Number of Deliveries: 14
Sales: $470.47
Tips: $67
Hours: 4.35
Total Wage: $23.40 per hour
I'm quickly becoming a dog magnet. On my third delivery of the night, I power up a steep driveway on Torrey Hill Court, and then wrangle the pasta and sub sandwich out of the pizza bag. When I turn around and approach the wrought iron pool fence around the yard, I notice a sign on the gate: a silhouette of an unidentifiable dog breed and the words, "My dog can make it to the gate in 3 seconds. Can you?" I don't know. I'm tempted to time myself, since the front door isn't far from the gate. The silhouette could be a lab or some other friendly breed that may beat me to the gate, only to lick me. After all, it doesn't say what will happen if I can't make it to the gate in 3 seconds. I decide not to tempt fate, so I return to my car and honk the horn. A nice man comes to the door and beckons me through the gate, saying, "It's okay." After I close the gate, I notice a large German Shepherd creeping up behind the man inside the house. "Stay," he commands, and the dog lies down. I hesitate, but he insists the dog will be fine. He gives me some cash, and I'm out of the gate in less than 3 seconds.
Later in the night, I whistle and bang around at a small gate before I walk through. Then, once inside, I notice the tell-tale signs of doghood: a leash on the outside table; a taped up plastic boomerang with bite marks; and a small, clay statuette by the front door that, once again, looks like it could be any variety of dog breeds, from a lab puppy to a Rottweiler. I step back toward the gate and stand for a second, whistling some more. Nothing. I approach the door and ring the bell, then walk back toward the gate, creating a big lead from the front door in case this dog can beat the 3 seconds time. A woman answers the door and disappears into her house with the food and credit card slip, leaving me all alone. And then it appears: a massive, rust colored dog with a droopy yet intimidating face. It comes traipsing down the white staircase, and as it hops onto the floor, its claws tick against the white, stone tiles. I step back. It turns toward me, and I reach to close the door, since I don't have enough of a lead to make the gate anymore. But the dog does a curious, goofy spin move, then runs back up the stairs. The woman returns with the credit card slip, and the dog comes down and repeats the shy move. "What kind of dog is that?" I ask. It's a French Mastiff. I think I've heard a story about a mastiff killing someone, and when I get home, I find this NBC News article where two mastiffs killed their owner just three months ago. But a search of dog breeds reveals French Mastiffs are great guard dogs yet nonaggressive. If there's one thing I'm learning from the rich, it's how to differentiate between dog breeds.
Just after 8:00 p.m. I get a delivery to a street that isn't on any maps. The entire complex, called the Lakes (the website has its own home page soundtrack), is new and unmapped. Driver Alex explains how to get there, and tells me I'll have to ask the gate guard where the street is inside. When I arrive at the gate, an older man, who looks more like a gravedigger than a guard, asks me where I'm headed. He looks like the man in Grant Woods famous "American Gothic" painting, only the shape of this man's skull is wider and more defined by his thinness. I expect to see a bloodhound sitting next to a shotgun inside the guard shack. I show him the address, and he shuffles through his clipboard, digging for a map, I hope. He arrives at a blank piece of paper, and begins drawing sketchy lines meant to represent roads. With a country twang, he says, "You'll go left, then pass an 'open house' sign on the left, before turning on Crescent Creek. You follow it up to the end, and it should be up there, somewhere." His drawing has circled in on itself, into what looks like a loop road containing at least a bridge or a tunnel.
"Does that go under this road?" I ask.
"Look, I'm trying to make this as easy for you as I can," he says. I tell him I think I got it, though his map is more confusing than helpful. "There may be another 'open house' sign on your left," he says, pointing up the entrance road, "but just ignore it." How will I know which of the two "open house" signs to ignore? I think. But I just thank him and drive on. I find the route much simpler than his instructions, and locate the house after pulling into several driveways to illuminate their dark, bronze house numbers. The mansion doesn't even have a yard yet. I ring the bell, and some neighbors walking by say, "What house are you looking for?"
"This one," I say.
"What number are you looking for?" Since there's no porch light, I can't see the number on the ticket nor the number on the house.
"I don't know the number, but it's something-69. It's this house."
"I don't think anyone's in that house yet," the man says, and his wife echoes him.
"Well, there's a truck in the back and a light on inside, and someone ordered it here," I say. They repeat that they don't think anyone's there, then continue their walk. I make my way to the back, and see a light blue Bentley in the garage. I see Bentleys almost daily, but I'm still shocked every time I see one, because, even used, they're over $120,000. I knock on the door in the garage, and I recognize the woman from the Salon the other day––she was getting a full hair treatment and manicure. Tonight, she looks like crap. Her blonde hair is disheveled and only a turquoise robe hides her pasty body. It looks like I've disturbed her lounging time. She gives me a nice tip, and I make sure the pizza bag doesn't scrape against her Bentley as I cut out of the garage. When I drive out, I pass the concerned neighbors still out on their walk, and want to yell, "Thanks for your help, morons," but I don't.
We get a little bit of a late rush tonight, and the manager asks if I can take a quick "one-bagger" to Kibbings Road and hustle back for some post-closing deliveries. No problem. Only I turn left on Kibbings instead of right, into the condos. I correct my mistake, then make a left after I cross into the complex. I'm searching for a high, even number, but I'm not realizing all the numbers on this side are odd. I spot a map, and get out to check for the address. I figure out the even numbers are all together on the other side of the complex, and make my way over there. When I get to where I think I'm supposed to be, I realize the buildings are being painted and all the numbers are gone. You've got to be kidding me. I dial the people on my phone and wait for them to answer. "I think I'm in front of your place," I say. She wants to know if I'm near the mailboxes, and I almost say, "Why don't you just walk outside right now?" but I tell them I have no idea. Then I spot the mailboxes behind me. "Yes, yes, I'm by the mailboxes." She says they'll be right out, but I spend a full minute waiting and thinking I'm in the wrong spot, and now I'm going to miss out on those other, quickly aging deliveries. For a moment, I contemplate driving off, that these idiots with no house numbers and no sense of urgency don't deserve their food, that the order will just have to be a casualty of the night. I bet I can make it out of this complex in less than 3 seconds.
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