A.M.
Number of Tables: 2
Total Sales: $41.89
Number of Deliveries: 2
Total Sales: $107.69
Tips: $30
Hours: 2.43
Total Wage: $20.34 per hour
Jean-Paul Sartre, in his seminal book, Nausea, writes, "This is what I have to avoid, I must not put in strangeness where there is none. I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything. You continually force the truth, because you're always looking for something."
I skipped writing about work last night, because nothing of consequence or interest happened. The funniest thing I saw was a woman riding a Vespa scooter while wearing a brand new, leather Harley-Davidson jacket. It made me wish I had my camera. And this morning, delivery was busier than the dining room (I only had two tables in 2.43 hours), so I ran two, close-by deliveries to an elementary school, which brought my total tips from $10 to $30 and put a smile on my face.
There was this slightly profound moment I experienced this morning, though. A woman with bleach-blond hair, large breast implants and sunglasses on came in for a pick-up just before noon. Her perfume was overpowering––she smelled like an entire forest of yuck. Her young daughter bounced around on the front benches while I quickly ran the woman's credit card. "Should we get cookies for your class?" she asked her daughter. I needed to cancel the credit card transaction if that was the case and start over with the new total. But before her daughter could answer, the woman swung around, keys dangling from her fingers, and answered herself, "No, I think the pizza will be fine." Another dumb Rancho bitch, I thought. Then the (paraphrased) words of the Dalai Lama arose in my head: it is better to have compassion rather than disdain for people different than you. I stopped and wondered what was beneath all that veneer, through the forest of yuck. What drove her to such a radical, unnatural alteration of her appearance? Why doesn't wealth eliminate unhappiness? I wonder what she dreamed of when she was her daughter's age, how she saw her future. Is she living it? And then I just felt sad.
P.M.
Position: Driver
Number of Deliveries: 10
Sales: $341.78
Tips: $52 (+ $10 for providing a ride––see below)
Hours: 3.62
Total Wages: $25.12 per hour
At my first delivery, a man who looks like a cross between Jackie Gleason and Mel Brooks answers the door wearing the official uniform of wealthy men in casual dress: a polo shirt; tan shorts; and leather, slip-on loafers, no socks. As I get ready to leave, he says, "Do me a favor and back straight out; we've got a lot of people stuck in here." The distance between his front door and the sidewall of his property didn't allow enough room for a proper round-about––the common driveway design of the wealthy. This insufficient round-about is probably the source of some neighborhood embarrassment for him, the equivalent of buying a large house without the resources to furnish it. Poor guy.
As I drive out of the Del Mar Country Club complex, I notice two ten-year-olds playing golf on the lush course. With their plaid shorts, solid polo shirts, and baseball hats, they look like miniature versions of country club dads. Even the way they strut off the green, with that insider-type laughing, mimics the mannerisms of adult members. The only things missing are Coors Lights and cigars in their little hands. A mom drives them around in a cart, serving as unofficial caddy. I can't imagine what it's like being a country club brat. How could you not become an asshole growing up like this? I'm not sure if I'm jealous or horrified.
Midway through the night, a guy in our parking lot approaches me and asks if I can help him out. His story is that he has a flat tire on his Land Rover and he needs a ride home to Fairbanks Ranch, which is less than a mile away. I think it's some kind of con, but tell him I'll be right back after I get my deliveries. "I'll pay you ten bucks," he says in a thick New York accent.
As luck would have it, I end up with a delivery to Fairbanks, so I give the guy a ride. He's wearing a tight T-shirt, designer jeans, and oversized fashionable sunglasses. Judging by the short, curly hair receding from his forehead, I would guess he's about forty. "I really appreciate this, man. I got a big ol' hunk of metal in the tire on my Land Rover." He holds up his hand to show me the size of the chunk, which is considerable. As he gets comfortable, he starts to open up. "Actually, I'm supposed to meet this girl for the first time, and I'm on my way down there––I'm meeting her at P.F. Chang's in La Jolla–and now I'm dealing with this. But I don't want to deal with it right now, ya know? I'm just going to go get another car. I called her and told her she might want to have a drink first, 'cause I'll be awhile." It must be nice to have a spare car rather than a spare tire, I think. When we get to his mansion, I notice a silver Mercedes SLK and a white Denali in his four car garage. The guy has a whole quiver of cars. "Here's your ten bucks, like we agreed on," he says, and exits my old car, the muffler sounding like a motor boat.
