Day 196: December 14, 2009 (keeping up with the Joneses holiday spirit, the fat man and his enabler, and the end of life)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 8

Sales: $273.45

Tips: $41

Hours: 3.00

Total Wage: $21.67 per hour

One of the cool things about my job is getting to see inside people's houses. Out here, every night is like one of those fancy home tours people pay tens of dollars to attend. And this holiday season hasn't disappointed. I've seen some of tallest, most elaborately decorated Christmas trees in my life. I've seen teams of immigrant men stringing lights around trees and houses. I've seen homes where every square inch inside has some decoration, be it a nearly full-sized reindeer, a Santa, wreaths, ribbons, or what have you. I've seen a beautifully carved ceramic nativity set that looked like it costs over a thousand dollars. I think these people would probably pay to have Jesus in their houses if he weren't already dead. Their holiday spirit can't be questioned. 

Not to be outdone, our Jewish friends have created their own displays: the pizzeria's neighbor had a Chanukah party in the parking lot tonight with a ten foot tall, tinfoil-wrapped Menorah and speakers blasting a mix of hip-hop and traditional music. And, of course, a man gave a maudlin speech about miracles. 

In the ultimate show of American religious fusion, I saw in the foyer of a house tonight a snow-flocked, Christmas tree with large, blue ornament balls and miniature Menorah ornaments throughout. Happy Chris-hanukah!

But sometimes it's not that cool to see inside people's homes. Like the time in Encinitas when I was called into a house with the front door open. The floor was stripped of its carpet, and the residents appeared to be remodeling. I assumed that's why they called me inside––they were stuck in the bedroom painting or hanging drywall. Instead, I found the most overweight man I've seen in my life practically squatting in a room with only a bed and stacks of papers and magazines. He wore sweatpants and a dirty white T-shirt. I suddenly felt bad for delivering a large pizza and a 25-pack of chocolate chip cookies to this lone man. I felt like an enabler, like I was giving crack to a crack addict. I'm not even sure the man could fit through his door. On my way out, he called to me and asked if I would grab the newspaper out front and deliver it to him. I did. I've never been able to shake that scene.

And tonight, I deliver to an older couple, by no means elderly. Maybe they're in their early 70s at most, but the scene inside their house disturbs me. Within the side door, where the man disappears to sign the credit card slip, they have two, faded La-Z-Boy recliners crammed into this small room, facing the television. On the wall hangs one of the most beautiful, vibrant paintings I've seen––a house and tree, all bright blues, oranges, and whites. It's clear this is where they spend their time, nesting among the T.V. and the painting. Along the floor, and lined up on the wooden T.V. tray (you knew there'd be one, right?) are bottles and bottles of prescription pills, vitamins, and dietary supplements, like the couple can't be bothered to put them in the cupboard. Here they are, living in one of the richest neighborhoods in the world, and their lives have been reduced to this single room, these bottles, this T.V., that painting. It depresses the hell out of me. Better to die young, I think. At least they're together. For now.

Day 194: December 12, 2009 (the economic grinch rears its ugly head this holiday season)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 10

Sales: $445.07

Tips: $58

Hours: 3.42

Total Wage: $24.96 per hour

It's easy to live in a bubble in Rancho Santa Fe, even for me. While sales drop off earlier in the night, between 7:30 and 8:30, we still have good, early rushes and some big orders. When I arrive at the pizzeria tonight, the manager clocks me in early and gives me a $172.05 order. I haven't had a big order like this in some time, so I'm excited. 

I arrive just before the scheduled 6 p.m. delivery time. The tall, gray-haired man, wearing a festive, red sweater, takes the items in bunches––the 16" salad bowl and dressing containers, then two trays of pasta, then another tray of pasta and a tray of garlic bread––and walks them into the kitchen while I wait at the door. When he returns for the final time, looking serious, he pulls out a money roll. My eyes widen as he releases a twenty from the wad and hands it to me, saying, "Happy Holidays." I return his holiday greeting, but am upset when I realize it's a five dollar bill, not a twenty. I think maybe he's going to tip the rest on the credit card slip, but he hands it back with a signature and a blank tip line. Happy Holidays, Mr Scrooge.

It's crazy, because some people have been holiday tipping lately: one lady gave me ten dollars for a $38 order and said, "For gas," and another man gave me $15 on a $25 order earlier this week. But just as many people have been giving the tip stiff-arm this holiday season, and I feel like I've been earning less and less this fall. It's going to be a long, cold winter if this keeps up.

I tend to forget, working my cushy pizza job in Rancho, that there's a real economic recession out there. Sure, many stocks have recovered, since companies are cutting costs and becoming more profitable, but unemployment is still above ten percent. And one of my closest friends lost his adjunct teaching job at Fresno State and is fishing around for work, trying to piece enough together to pay his mortgage come spring. 

I've thought about substitute teaching for extra cash and a way to transition out of the food service industry, but when I called the local high school district about next semester, the woman told me they had 130 people at this fall's "guest teacher" orientation, and she's still processing them. When I went to this same orientation last year, there were maybe 30 people. I'm thinking about getting a teaching credential, but the programs are super impacted because of state budget cuts, meaning they're accepting fewer and fewer students. And when I called San Diego City College to check on the adjunct instructor pool down there, the department head told me she has over fifteen current instructors without any classes to teach for spring, so they're "about a year or two out from hiring." Times are tough, indeed. I feel like an ungrateful ass for complaining, but that's what life in the bubble does. 

Day 188: December 6, 2009 (delivering to the other house, boarding the stoner with grandma, Steelers' super fan, and the toothbrush man)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 14

Sales: $422.37

Tips: $68

Total Wage: $23.56 per hour

On my third run of the night, I end up with a triple-bagger. The first one is in Rancho Pacifica, the second one is on Quarter Mile Drive, two miles away, and the third is farther away on Mango Drive. When I arrive at Quarter Mile Drive, no one answers the door. I call, and a woman's voicemail answers. I leave a message saying I'm outside, but I'm splitting for my third delivery if she doesn't call back or answer. The townhouse looks dark in the upper windows. I call the manager, and he tells me to hit my third delivery and stop by on my way back. I do, and the scene repeats, including a voicemail that I'm now leaving for good. When I turn the corner on San Dieguito, the manager calls and says he got through on the phone, and they're in Rancho Pacifica, not Quarter Mile Drive. They own the place on Quarter Mile, though. This happens more often than you would believe (see Day 177). Wealthy people around here own multiple properties and can't be bothered to confirm the address attached to their phone number when we read it back to them. It's been an hour and fifteen minutes, and the manager called them, not the other way around.

When I get to the house gate, I sigh to see it's one of my least favorite customers. The guy who usually comes to the door looks like a college basketball player, and he refuses to put away his Pit Bull, even though I tell him every time I don't like big dogs, and stand by my car. Tonight, a high school aged kid comes outside, while the rust colored Pit Bull barks through the window. The kid signs the credit card without saying a word to me. The silence is super awkward. No "sorry you went to the wrong house, twice, and here we live on a street you delivered to on this same run earlier. Gosh, we're idiots." I get out of there as quickly as possible, and I later find out the man actually called to say his food was cold and the pizza was a little smashed (I had to slam on my breaks at a stoplight with camera enforcement). I have a hard time mustering any sympathy.

Two runs later, and I'm stuck at a gate with the wrong gate code. I dial the last name on the call box, and the lady seems baffled by my presence. She lets me in anyway, and when I turn left, she's standing on the porch, waving me in. Turns out the food is for her son, or grandson. I can't figure out their relationship, but the pasty kid who comes to the door has a sparse "soul patch" on his bottom lip and drug dealer eyes; you know, they look painful to keep open and he speaks in that labored "hey, bro, thanks" way. I can't tell if he's been shipped to grandma's house to shape up, but someone in this house has a big job ahead of them. The kid is clearly a mess.

