It's kind of funny now, to think about the way we used to order pizza.
Find the phonebook under the sofa or above the fridge. Flip to the back to the phonebook to find the pizza places and their menus. Walk to your rotary telephone in the kitchen. Dial the number, fingers dusty with the inky scent of the yellow pages, give your order to the kid on the other end of the phone, tell him your address and give him directions.
Check to make sure you have cash—you had to have cash. About an hour later, the kid’s beat-up car pulled into the driveway, quarters and bills shifting in his fanny pack, and the doorbell rang.