So this summer I received a horribly disturbing Instant Message on my computer. According to the sender, Gumby's was no more. Part of my life was missing.
I was hoping I would come to school and find this message to be simply a rumor, one that goes around every year but is never true -- like how they told you in high school that they might be breathalizing people at the door to prom. But alas, if you look into the building of what once was the best late-night delivered pizza in all of Charlottesville, it is nothing but an empty shell.
The first obvious question is: Why? That place had to be making money. How many times did we come back from being out and place an order online? Forty-five minutes later we always had our delicious snack.
I mean, a large Pokey Stick order definitely counts as a snack.
Maybe the Two for Tuesday was just too good of a bargain. We cashed in on that time and time again, unwittingly causing the poor slaving Pokey-Stick makers to fall to their economic doom. It was us, the over-demanding Tuesday customers, who forced them to close their doors to the late-night-eating community.
It was not for lack of love that they ceased to be. Before classes started I received a voicemail after a night out. At first, I assumed the caller had dialed the wrong number. But it was I who was wrong.
2:31 a.m.
"Hello? (sniffle) Gumby's? I need two large pokey sticks. Thanks. (sniffle)."
That poor, sniffling Gumby's customer was cruelly left with no one to call but a fellow drunk person. I could not provide her with a slew of hot cheesed and seasoned breadsticks.
The reason I dip food in ranch dressing? The ranch that came in Gumby's boxes. The reason I didn't mind last call? I knew there'd be Gumby's.
I've tried to make the switch. I've ordered Domino's and Papa John's. Both of them are fine. But they don't have a mascot who was once a little green slab of clay!
So I did the only rational thing to do. I looked into opening my own franchise of Gumby's. The chain was started by two fraternity boys at the University of Florida, so I figured I could do it too.
It's all there online. It's about an $82,000 investment -- they send out site specialists to help you get started, and anywhere between five and 50 employees are needed. I even called the number, hoping to talk someone into opening the one here back up, so I wouldn't have to deal with owning my own pizza franchise and taking classes.
Now, wouldn't you figure that a number specifically designated for those looking to open their own franchise of a professional pizza business would a) give you a professional sounding answering machine at 10:48 p.m., and b) not be someone's cell phone?
Oops. I got some guy. I have no more details on said guy because I hung up after he said "Uhhh, hello?" Hopefully, it was one of those trick answering machine messages. (Note: I hate those. If you have one of those, you're going to cell phone hell for the number of times I have started talking to your answering machine.)
Cell phone hell or no, we, as a U.Va. community, should collectively all call this number day in and day out until they reopen Gumby's. First years, if you've made it this far in a column that is about something you've never experienced, then you must join in on our crusade, for your time at the University will not be complete without a late-night pokey fest. But if we do get it back, just a word of advice: The pizza's not that good.
Unless this is God's way of saying, "Clare, get your ass to the gym," I refuse to surrender to this Gumbyless existence. God's wrath didn't suddenly strike down Jaberwoke's cheese fries or the Biltmore's spinach and artichoke dip, did it? Taco Bell is still standing, and a late-night wing place just opened, so I declare this is not the hand of the Almighty.
Once last year, we ordered Pokey Sticks and pizza (while we were playing Speed Pong of course), and when it arrived we were ecstatic. As we greedily each dove for our portion of the feast, one boy, Charlie, asked an innocent question:
"Does it ever feel like it's a race?" he said. Only it sounded more like, "Dof ifever feel lie kitsa rafe?" because he didn't want to stop eating to ask the question.
We laughed, with our respective pieces in our mouths, but it was true. We knew that there were only so many pokey sticks left in that box, and, by God, we were each going to be the last one to be eating them. At the time, the question was unremarkable and only considered for that particular night. But he was wise beyond his upperclassman years.
For it was a race, and now we have lost.
Clare can be reached at Ondrey@cavalierdaily.com
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