My next delivery is to the Crosby, and when I get to the guard gate, a new, husky/nerdy guard with thick glasses asks me for the delivery address. I tell him, and he confirms the last name from inside the booth where I can't see him. He comes out and launches into a man-talk non sequitur: "Fuckin' Steelers lost tonight. But they deserved to lose. Oakland's going to be a good team next year." He walks around to write down my license plate number, which is something only newer guards do here. "Chargers' fans don't believe me, but they (Oakland) beat the Steelers and Cinci." He walks back to the booth, and then hands me the pass, while I nod my head to his monologue. "I think the Chargers will fall short. Unless they can get past the Colts. But I don't see that happening."

I like football, but it doesn't rule my life. I don't have a fantasy football team, and I'm not going to criticize the twenty million people who do. I understand why people turn to sports for entertainment, or to fill a void in their lives. At the end of the day, the outcomes of games don't affect anyone's lives except those involved in playing them. I oblige the guard, and say, "It will be hard for anyone to beat the Colts."

As I'm about to drive off, he says, "Bring back any extras, man," then disappears into the booth. I make the delivery and leave through the other Crosby gate to the south.  

On my last delivery of the night, I end up at gated apartments with no gate code and no last name. I want to drive back to the pizzeria and call it a night, because if this guy can't remember he lives in a gated community, he doesn't deserve to eat tonight. I call him on my cell phone, but a resident who pulls up behind me opens the gate, and I cruise in. The guy who answers the door is probably in his late twenties or early thirties, sporting a few days worth of dark scruff. And get this: I can't really give him crap about the gate, because he spends the whole transaction at the door with a  toothbrush in his foamy mouth. He signs the credit card, and says "thanks" with that gargled, I can't understand you because you have a toothbrush in your mouth voice. I feel . . . not violated but disgusted. What kind of grown person answers the door while brushing his teeth? And how's that pepperoni and jalapeño pizza going to taste? 

Day 181: November 29, 2009 (dealing with mistakes on both ends)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $427.86

Tips: $70

Total Wage: $25.81 per hour

On my last delivery run of the night, I deliver to a nice man in The Farms. The bill is $32.03, so he hands me two twenties and asks for three dollars in change. I thank him for the five dollar tip, jump in the car, back up, and am almost out of the driveway when he comes hopping out the front door in his socks, yelling, "Hey. Hello?" 

Now, as a driver I can tell you I don't want to deal with mistakes. No drivers do. First, there isn't much we can do about it. If we forget a salad or a dessert, sure, we can take it off the bill at the door or tell them we'll send it right out. At the other extreme, I've known drivers who have dumped a pizza and still presented it at the door as perfect, and then split before the unsuspecting customer can discover the mess, which usually looks like regurgitated pizza. That's not cool. But, as a general rule, after the delivery is complete, you get out of there as quickly as possible.

The man in the socks special ordered one of his pastas with penne instead of the usual spaghetti noodles, and he added eight shrimp. When he came outside hollering, I assumed the pasta type was wrong, or he counted the shrimp and there were only seven. I'm half-tempted to pretend I don't hear or see him. When he gets closer to the car at the end of the driveway, he says, "I wanted to give you a couple more dollars." He holds out some folded ones. I take them, and give him elated thanks. While I'm driving away, I unfold the money to see he's given me all three ones back. While paying me, I heard his wife in the background asking how much it was. I think she shamed him into tipping me the other three dollars. Thank God for generous wives; I hope there are nine shrimp in her pasta.

Day 180: November 28, 2009 (why they need to offer more logic classes in school)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 7

Sales: $387.63

Tips: $49

Hours: 2.33 

Total Wage: $29.03 per hour

He looks like a computer programmer. By that I mean he's tall, white, hunched at the shoulders from leaning his head toward the computer screen all day, and dorky. He answers the door wearing an old, poorly fitting T-shirt. I tell him whoever took his order got the credit card number wrong, so if he still wants to pay by credit card he'll have to call the manager and sort it out. He says, "Can we just pay cash?" I tell him, yes, that would be even better. Before he walks away, he turns and says, "Well, I want to make sure my card doesn't get charged, though." I tell him we can't possibly charge his card, because we have the wrong number. "Oh," he says and walks off to find cash.

I hear him asking his wife if she has any cash. She, a short Asian woman, runs by in aquamarine sweatpants and matching T-shirt, says hello, then bolts up the stairs. "I have one," she shouts, before running back down and handing him a twenty. He shows back up to the door with two twenties, enough to cover the $36.53 bill and tip. I thank him for the cash, but he wants to say something more. "So, should I call and make sure they don't charge my card?" I look at him, incredulous. He probably went to a good university, has a great job that bought him this nice house, and he even figured out how to find a woman who would marry him. But this stumps him.

"Like I said, we don't have the right number, so how can we charge your card?" He looks shamed, but still doesn't seem to get it. He closes the door, having to trust in the logic of a pizza guy.

Day 177: November 25, 2009 (happy no-thanksgiving, spending time at the ranch house, and the cowboy and his asian wife)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 10

Sales: $384.86

Tips: $55

Hours: 3.63

Total Wage: $23.15 per hour

It's the night before Thanksgiving, and on my second run I score a three-bagger that includes an order for $115.33. Woo-hoo! I pull up to the development, which consists of four mansions within the main gate, each with their own driveway and walkway gates inside. Once I'm buzzed in through the main gate, I ring the buzzer to their house gate. "Are you at the walkway gate?" a voice asks through the speaker box. He lets me in, but I still have to ring the doorbell before they open the door. Once inside, I pass through a dining room with the largest Thanksgiving setting I've ever seen: a long main table with ten to fifteen place settings, along with two more picnic type tables with at least another ten settings each. I say hello to the three women setting up the tables, and follow the man through to the kitchen.

The kitchen opens up into one of the largest family rooms I've ever seen. There's a family room set-up over there, with couches and a big screen t.v., but between that and the kitchen is a visiting area created by two quarter circle couches facing each other, like a circle of trust. Three men sit talking and drinking beer. The home owner is friendly, and signs the credit card receipt with enthusiasm and flair. He slaps me on the back and says, "Thanks, buddy. We really appreciate it," and I say, "Thank you very much, and happy Thanksgiving." He wishes me a happy Thanksgiving, and walks me toward the door. Like the village idiot holding a golden ticket––I assume, given the holiday spirit and size of the place, that's he's given me a huge tip, though I don't look––I tell each lady "Happy Thanksgiving" on my way out. It's not until I'm outside and the door is shut that I look down to see he's given me a five dollar tip (4%), which leaves me less than thankful.

It's okay, because I have two more deliveries on this run to make up the difference. I arrive at the second house, and use the gate code on the ticket to get inside. A man with a thick English accent answers the door and looks at me dumbfounded. "We didn't order any pizza(r)," he says. (British people always add an "r" onto words ending in "a"). I confirm the address, but he can't figure out why I'm there. I ask him if someone else inside may have ordered. "No. It's just my wife and I here. What kind of pizza(r) is it?" I tell him the pizza is half pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms and bell peppers, and half pineapples, Canadian bacon and bell peppers, and he says, "Well, we're vegetarian. Sorry." I guess he was thinking maybe he would like some pizza, were it not for the meat. While we're talking, three tall, skinny, furry dogs wind about his legs. They look like Greyhounds with long coats.