On my actual Fairbanks delivery, I shoot down a steep driveway and realize I'm facing garage doors with no entrance to the house. I back up the driveway, unable to see anything but sky in my rearview mirrors. When I reach the street, I realize they have another driveway up above––the "presentation" driveway––that curves up to the front door. They have two driveways! The woman who answers the door looks vaguely Italian. She's older but model-gorgeous, what I would describe as my Jungian anima. And she's nice; I can't hate her or her two driveways. She asks me if I will deliver to the men, who are down in the room over the second garage. She takes one of the two pizzas for her and the kids, and I'm off, back to the other driveway. I walk up the stairs to the "game room" over the garage, where nine men sit around a Las Vegas quality poker table. No one moves to pay me. I guess they're in the middle of a hand. A youngish, handsome man, maybe a few years older than I am, finally stands up and pays me while looking back at the table. I thank him, but want to scream out, "What the hell do you do for a living?" Goodness.
On my next delivery run, I'm back in Fairbanks Ranch, this time delivering to a mansion with cavernous, 20' high, wood beam ceilings. The way the furniture is arranged in the middle of the front room makes it look like a fancy ski lodge. After the Ward Beaver-like father pays me and I walk to my car, I notice they have a stone plate in the garden leaning against the wall. It has four words inscribed on it: Faith; Family; Love; Hope. In my hyper-critical mind, I begin analyzing the words of the plate. I always equate "hope" with a quote from the 5th century (B.C.) Athenian leader, Pericles: "Knowledge fortifies courage by the contempt which is its consequence, its trust being placed, not in hope, which is the prop of the desperate, but in a judgment grounded upon existing resources, whose anticipations are more to be depended upon" (italics are mine). In other words, you don't really need hope when you have a rational mind and resources and aren't desperate. I assume the "Faith" part of the equation means Christian faith, and I always have trouble reconciling wealth with the radical words of Jesus in passages such as Mark 10:25: "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God." But what do I know? I'll just stick to loving my family.
On my second to last delivery, I can't even look in the eyes of the woman who answers the door. She is a Frankensteinian plastic surgery disaster. Beneath her stringy, dark hair, a Michael Jacksonesque nose and collagen lips, stretched into an awkward smile, greet me. Fake breasts form two, perfectly round, bumps in her sweater. Everything about her looks taut and frightening. I look at the ground during the transaction, stealing furtive glances at her face, which is more reminiscent of the 1985 movie Mask than a beautiful woman. I think back to this morning, but I can't feel true compassion for her. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with all of us? Jesus.
My last delivery of the night is in Santa Luz. I ring the doorbell, wait, then knock. They don't even have a light on and it's pitch black by the doorway. I walk out by the streetlights to see the ticket and make sure I have the right address. A Suburban and a Hummer sit in the driveway, so I assume someone's home. I bang on the door again, and a woman's voice asks who it is. "THE Pizzeria," I say. She asks again. I repeat. She asks again, and it's at this point I want to scream, "Didn't you order a God damn pizza? Who are you expecting? You live in a gated community." I hear a man's voice inside say to her that I must have the wrong house, that we've made this mistake before. The large woman finally opens the door and stares at me, clueless. "Maybe Cori ordered," she says. "Is she even home?" The guy doesn't know and sticks to his theory that I'm lost. I walk through the front door and end up in some weird Spanish-style courtyard with a fountain. The woman points me to the kitchen and tells me to wait there while she goes in search of the mysterious Cori. The man walks into the kithcen and says nothing, so I pretend to watch the Padres baseball game on TV. I'm there at least five minutes before Cori, a twenty-something-year-old girl, shows up with money in her hand. I take the money, and want to ask the guy how big your house has to be before you don't know who's in it.
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