Day 1: June 1, 2009 (guarded gates, lost in the labyrinth, emergency delivery, breaking stereotypes, poor among the wealthy, Fences)

*Note: I began this job about 8 months ago. I've chosen to start documenting my experience as of June 1. I may make references to things that have happened over the past several months. Also, some names of co-workers and customers may be changed to protect their identities. Ok, on with it . . .

Today's position: driver

Soundtrack (what I'm listening to): Johnny Cash "My Mother's Hymn Book"

Hours: 4

Tips: $40

The recession hasn't hit Rancho Santa Fe in any tangible way. While millions of unrealized market losses have probably sent local residents deeper into their liquor and prescription pill cabinets, our business remains steady.  I speculate that this is because we are, for most people, a mid-range restaurant, which means, for the wealthy, eating our food is the equivalent of "slumming it," as my grandpa used to say when eating at Denny's. 

My first delivery of the night is in Fairbanks Ranch, the nearby gated community whose palatial residences spread over 1,240 acres of the most expensive real estate in the county. The dark-haired woman who opens the door is maybe ten years older than me and very attractive. I wouldn't go so far as to call her a "trophy wife," because she doesn't have any of the features of the usual trophy displays: silicon breasts; collagen lips; blond hair; 20-something. She is very kind, the cool wife of a lucky man. She tips me $10 on a $46 dollar order, and I try not to fall in love.

On this same run, my second delivery is in the guard-gated Santa Luz development, a 3,800 acres, labyrinthine nightmare of twisting roads and driveways that deny access to front doors (the driveway will be on one street, and the front door on another). At least the guards at Santa Luz and Fairbanks Ranch automatically open their gates when they see our delivery vehicles, unlike other developments, which I will get to later. The guard at Santa Luz tonight asks me if I know where I'm headed. I point to the address on the ticket and say, "First left, then right, right?" He stares at the address, hesitates, then heads into his guard shack. He returns, says, "I think it's straight ahead. Wait." He goes back into his guard shack and enters the address in his system. Out pops a guest pass complete with instructions on how to get to the house. Straight ahead on the right.

Somehow, I still get lost, because the street changes names on a loop, then regains it original name. I panic and swing around the loop, thinking I should return to the gate and ask again. When I'm back on the original road, I take my first right, but the numbers aren't quite right. Shit. Time's wasting. Tick, tick, tick. Why the hell are these places so confusing? I pull into a driveway, then back out. A man on a bike ride with his young daughter asks what I'm looking for. I read him the address. "You want to turn around, head that way, and make a right, then keep going. That's one of the bigger houses." Even out here, there's a hierarchy of ownership. "Thank you," I say, then drive off.

I find the house, deliver the food, and become disappointed when I realize they've received over a 20% discount through a phone special yet tip under 10%. As August Wilson's character, Troy Maxson, says in his Pulitzer Prize winning play, "Fences," "You've got to take the crookeds with the straights." It's a line to live by while delivering; otherwise, you'll go mad with rage, because there's no rhyme or reason to tipping. It all evens out in the end, and you've got to remind yourself that you're making $18 an hour for the easiest job in America.

Later on, I get a delivery to the dreaded Crosby development. Named after Bing Crosby, the development is populated by streets with cute names from what I assume are his songs and films: Going My Way; Blue of the Night Lane; Road to Rio; Top O the Morning; and my favorite––Road to Zanzibar. The development covers 722 acres of prime valley land between rolling hills and is accessible from either a north entrance off Del Dios Highway or a south entrance off Camino Del Sur. Either guard gate lies at least 7 miles from the Pizzeria, which means it takes time to get there. Then the gate guard makes you give him/her an exact address and name. They call the resident to make sure they've ordered a pizza and that you're not some kind of off-duty pizza guy with nefarious intentions. The guard then issues you a guest pass, which you're supposed to display on your dash (but usually winds up on the passenger side floor) and firmly reminds you that the speed limit is 25, even though there are miles of road within those 722 acres. They even have their own security guards who drive around the complex in trucks or sit at stop signs with radar guns. Yes, radar guns. I have no idea what happens when you're caught speeding in here, but there's a piece of pink paper on the wall at work with the names of people who have been caught. The Crosby guards have even threatened to disallow the Pizzeria to deliver there, but there's nothing else, food wise, out here, and the people need their delivery food.