When I turn to leave, I see the dogs have found a way outside and are hustling toward me. I hesitate for a second. "They're fine," the man says. "They won't hurt you." They follow me to the car, bumping their lanky bodies against me. When I place the pizza back inside the bag, one noses his long neck into the car and almost into the bag. I push back until he stops. I get the door closed and myself inside, before the dogs head back over to their master.

I call the number on the ticket, half expecting to hear an English voice say hello, but an American woman answers. "Oh, you went to our ranch house. We have a couple of renters in there." I tell her they were surprised to see me, without mentioning how unnerving it is that I had the gate code and let myself into the ranch (those could have been loose Rottweilers instead of Greyhounds). "We're out in the Crosbies. Do you know where that is?" She goes on to blame our phone girl, saying she had the correct address and she doesn't know how I ended up there. I tell her it's going to be awhile, because I have another delivery and I'm not really near the Crosby development. I call the manager to let her know what's happening, and she says the lady must not have paid attention when the phone girl read back her address. When I arrive at the correct house twenty minutes later, a pretty, youngish woman answers the door and apologizes for "the confusion." It takes all I have not to say I think the confusion is all on her part. After all, the customer is always . . . well, wrong half of the time.

My last delivery of the night is a single-bagger for $52.90. When I arrive at the door, a short, stocky Asian woman with an accent answers. She says something about her husband being gone, then walks off with that slouching, inconvenienced walk that's reserved for bored housewives in the mall, where everything is within reach. She pulls out a house phone, then a cell phone, and tries to call. She walks off again and returns with another house phone and dials her husband. "Where are you? Hello . . . hello? Where are you, pizza guys been here five minutes already. Stop saying hello. Hello?" She apologizes to me, saying he went to the bank. Their handsome, mixed-race children walk by. The boy, who appears high school aged, takes his little sister under the arms and does curls with her. "Wheeeee," she shouts, "do it again." He obliges.

While the mom tries to call him again, I begin speculating on their relationship. Too young to be a Vietnam vet's wife. Her English is too good and she seems too well assimilated to be a mail-order bride. Why am I even thinking this stuff?

"Hello?" she says into the phone "Where are you? Pizza guys been here ten minutes already. What you mean you'll be here in a few seconds? I don't see you. What are your few seconds? Don't be a dipshit . . . where are you?" Just then, headlights illuminate the gate. A large, black SUV comes hurrying up the driveway. "Don't hit his car," she says into the phone.

The man jumps out wearing an Indianapolis Colts hat and jeans. He's maybe in his 40s and has a country accent. "Sorry about that," he says. "I went to the bank in Rancho, but the ATM was busted, so I had to drive over to Del Mar." I don't ask why he didn't just pick up the pizzas in the first place, since Rancho is much closer to the pizzeria than his house. He gives me three crisp twenties, and I leave them arm and arm in their doorway, happy that there's hope and love (if strained––she did call him a "dipshit") for two people from opposite sides of the world.

Day 174: November 22, 2009 (the beautiful exit, and the frustrated entrance)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $380.67

Tips: $45.50

Hours: 3.78

Total Wage: $20.04 per hour

My first delivery is to an old couple. The man invites me inside and directs me to the kitchen. "You busy tonight?" he asks, as he hobbles behind me toward the kitchen. I turn around and ask him what he said. "Are you busy? Are you making a lot of money tonight?" he says.

"Oh. I just got to work. We're not that busy yet, but hopefully it will get busy later," I say. 

The man has to be at least eighty. He hunches over the counter to sign the credit card slip, then turns to me in that stiff way old people have to turn their whole body just to turn their head, and he says, "I hope you make a lot of money tonight." He's put down a five dollar tip on an $18.72 order, so I'm well on my way. 

"Thank you very much, sir," I say. "Have a good night." While I wish all my deliveries were to kind elderly people, the encounter makes me think of my girlfriend's volunteer work with people in hospice care. How most of them are bedridden and in pain, and while they enjoy her visits, they say they're ready to die, to be done with the thing. I think I relate more to elderly people because they've lived their lives, mostly lost their blind, exploitive ambitions, and they just want to exit life without suffering too much more. At thirty-six, I've lived a full life, experienced everything it has to offer, except having children, and I could easily die in peace tomorrow. God, that's sad but liberating. I drive on to my next delivery.

When I arrive at the Rancho Pacifica Gate, the effervescent African-American guard says, "Sorry, man. No one called for you." I think he's just joking around, one of those bantering small-talk jokes, like the "you got an extra pizza in the car?" type. Then I realize he means the residents didn't call to let him know I was coming, so he doesn't have the visitor pass printed out for me. I'm about to give him the address, when he says, "Last name. Just give me the last name." I do, and he disappears into the booth. 

A minute or two later he reemerges and says in a dramatic fashion, "You know you live in a gated community. You know the rules." It seems he's as frustrated with the whole gated world as I am, though it provides him with a job. "Sorry, man. It's not our fault," he says to me, "they know they have to call." I tell him not to worry about it, that it's cool. 

A few delivery runs later, I end up at the Rancho Pacifica gate again. The African-American guard says, "Second time, huh?" 

"Yep," I say.

"Same thing," he says and shakes his head. Before he goes into the booth to call the irresponsible residents, he says, "Hey, you guys got some kind of Chinese pizza over there." I think for a second, then ask if he means the Thai Chicken pizza. "Yeah, yeah, that's the one with the peanut sauce, right?" he says. That's right. "How much is like a small of one of them?" I tell him I have no idea. "Could you bring me a small one of them? I'll pay you and everything." I tell him he can just call the pizzeria and order one. "Ah, I don't want to go through all of that," he says, and waves his hand in dismissal, like I've let him down. 

Sorry, but everyone has rules to follow.

Day 165: November 13, 2009 (the white knight is talking backward, and the red queen's "off with her head")

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 12

Sales: $439.16

Tips: $77

Hours: 4.28

Total Wage: $25.99 per hour

With all my deliveries done for the night, I was cruising back to the pizzeria in the dark when a cottontail rabbit darted into the road. It realized its mistake, reversed its direction, and thump, my tire went right over the little guy. "Shit," I yelled, and pulled to the side of the road. I can't stand the feeling of hitting an animal in the car, nor do it think it's okay that wild animals die for the convenience of pizza delivery. But I guess we all live our own little hypocrisies. 

Most people would probably drive off, but I needed to see whether I had a casualty or an injury on my hands. Trust me, it's not pretty, but I've had to intentionally run over injured animals in the past (who could forget the live rat on the glue trap at the Encinitas store, or the baby opossum slowly dying of cat induced injuries in my apartment complex?). I turned around, and when I approached the body in the road there was still bunny fur floating in the darkness. I parked with my headlights on the rabbit, got out, and walked over to the unmoving lump. I half expected it to reanimate as I approached, especially since no blood was visible, but it lay motionless. I nudged it with my foot, but its rest was of the permanent kind. This same thing happened to me several months ago less than a mile from this exact spot. Damn my luck.

Now I'm no biologist, I'm a vehicular rabbit-slaughterer (remember?), but any casual observer would realize there's an overabundance of rabbits around here. All these fancy spreads and lawns have displaced coyotes and larger predators and become massive, unnatural feeding grounds for rabbits. That's one way wealthy people, who want to live farther and farther away from poor people, affect the environment. (I won't even touch the insanity of building mansions in traditional fire zones––or moving sea bluffs––and expecting tax payers to chip in for protection or losses.)

