGL 101-026

Mrs. Klemm

19 September 2014

The Freedom Pizza

The house was dark and empty. Only my cat and I were left inside. My parents had gone

away to cater at a Boy Scout Camp event which left me completely independent for over a week.

Dishes were piled high. Food was running low. But my freedom, oh my freedom, was at its peak.

I set all my own alarms, got myself prepared for school days, and was on my way each

morning by myself. Homework and projects were completed without any nagging whatsoever by

hovering parents; they were done by myself. Nyx, my cat, was fed and given water, litter

scooped with freshness added by myself. Sure, the rooms were messy with blankets strewn

about, and the dishes with food still stuck on them were thrown in the sink. But for a week, all

those things were mine. That house was completely my terrain and I could do with it whatever I

wanted. Complete freedom had finally been attained. The only thing holding me back from doing

whatever I so chose to do, was me.

Over the course of this week, I realized how difficult it was to find the motivation to

prepare my own meals every night. It always seemed so easy to watch my mother cook. Water

with salt boils faster, metals do not get put in the microwave; I had the basics memorized. But

finding that motivation within myself was a completely different task. Free-me yearned to fully

embrace all that this new-found independence had to offer. And what better way than acting on

all of my dining whims.

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There was one thing holding me back. I was terrified of delivery men. Opening the door

to your home to a complete and utter stranger seemed horrifying to me. Not only that, but

juggling the food they were delivering with the money you had to give them seemed like too

much for me to handle. What if when they said “Enjoy your food!” I replied with an enthusiastic

“You too!” and became the laughing stock of their store? My parents were always the ones to

answer the door and pay them. I was not prepared to deal with something so monumental alone.

But I was free. And I wanted pizza. So, with confidence in my independence, I placed the order

online: one large, extra cheese pizza from Pizza Hut.

Once I placed the order, it sent me to a webpage that had a countdown. It told me that the

pizza that I had just ordered would be delivered to my house in forty-five minutes. But the

terrifying thing about this countdown was that it did not have just minutes, but also seconds. For

someone so terrified of answering the door for the delivery person, this was the countdown for

my panic attack. I sat and stared at this clock, excited and anxious, as it slowly ticked down to

the moment of truth. Did I have it within myself to open the door and accept this pizza?

Seconds slipped by, minutes were shaved off. With each minute gone, my hunger grew in

tandem with my anxiety. Hysteria was nearly on my front porch, but with it was delicious pizza!

Sitting still became impossible. I was forced to get up and walk around. Walking turned into

furious pacing. The red Pizza Hut screen was staring blatantly at me, enthusiastically telling me

when my wondrous, cheesy, greasy pizza would arrive, but I was seeing red. I reached out for

my phone, for my friends, for my support system, but they merely mocked me. “It’s just a pizza

guy, Megan. They’ve seen worse things. They’ll completely forget about you once they leave.”

They could not understand what I was going through. Once again, I was completely alone, but

this time the pizza guy was coming.

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I started frantically preparing everything in the house for his arrival. I got cash out for the

tip and set it on the bookshelf next to the door. Blankets were folded, decorative pillows were

placed back in their places, the table was cleared of all clutter. For the few moments that the

pizza guy could stand at my door and see into my house, my house had to look perfect.

The clock read ten minutes. The doorbell rang. The countdown had lied to me, and my

own personal pizza-bomb was exploding before I was ready. I was shocked, scared, and

completely excited for that pizza. Calming breaths went through me as I slowly walked towards

the door and opened it. There he stood. The pizza guy. He looked unintimidating, but to me, he

was daunting.

When he saw that someone was indeed there to accept the pizza, he began taking it out of

the warming carrier. This was the moment I’d been preparing myself for. He slowly withdrew

the pizza and handed it over to my nearly trembling hands. Then he took out a pen and receipt

that I had to sign. I hadn’t prepared myself for this. I was already holding a pizza, how was I

expected to hold and sign a receipt? Sensing my despair, he offered to hold the pizza for me

while I used it as a table. My signature contained more loops than usual due to my shaky hands,

but it would pass as a signature. It was out of my hands, and the pizza was back in them. With

the tip being handed over, and the pen because I nearly forgot to return it, the door was closed. I

had successfully ordered and accepted a pizza.

The scent and warmth radiating from that box screamed heaven. This was my salvation. I

opened the box, and the pizza was perfect. Golden, crunchy crust with pure mozzarella cheese

melted and baked to oozing perfection on top. This pizza was worth my inner turmoil.

That was the most delicious pizza I had ever tasted. To someone else, it may have been

ordinary. But to me, it satisfied both my mind and my stomach. I had conquered a fear of mine

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without the aid of others. This pizza meant more to me than just fending off starvation for

another night. It symbolized freedom and independence and overcoming fears. I may not view

accepting deliveries as an easy task now, but without the freedom pizza I would still be terrified

of answering the door.