This time, I sit behind a car at the gate while the guard chats with with woman inside for a full minute (I counted: one-thousand-one, two-one-thousand . . . ). I want to scream or honk the horn and yell, "Hey, I've got hot food in here," because the truth is, I feel like an ambulance driver on a mission: I've got to feed the rich. After passing through the first gate, I hit another gate and have no idea how it opens, since the call box is scrambled. I back out and try the "residents only" lane. Nothing. I back up again, thinking the damn guard must be able to see me through one of the surveillance cameras––if he's not busy making time with a resident––and why can't he just open the damn gate, dammmit? Out of desperation, I pull right up to the guest gate with my bumper, and it opens. I drive 25 mph all the way to the house, and complete my mission. Thank  God. 

In the middle of my shift, I deliver to a house where the aging matron of the house answers the door in a turquoise dress with her breasts pushed firmly together. There is a point in life, as we all must admit, when cleavage––whether on muscular men or large breasted women––stops looking attractive. The woman wears large sunglasses, which make her look like a retired movie actress. As she struggles with signing the credit card receipt, apparently in a valium-induced daze, I glance up and notice a mezuzah attached to the doorframe. (In case you don't know, a mezuzah is supposed to be a parchment inscribed with religious texts and attached in a case to the doorpost of a Jewish house as a sign of faith, but most of them are a piece of wood or metal with a few words painted on them and meant to look like a case containing a parchment.) I fight to stop a stereotype from arising in my mind. Don't think it, Eric. When she hands back the receipt, the tip is average, and we avoid an uncomfortable moment that would have made me feel like a Klansman. 

One of my last deliveries is to a less affluent neighborhood, where the home prices probably only average a paltry $500,00 to $600,000. The house number on the ticket is in the 5000s, but the actual house numbers on this street are from 7500-7600. Someone screwed up. I call and explain the problem to a soft-voiced woman. She says, "Oh, well I didn't want it delivered to the house, anyway. We're at the park down the street. Didn't they tell you?" No, they didn't. She gives me directions, and I'm there in a flash, but no one in the park moves toward my car. A hundred yards away, I see a woman begin walking my way, slowly, with kids in tow. I sit in the car for a second and wait for her to get closer, thinking maybe she should have made her way out to the road during our "detailed directions to the park" conversation. She probably couldn't be bothered. When I finally approach her, the kids do cartwheels around me and shout about pizza. My foul mood instantly dissipates. 

My last delivery of the night is to a gated apartment community. Maybe they're condos (there's not much difference, except ownership). When I ring the apartment from the gate, I hear the sound of a fax machine. Time ticks. The food is losing core temperature. I try again, and it sounds like I'm faxing their food to them, because I'm not getting into this place anytime soon. I can't tell you how many fences and gates I've jumped doing this job in the past. What do you think you're protecting yourselves from with the whole gated community thing? If I want your stuff or car, I would jump the fence the same way I do to deliver your pizza, then drive out, because the gate opens automatically from the inside. Maybe a scene from Wilson's "Fences" will help:

CORY: I don't see why Mama want a fence around the yard noways.

TROY: Damn if I know, either. What the hell she keeping out with? She ain't got nothing nobody want.

BONO: Some people build fences to keep people out . . . and other people build fences to keep people in. Rose wants to hold on to you all. She loves you.

After three attempts, I call the apartment from my cell phone. The woman apologizes profusely, mumbles something about being on the internet, then  apologizes again. It's ok, I tell her, I'm here for you, anyway. She certainly doesn't want to keep me out.