But another way wealthy people affect the environment is by over consumption. Before the universal garbage cans were introduced, I used to marvel at the number of garbage cans––six, nine, twelve!––lining the streets in front of rich homes. I once argued with a well-respected professor at Fresno State who claimed poor people were worse for the environment because they dumped trash on his family farm. I argued that poor people don't generate nearly as much garbage as the rich, even though they may not have the means (or the education) to dispose of their refuse properly. We ended in a draw. 

Maybe a who does more of what chart would help: 

Rich vs Poor

Energy consumption. Winner: Rich people

Gasoline consumption. Winner: Rich people

Jet fuel consumption. Winner: Rich people

Refuse generation. Winner: Rich people

Recycling: Winner. Rich people (finally, something to be proud of)

You might say, "But Eric, that's just the price of doing business." I would expect the rich to lead the world in environmental innovation, not consumption. 

One more thing, then I'll step off the soap box. What surprises me most around here is the vehicle choices of the rich. We know Hummers get little better gas mileage (H1: 8-10 m.p.g.; H2: 10-13 m.p.g.) than a NASCAR (5 m.p.g), but did you know the highest conspicuous consumption cars––Maserati; Bentley; Aston Martin; Lamborghini––top the list for the least fuel efficient? I could go on and on about how gas consumption affects people's lives in faraway places like Sudan (see Dave Egger's What Is the What) and Iraq (no matter what the rationale for the invasion, it's been said that if their main export was cumquats we probably wouldn't be there), but I would only be incriminating myself and my choice to reenter a car for this job. Before coming back here, I spent 2 1/2 years car-free, relying on my bike and the kindness of friends and family to get around. Returning to driving has felt like a big step backward. And the death of this rabbit (gasho!) just reaffirms that.

Day 163: November 11, 2009 (millions of millionaires)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 5

Sales: $288.92

Tips: $40

Hours: 1.83

Total Wage: $29.86 per hour

I received a text message this morning from my boss asking if I wanted to cover a short day shift. Since I'm planning on a trip to South America (Brazil, Uruguay, & Argentina) with my girlfriend next month, I'll take anything I can get.

While I'm driving around today, I hear this story on PRI's The World, about how some rich Germans want to increase taxes (huh?) on the wealthy to bridge the gap in their budget deficit rather than cut taxes, like their conservative Chancellor Angela Merkel wants. What strikes me most in the story is that the U.S. has the most millionaires in the world: two million. That number seems both huge––oh my God, we have two million millionaires!––and small––we only have two million millionaires out of 300 million people? Come on, America, we can do better than that. It seems like we'd have more when you add up all the movie stars and athletes and CEOs and small business owners. Since no one walks around with a sign on their forehead saying they're a millionaire, I'm not sure how I'd find out how many millionaires I know personally. It would probably be close to the national o.666% (number of the Beast) of Americans, or less than one percent.

And they don't define "millionaire" in the story. Is it a person with a million dollars worth of assets, or someone who makes one million dollars a year? If a couple has a million dollars, are they only 500,000-aires each? And if you buy a house for 200 thousand dollars and it becomes worth 1.2 million dollars, are you now a millionaire? Did anyone keep track of the millionaires that left the club this past year in the market crash, say the poor saps with 900 thousand dollars in assets now?

It seems like when you add all the Rancho Santa Fe people, plus the Beverly Hills folks and the Silicon Valley and Redmond nerds to the old money East Coasters we'd have millions more millionaires. But that's not the case. If I try to add millionaires individually or in small groups––450 NBA players; 750 MLB players; 1,696 NFL players (many don't even make one million dollars); Forbes' top 25 Earners under 25; a handful of lottery winners; a few thousand actors and entertainers; Bill Gates; Warren Buffet: Stephen King; that creepy Girls Gone Wild guy with the private jet––I can't even come close to one hundred thousand millionaires. Two million is a ton. And, according to the story, Germany comes in second place with less than half our number, at 800 thousand. So that's something to brag about, right, America? Poor Germans. And where did they get this idea that if you spread the money around a little, investing in education and whatnot, your country actually becomes more stable and stronger and produces even more millionaires?

Day 161: November 9, 2009 (the love den waits for no one, and getting reality checked by a former employee)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 7

Sales: $200.63

Tips: $38

Hours: 2.82

Total Wage: $21.48 per hour

One of the first deliveries of the night, I find myself standing on the porch of an upstairs apartment and holding a box with a pineapples, pepperoni, mushrooms, extra sauce, extra thin, well done pizza inside. No one answers the doorbell or my knocking, so I call. "Oh, are you here already?" a woman says. "I'll be right there." I wait for the door to open, but, instead, a minute later, a woman comes walking up the stairs behind me wrapped in a towel and dripping wet. "You got here so early. They said it would be about an hour, so I decided to go for a quick hot tub." To her defense, we aren't busy tonight, so I got here fast, and while I've seen people do all kinds of strange things between ordering food and my arrival, I think this is the first time someone's gone hot tubbing on me. "Good thing I had my phone. Just give me a minute," the woman says as she opens her apartment door. Nothing, except maybe the white tiger rug I'm standing on outside, could have prepared me for what's inside.

It can only be classified as a late 1970's love den, something out of a Rod Stewart video. A black baby grand piano dominates the thickly carpeted room. Red roses, sans vase, sit atop the piano next to a television set (when you have a piano in an apartment, I guess it's the only place you can put a television). Shaggy rugs cover the carpeted floor, and pillows of various deep colors, mostly purple, lounge on the throw-covered couch. A guitar sits idle against the wall. All the material and items make the room look smaller than it is, and when I try to recall the place later, I will think the far wall was mirrored, but it wasn't. The room doesn't smell like sex, but it feels like sex. Warm. Cozy. Cave-like. Nest.

The woman keeps apologizing and telling me it will be one more second. While I wait, a man emerges, dripping wet, from the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. And he looks and sounds exactly like you'd expect him to look and sound: thick, hairy chest; bald head; low, raspy voice. If there is a Corvette parked outside, I would bet my life savings it's his. He passes me, saying hello in his throaty voice, and reenters the love den. The woman finally reappears, signs the credit card slip, and closes the door. 

I can only assume they'll plop down on the rugs with the pizza box, lying face to face, allowing their towels to slide off their still wet bodies. He'll hold a pizza slice and pass it back and forth from his mouth to hers, the hot cheese stringing between their mouths as the extra sauce drips down their chins, before they begin making more sweet, sweet love. Later, they will serenade each other, him on guitar, her on the piano and . . . I drive back to the pizzeria and fold boxes while waiting around for more orders.

On my next delivery run, I end up at a house in Santa Luz. When the guy opens the door, I have that weird moment of recognition (I know this guy, but from where?), and it only lasts a second. I call him by name, and he squints in the low light to see my face. "Oh, hey Eric." He looks confused, like he didn't expect to know the delivery driver, even though he worked at the pizzeria until a handful of months ago. This is one of those moments––like a thirtieth or fortieth birthday but on a smaller scale––that you measure your life by: guy used to do what you do, but now he's moved on and you're still doing the same thing. Encounters like this are rare in Rancho, because I don't know many people out here, but they used to happen all the time in Encinitas, usually accompanied by the line, You're still at the pizzeria?

"How's your new job?" I ask.

He shrugs as he's signing the credit card slip, and says, "Ah, it's alright." His lack of enthusiasm about the new job makes me feel vindicated, as if I needed vindication. I think that no matter what work I'm doing, I'll always want to be doing something else, something more important and worthy of this life. I thank him for his generous tip and tell him it was good to see him, before driving off into the dark, dark night.

