River doesn't like his job very much. He makes pizza. He is getting a lesson in the gustatorial fanaticism of the idiocracy. Every night he comes home with another story of some morbidly obese customer flying into a rage over a missed ingredient or prolonged wait time or barbecue wings instead of hot wings. They shriek that they should get another order - the right one this time, and it should be free and it should materialize right now, this instant! And no, you can't have the mistake back, because I already ate it, you idiot, I was HUNGRY! The police have been summoned on more than one occasion. At 10 p.m. he clomps into the house, shoulders slumped, black uniform dusted with flour and smelling of cold grease. As he heads to his room, apron slung over his shoulder, he says under his breath, "I don't understand people". It has become his favorite saying.
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