Day 152: October 31, 2009 (Halloween hell––not fun sized, the secret to a great party, and the great scare of Halloween past)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $514.40

Tips: $72

Hours: 3.13

Total Wage: $31.00 per hour

After weeks of admiring elaborate home decorations and various skill levels of carved pumpkins, Halloween is finally here. And all hell has broken loose. The pizza oven conveyor belt is a solid sea of pizzas. The head cook cuts and numbers them as quickly as he can, but he gets lost somewhere. Numbers get mixed up, pizzas begin "taco-ing" (smashing against the end board and bending) into each other before he can pull them out, and the manager and drivers run around trying to sort out the mess. The head cook's brother comes over from the pasta station and begins boxing and cutting pizzas, while the head cook searches the tickets for the right numbers. Pizza types and wrong numbers are shouted back and forth between drivers, until we get the orders right and head out the door. 

Once I'm out on the road, things feel calmer, though I'm full of nervous energy tonight. My girlfriend is out at a party, and I'm dying to get off work as soon as possible. I'm dressed in a suit and have my face painted with Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) makeup, causing me to look something like a zombified skeleton. When I arrive at doors with the pizza bag in hand, I confuse the customers by saying, "Trick or treat." They all compliment me on my makeup job (courtesy of my girlfriend), but some don't give me candy. I tell them I'm serious, I want candy. 

Many rich houses are like I remember them when I was young: they give out whole candy bars. It's why city kids often upgrade neighborhoods when Trick-or-Treating. The big candy bar phenomenon still astounds me, and I'm able to wrangle a full-size Butterfinger from the first customer. (Side note: why do they call those bite-sized-waste-of-a-wrapper candy bars "fun size," when the fun is to be had with the big ones?)  

What I didn't know as a child, and was surprised to find out last night, is that the rich have incredible Halloween parties. There's a customer who's a bit infamous around the pizzeria for having beautiful young girls lounging around his house where it's permanently snowing cocaine. Now, I've never delivered to this guy, and I'm not sure exactly what the Colombian-storm evidence consisted of, but when I got his order for $206 dollars last night, I expected a house full of scantily clad girls and mountains of cocaine. What I saw instead was a semi-empty house of Mexican immigrant workers setting up the biggest Halloween party ever. The men hung lights and decorations all over while the pudgy, white owner shouted directions: "No,  no, that needs to be even with this." I felt like I was on a movie set, and wondered what, exactly, the queen sized bed with the married skeleton couple hanging above it was doing outside in the courtyard. The owner could barely be bothered with me. Yes, this party would probably be even better than the $26 tip he gave me.  

As it gets darker, more and more kids fill the streets, and I get more and more harsh looks from parents no matter how slow I drive. I'm surprised to see so many kids out, since many people have opted for "safe" Halloween events and alternative, "Christian," harvest festivals. I don't blame them, since when we were children our candy had to be scoured for evidence of tampering (let's not forget the great razor blade, sewing needle, and poison scare of the 1970s and '80s––all urban myths), and my brother took a cleaner-or-urine-filled water balloon in the face that burned his eyes. But Halloween seems like it should have some element of danger, so I speed out of the neighborhoods at 80 m.p.h. and yell obscenities at the kids. Just kidding.  

By seven-thirty, with the pizza oven and restaurant chaos gone, I cut out to meet up with my girlfriend at a party where there aren't mountains of cocaine, outdoor beds, nor full-sized candy bars. But there are hills of food, a cooler of beer, and a bonfire. Oh, and some scantily clad girls in costumes.

Day 149: October 28, 2009 (the shifting sun alters human behavior and my bottom line, and please don't call me by my Christian name)

Position: Driver
Number of Deliveries: 7
Sales: $252.64
Tips: $41
Hours: 3.43
Total Wage: $19.95 per hour

People's ordering habits have begun shifting with the sun. Because it's getting dark earlier, people's circadian rhythms push dinner to an earlier time, even though they still leave and come home from work and watch the same television shows at the same times. The effect this has on the Pizzeria is that the orders stack up early then die off around seven or seven-thirty. This contracting of dinner time has also contracted my tipping time, and I'm making less and less, leaving work earlier and earlier.

Because of the pressure to make money in a smaller amount of time, scenes like this are upsetting: I arrive at a nice brick house in Del Mar, and ring the doorbell. I knock, I ring, I call, I call the Pizzeria manager . . . nothing works. The fall wind blows, and I'm cold standing here in my shirt sleeves. I walk back down their front stairs to my car, and am about to get inside and out of the cold, when a kid runs up holding a Lab puppy. He says his mom will be right here. We wait in the wind. I see a figure walking slowly toward the yard. I think she could maybe pick up the pace, but it's an old man, not her. I wait. Another figure comes lurching along the bushes. It's another old man. I watch him slowly walk along the fence, thinking she's losing the race to meet the pizza man against two elderly gentleman who walk in slow motion. The kid and I don't say anything, he just keeps hugging the puppy and staring at the road with me.

Mom finally comes into view, and the kid yells, "Hurry up, mom!" She sees me and my car and realizes the situation. She yells, "Sorry," as she makes her way up the driveway, walking a giant St. Bernard/Rottweiler mix. She tosses a plastic bag of dog poop (preserved for all eternity) aside then makes her way over to me. I'm hoping she'll wash her hands before paying. She says, "Sorry, sorry, I'll be right back," then walks the monster dog into the lower part of the house near my car. The kid follows her.

I wait and wait by that door, shivering in the wind. After a couple minutes, I think she has to be joking now. Instead of reemerging from the lower door, I hear the front door at the top of the stairs open. I decide to make my stand, literally. Instead up running up to them, I wait for her and the kid to walk down and pay me. She apologizes again, and gives me a $30.34 check with a ten dollar apology tip in cash. I tell her it's okay, even though it isn't, and then point out that I need her driver's license number on the check. Who orders pizza and takes their dog for a long walk, then doesn't even have their check written out? (I've already wondered elsewhere why people still pay with checks at all.) I guess we'll have to blame the shifting of the sun and the darkness that has clearly dimmed this woman's brain.

Later in the night, I deliver to a jolly man who says, "Hey buddy, how's it going?" We exchange more niceties, then he pens in a two dollar tip on the $28.39 order. Okay, so he's a little cheap but still nice. Then he crosses an invisible social line, saying, "Here you go. Thanks, Eric." I don't know what it is, but being called by my given name by someone who doesn't know me––just because I'm wearing a stupid name tag––rubs me the wrong way. It's like being called "boss" or, worse, "chief"; it stings the ears and reinforces the uneven relationship of servant to served. I can't very well say back, "You're welcome, Jeffrey," even though his name is on the ticket.

Over the last two hours of work, I only have three deliveries, including the guy who called me by my first name. If it wasn't for the dog walker's apology tip and the generosity of the other five customers, tonight could have been financially worse. My pecuniary expectations need to shift to the south with the sun. It looks like it's going to be a long cold winter.

Day 145: October 23, 2009 (flesh-eating zombie cougars, disembodied arms, and the scariest costume of the year: a••hole)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 9

Sales: $337.49

Tips: $44

Hours: 3.18

Total Wage: $21.84 per hour

As I said in my last post, the weather change seems to have gone to people's brains, making them behave in ways they otherwise wouldn't. Or at least I hope they wouldn't. Maybe it's the proximity to Halloween that brings out the freaks. 

A couple nights ago, on my last delivery, I arrived at a home candle shop where the porch was decorated with elaborately carved pumpkins, the most memorable of which was a professionally carved pirate face with a knife sticking out of the front and dripping blood actually carved into the pumpkin. (Side note: in general, people have gotten extremely lazy about pumpkin carving, leaving them blank or allowing their children to draw faces on them. These pumpkins should immediately be smashed in the name of tradition and artistic integrity.) 

Through the windows, I saw a couple of women sitting at the kitchen counter. An attractive woman––in a capable/confident, sure of herself New-age manner––answered the door and invited me inside. More pumpkin carving was going down, so I said, "You guys having a pumpkin carve-off?" as she walked me into the kitchen. There were actually seven or eight full-fledged female cougars (ranging from mature-attractive to scary-aggressive) hanging around, and as we entered, the woman who answered the door said, "Yeah, we're having a pumpkin-off, a drink-off, and a pizza-off," and another woman chimed in, "So why don't you take your clothes off?" Open bottles of hard alcohol sat on the counter near the women carving pumpkins. One pumpkin carver turned around and said, "Yeah, why don't you take your clothes off?" I let out a nervous laugh, and a woman seated at the counter said, "All the delivery guys do it." They laughed. Time slowed down, and I focused on the hostess cougar's forearm, which had a large tattoo of a scorpion. Oh, she's a Scorpio too, I thought, but her marked admission of her astrological sign is more of a warning to future boyfriends and husbands, I'm sure. Feeling like a piece of dangling meat, who would probably make more money if I allowed them to tuck tips into my boxers, I waited for them to reveal that they're really flesh eating zombie cougars. I realize this scene might be some men's fantasy, but I wanted to get paid and leave. It was a bizarre ending to a weird night. 

Tonight, I find myself at the door of a  family that has gone above and beyond the call of duty when it comes to Halloween decorations. Sure they have the usual pumpkins, spiders and skeletons, but they've added a hay bale, on which sits two disembodied hands, and over the door they've hung a large, orange Happy Halloween! banner, complete with the family name, meaning "mighty" or "powerful" in Arabic. 

When I ring the doorbell, I see through the door windows a large, Indian-looking (Pakistani?) man standing in the foyer. Instead of walking the ten feet to open the door, he nods to his Mexican maid, who is standing stage left, and he points at the door. She comes to the door wearing a maid's apron (not to be confused with a cooking apron), and asks in broken English if she or the woman needs to sign, while the man trails off down the hallway. I tell the woman the credit card holder needs to sign, and she closes the door before walking off stage left. The man enters from stage right, looks at me through the doorway windows, and just stands there, surveying his kingdom. The Mexican maid enters stage left, passes right by the standing man, who apparently doesn't deal with small scale finances of the household, and exits stage right. The man, buying into the meaning of his last name, wanders off stage left. While standing there, I decide to push the "push here" buttons on the disembodied arms. One lurches forward then dies. The other one, which has a referee's torn shirt, doesn't work at all.

The Mexican maid returns with a four dollar tip written on the slip, and asks if it's okay. I step away from the disembodied arms and tell her, yes and thank you. The aloof master's actions remind me that scary household tyrants come in all shapes and sizes, that being a wealthy jerk isn't the exclusive dominion of the lighter skinned people of the world. Maybe a more appropriate translation of the family last name would be Arabic for a**hole. 

Day 139: October 17, 2009 (getting comfortable, the writer's vow of poverty, skeletons on the porch, and the fiery crash that wasn't)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 10

Sales: $314.41

Tips: $43

Hours: 3.63

Total Wage: $19.85 per hour

I've been reading Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott's co-authored book, Which Brings Me to You: A Novel in Confessions, and I came across this fitting passage: "I didn't want to be rich. What I wanted was the sense of ease I imagined the rich kids possessed, of being able to relax, not having to try so hard all the time." This has generally been my attitude toward the rich and being wealthy, but I've found myself slipping lately. Don't get me wrong, I don't want the oversized house and attendant staff, nor the gaudy, golden furniture with flower patterns, but every once in a while I'll see a real cool, Spanish-style house with nice, comfortable furniture and beautiful paintings on the wall, and I''ll think, That sure looks like a nice place to relax and read a book. Or I'll wonder what it's like to drive a nice car––say an entry-level BMW––since I've never owned a new car in my life, much less an expensive one. Maybe it's nice to settle into your squeaky, heated, leather seats without having to worry if today's the day your car is finally going to say it's had enough, that 188,000 miles is the limit. And if you're going to make the choice to drive a car, all environmental considerations aside, why not drive a nice one?

When you spend your life wanting to be a writer, it's as if you've taken a monastic vow of poverty. You're supposed to somehow be above the banal yearnings of worldly possessions. I'm always shocked when I enter writer/professors' houses that are really nice; it's something like the disappointment I felt when I found out a certain Zen poet/teacher smokes, drinks, and eats meat. But what is wrong with wanting a few nice things? Nothing, as far as I can tell.  

I enter work tonight tired. It finally feels like fall, with fog creeping its way up the valleys from the sea. Darkness has been descending earlier and earlier, and people do dumb things when the weather changes. On two separate occasions tonight, a car stops suddenly in the middle of a busy road, trying to figure out where they are in the fog. I almost slam into both of them. People in San Diego aren't used to fog, and many make the mistake of turning on their brights. I have a premonition that something bad will happen tonight, like maybe I'll die in a fiery car crash.

I arrive at a darkened house in the Crosby, and ring their doorbell. Then I knock before ringing the doorbell again. Nothing stirs within the house. I pull out my cell phone and call them. "Oh, we're not home," the man says. I don't need him to tell me that. He doesn't apologize and say they'll be here in a minute, he says, "Can we pay with a credit card and have you leave it on the porch?" I explain that he'll have to call the manager, give her the number, then she'll have to call me back and okay the whole transaction. "How much is it?" he says.

"I don't know," I say. "I'm on your dark porch, and I can't see anything." We hang up, and I stand around on the porch waiting for the manager to call. It's cold, and the Halloween decorations, especially the realistic, miniature, hanging skeleton, are a bit unsettling. I stare up at the stars, which you can actually see tonight, and forget about the fake images of death surrounding me. I walk out and sit on their steps, and think about how I really want to celebrate El Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead) this year instead of Halloween, that it makes much more sense to honor dead relatives than it does to carve pumpkins, gorge on candy, and attend parties where women wear various versions of the the same skimpy costumes––the suggestive nurse; the naughty cop; the unholy Catholic school girl––that aren't scary. 

The manager calls and says everything is okay, so I leave the two large pizzas and salad to cool on the dark, stone porch. The man calls while I'm driving out and asks if everything is okay. I tell him his food is on the porch, thank him (not sure why), then quickly hang up.

Other than receiving fewer tips tonight, barely missing a few car bumpers, and wasting time on a dark porch thinking about my dead relatives, my premonition of a fiery death turns out to be wrong. These are the premonitions we can ignore and forget about, keeping our premonition batting averages higher. At the end of the night, I still have the same job, same old car, and the same unheated house. But that's good enough for now.   

Day 138: October 16, 2009 (why the rich both give and don't give a sh*t)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $370.03

Tips: $63

Hours: 3.80

Total Wage: $24.58 per hour

As I drive around, I enjoy BBC Business Daily's program today about rich people and giving, from different cultural perspectives. They mention that the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation spends as much on worldwide healthcare as the entire World Health Organization, just over one billion dollars a year. That astounds me. Conversely, Martin Brookes, chief executive of New Philanthropy Capital, says the British, traditionally known as a tight-fisted people, are giving "a smaller fraction of [their] total income" today. He says one reason people in the U.S. might be better givers is because we give much more visibly: naming buildings, business colleges, etc. after ourselves. Brookes says, "Research shows that if you give money, and you talk about it openly, you're more likely to inspire others to give." Turns out, we're always trying to keep up with the Joneses, even in our giving.    

They also interview Ram Gidoomal, who came to Britain from India via Pakistan and East Africa. When asked about rich people's motivations in giving, he responds, "When I became a follower of Christ, what I learned was that when I give, I give as an expression of thanksgiving. I know that when my father gave, and my father gave generously to the temples, he was paying for his karma, his karmic debt." He also answers the Wall Street Journal's article, "India's Rich, Open Your Wallets,"  by saying there are 600 million poor people in India, and most rich Indians give in their communities by building infrastructure for their villages. Apparently, Indian billionaires aren't winning awards like Bill Gates. But then again, giving in India isn't like the U.S., where the Wall Street Journal writer says, "giving [is] practically a competitive sport in U.S. business circles."

When asked how ego and guilt drive giving, Gidoomal answers, "Some people want to get acknowledgement and recognition. And I say, 'So what? Let them get it.' If it's out of guilt, so what? Let the money flow." He also says, "So what if the motive is different? In one sense, giving was done." 

The interviewer asks one final question: "What's the duty of the rich people to give, if there is one?"

And Gidoomal answers, "Oh, I'm driven here by Andrew Carnegie's statement, 'A rich man who dies with any money is a disgrace.' His point was, we must give and give and give, and to die with wealth to your name is a statement that you didn't give enough, even if you gave. We must learn to give, and to give generously. I love Bill Gates's example. You know, Bill Gates with his multiple billions has taken care of his children and grandchildren and probably a generation later, and he still had surplus. At least he's giving it . . . the answer is in a simple word: give, and give, and give. Don't hoard it."

I come away from the program feeling inspired by the giving of the rich, the sense of redemption, that they're not all those terrible, greedy people in the news who've been taking massive bonuses in the face of our national economic collapse, a collapse they created with derivatives, sub prime mortgages, and naked short selling. No, some choose to use their superpower for good instead of evil; it's not all the Legion of Doom; there are Super Friends. Yay!

And then this happens: I get to a delivery, pull all the way up the driveway, and a man comes walking out of the garage, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. He looks like a long lost, overweight Baldwin brother, and he clearly dresses down on the weekends. You should know I've recently grown my beard out in anticipation of the Valient Thorr concert next week (they're from Venus––long story), and this man keeps looking at me suspiciously. Instead of digging out his cash first, he takes the two large pizzas and box of cookies from me then looks down at his pocket, realizing his logistical error. Instead of handing back the food, he places the pizzas on the hood of my car. Now, I'll admit, my car is an elderly clunker, oxidized paint on the trunk and all, but it's my car, my space. He certainly wouldn't like it if I put the pizzas on his BMW and asked for the money. It's this kind of disregard that I don't like about the wealthy, that my life and crap aren't as important as their lives and crap, and that's why it's okay to make millions of dollars while the very people you screwed lose everything. All I can say to that is "Alahoyus!"

Day 133: October 11, 2009 (cocktail math, the bronze kiddie toucher, and the young man who isn't young)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $478.70

Tips: $62

Hours: 4.18

Total Wage: $22.83 per hour

My night's going well, when I get a two-bagger to Fairbanks. At the first house, I see the blond woman in the side window by the door, so I knock softly. I know she's on the other side, but she doesn't open the door right away. When she does, she looks like someone's mother in her 40s. She has an elaborate turquoise and stone necklace draped around her neck, the rocks acting as a roped bridge across the chasm of her cleavage. I hand her the credit card slip, and she stares at it. "I've had a few cocktails," she says. "I usually give you guys five dollars." The order is only $13.34, so five dollars would be an amazing tip. She continues looking at the slip, doing the math in her foggy head, then she pens in $18.34 on the tip line. She laughs, says that isn't right, and crosses it out and puts the total in the right place. I thank her, jealous of her solo party, and head off to my next delivery.

I pull into the driveway, and park behind the Escalade sitting under the large portico. Next to the Escalade sits a custom, 4-seat, silver golf cart. The tall blond woman who answers the door has that slightly disproportionate look about her face, denoting either lip or nose work. She gives me a decent tip, and when I'm pulling out of her driveway, I see something I didn't notice before. She has two of the popular, happy kids sculptures on her front lawn: a baseball pitcher and a catcher, perfectly distanced from each other. They both have a single, small light pointed at them, making them look like phantom players. Now is my chance to find out who makes these things. I think about getting out of my car and tip-toeing across the lawn to look for a signature in the bronze, finally ending the mystery. But I'm worried she'll see my car idling in the driveway, and she'll come outside to investigate only to find me bent down at the children's feet, looking like some kind of bronze child molester with a foot fetish. I drive off.

Near the end of the night, I carry deliveries out into the parking lot, and the driver Dustin says, "That guy's so wasted. He's blasting Eminem." I look up to see a guy running around his convertible black Mercedes to open the door for a blond woman. Eminem blares from the car's speakers. Unfortunately, he's blocking the delivery car I'm driving, and now he's outside of his car freaking the blond woman in the parking lot. They're not young. I approach, setting the pizza bag on the ground while I open the delivery car door. The man continues gyrating against the woman's body, and only she notices me and the parking situation. "This poor guy," she says. They say a quick goodbye, and as she gets in her Land Rover he jumps into his Mercedes and says to me, "You guys busy on Sunday nights?" I assume he's making small talk to break the awkwardness of what just went down. He appears to be in his 40s and wears a gray high school football sweatshirt. I tell him, yes, we are sometimes busy on Sunday nights. He says, "Take it easy," and rolls away with Eminem still blasting from his speakers.

Day 131: October 9, 2009 (you won't get me next time)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 12

Sales: $453.27

Tips: $62

Hours: 4.13

Total Wage: $23.01 per hour

Halfway through the night, I'm delivering to a house in Fairbanks, and a handsome Mediterranean looking man in his late 30s answers the door. I instantly get the What did you do to earn so much money? feeling. He asks me how much he owes, and I tell him. But he's not really paying attention, because he's talking to his kids, taking the food, and messing with the money in his hands all at the same time. He tells me he needs to get more money, and yells to his wife, I assume, that he needs more money. He turns around and asks again how much he owes, and I tell him, "Forty-fifty-eight." 

"Oh, I've got that," he says, pulling out two twenties and three ones, emptying his hands. And, realizing his tip sucks, he says the lamest thing on a long list of lame things you can ever say to a pizza man: "I'll get you on the next go round, then." I've never delivered to this house before, and I don't assume I ever will again. I'm no statistician, but we have eighteen delivery drivers, and the odds of me getting his next order are slim. I probably have better odds of winning the lottery if I buy two tickets and a gum ball with his crappy tip. On the outside chance I do deliver to his house several months from now, what is the likelihood he'll remember bending me over the tip barrel? I will definitely remember him. The one getting screwed always remembers.

Day 129: October 7, 2009 (Marilyn eases the rich pauper's blues)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 10

Sales: $278.13

Tips: $49

Hours: 3.53

Total Wage: $21.88 per hour

About halfway through the night, I power up a driveway in Fairbanks and park before a marble, double staircase entrance to a mansion. I ring the doorbell, and through the side window I see a man scuffing toward me, past dark, silhouetted objects littering the floor. He manages to turn on a light and open the large front door. With his unshaved, salted beard, uncombed mop of hair but nice, cable-knit sweater, shorts and sock-less loafers, he looks like a rich vagabond. A large picture of Marilyn Monroe's face leans against the plant on his round entrance table. Below, items lie around in paper and bubble wrap. The scene is similar to the writer-looking guy I described back in the Day 46 & 47 post. 

He asks me what he owes. "Twenty-twenty-nine," I say. I can't smell alcohol, but his jerky movements are definitely hampered by it's consumption. He hands me a twenty, then starts peeling through the fattest money roll I've seen to date, all hundreds and fifties. 

"You can keep the dime," he says.

"I'm not sure what you mean," I say, while Jim Croce's "Operator (That's not the Way It Feels)" echoes deep inside my cranium.

He sways back and forth. "What have I given you?" 

"Twenty, so far."

"Oh." He digs through the hundreds and fifties, finally locating another twenty, and hands it to me. "I'm not into finance right now . . ." he says, his voice slurring and trailing off. This makes me think he's going through a divorce, where money loses its meaning and nights are long, full of drinks and guilt and self-loathing. But then there's Marilyn Monroe, the girlfriend of the world. He'll always have Marilyn. He asks me for ten dollars change, leaving me a $9.71 tip (almost ten dollars). One of those tens must be the dime he's talking about, though the meaning in Jim Croce's song got lost a long time ago when pay phones started charging a quarter.

Day 127: October 5, 2009 (I'm not waiting to toss your salad, nor feeding the starving couples of the IE, nor reseting watches)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 18

Sales: $1,048

Tips: $120

Hours: 8.98

Total Wage: $21.79 per hour

I worked all day, made good money, and am about to leave with a pizza for my brother and neighbors, who are watching Monday Night Football at my house. I hear a counter girl tell the manager that a customer walked out pissed off about his salad not being ready, saying we could deliver it to him. Since I'm waiting for my pizza to cook and the man's house isn't far, I offer to take the salad. But the deliveries on the screen are getting so old, the manager asks if I want to take more, even though I'm all but clocked out. "Sure," I say. I could use the extra cash, the two orders are big ($57 & $69), and it shouldn't take too long.

I accidentally pass the entrance where the salad man lives, and turn around. I sit at a compound gate with no last name and no code. I call the Pizzeria, and after some research, the manager comes up with the gate code. I'm into the compound, but there are multiple unmarked driveways and fenced pastures. It takes passing two before I turn around and try the first steep driveway. I'm all up in these people's yard, turning around on their driveway, shining my lights in their house and on their garage, searching for a number I can't find. No one comes outside, so I figure it must be the wrong house, or they would have investigated the motor boat with the searchlights in their driveway.

I head back down to the entrance road and call the salad man, telling him I don't see any addresses. He tells me I need to keep driving on the road for about a mile (a mile!) and cross the bridge, then I'd find him on the left. I cross the bridge, but see multiple buildings––houses, stables, etc.––on the left and no numbers. I drive a little more, and a driveway on the right almost has the number I'm looking for. I call the salad man again, thinking he's going to lose it on me. He says to turn around and come up the dirt driveway to the building on the left of the main house just past the bridge, which looks to be stables connected to a house. I find him, and the salad controversy is over, but my other orders are now bordering on fossilization.

I haul ass way up El Camino Real, where the address numbers are usually hidden in bushes or adorn unlit rocks near driveways. When I finally arrive at delivery number one after stopping to read several hidden address numbers, an "Inland Empire" couple answers the door: black motocross logo clothes and crooked hat for him ("Metal Mulisha, bro"); bleached hair, black clothes, and tall rubber sandals for her. "We're really hungry," she says, which is code for you're late. Funny, they look well fed, and I assume they have cupboards and cupboards and an entire refrigerator full of food in this big ass house. She punishes me with a $2.48 tip. Expected.

I'm off, and when I arrive at the last delivery, a young girl answers the door, looking excited. Dinner time. But then Dad comes to the door, and makes an exaggerated gesture to check his watch. Translation = you're late. He decides he, too, should punish my tardiness, and writes in a $2 tip on the $69.64 order. Ouch.

By the time I get back to the Pizzeria an hour later, my pizza is coagulated and curling in on itself, I only have six more dollars in my pocket, and I'm going to miss the end of the football game (Brett Favre battling his old team!). When my neighbor calls to see where I (the pizza, actually) am, I don't even answer my phone. The impatient salad man, the I.E. couple, and the watch tapper have ruined my entire day. 

Day 124: October 2, 2009 (hundred dollar bill, y'all, school inequalities are black and white, and making up research)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $339.71

Tips: $59

Hours: 2.75

Total Wage: $29.45 per hour

When I arrive at the first delivery of my second run, a stocky man, wearing a light-blue polo shirt and shorts, waddles out and hands me a $100 bill for his $31.86 order. I tell him I only have twenty dollars worth of change, and he says, "That's all I got." We seem to be at a standstill. 

"Is it okay if I take it into town and get change?" I say. He agrees, and I dart off to nearby downtown Rancho Santa Fe with a short list in my head of possible places to get change. The local elementary school appears to be having an open house, so I must drive extra slow. Most of the little boys wear suits, while the girls wear colorful dresses; one even wears white gloves. 

I've been reading Jonathan Kozol's Savage Inequalities: Children in American Schools lately, and the scene in front of me contrasts greatly with his descriptions of schools in East St. Louis and inner city Chicago (with mostly black students). Kozol writes, "For children who begin their school career at Anderson Elementary School [in Chicago] . . . the high school dropout rate is 76 percent. For those who begin at the Mckinley School, it is 81 percent. For those who start at Woodson Elementary School, the high school dropout rate is 86 percent"(58). 

In the affluent north Chicago suburb of Winnetka, 98.5% of students at New Trier High School graduate, most going on to four-year colleges. Oh, and their demographics? 90% White, 8% Asian (which is over-represented in their website photo montage––multiculturalism is in!), 2% Hispanic, and >1% Native and African American. The children on the sidewalk in front of me are all white and rich. Their futures look bright.

I park on Granada, and run over to the only liquor store in Rancho to get change. And wouldn't you know it, even though it's only 6:10 p.m., it's closed. It's also closed on Sundays. One lousy, overpriced liquor store for all these residents, and it's closed. Whereas, the Chicago neighborhood [of North Lawndale], "according  to the [Chicago] Tribune, 'has one bank, one supermarket, 48 state lottery agents . . . and 99 licensed bars and liquor stores'" (41). In case you're wondering, Rancho Santa Fe has at least seven banks in a four block radius.

I'm in panic mode now, because I have other deliveries and I still need to get this fool his change. Luckily, I notice my next delivery is $53.06 and they're paying with cash. The $100 bill man will just have to wait. 

When I arrive at the mansion in the Bridges, a beautiful blond woman answers the door and doles out the cash. Three suit jackets hang on the formal dinning room chairs. I figure a group of business men must be unwinding this Friday night, and that's who the three large pizzas are for. But before I leave, a beautiful Latina woman and her two young boys dressed in suits arrive. This must be the post open house party. Jesus, I didn't have a suit when I was their age. As a matter of fact, even now, I only have a suit jacket and pants my dad gave me years ago. Maybe that explains why I'm on this side of the doorway.

I arrive back at the $100 bill man's house with change, and he waddles out of his garage, past the Porshe Carrera, the Mercedes SL63, the Cadillac Escalade, and the super-custom Silverado truck. I hand him his change, and he gives me an $8 tip and apologizes for his large bill. "It's cool, man," I say.

Later in the night, a hippy-like, teacher woman answers a condo door, and her husband asks me if I'm in junior high school, then laughs. "She's doing research on junior high kids and she needs some subjects," he explains.

The woman looks at the credit card slip, and sees the total is $33.31. "You know, the last time I ordered this same thing, it was only twenty-seven dollars. It gets more and more expensive every time. This is the last time I'm ordering from THE Pizzeria." I feel like it's somehow my fault, and she's going to take it out on my tip. She ends up tipping me $4, and as I leave, she says, "I'll put that down for research." In other words, she's going to lie.