Day 3: June 3, 2009 (gaydar, double vodkas, class hating, and Allen Ginsberg)

*Note: Since I'm documenting a year, I'm using the number of calendar days, not days worked, to label the blog. For instance, I had Tuesday, June 2nd off, so I'm not entering a post for "Day 2." 

A.M.

Position: Server

Number of Tables: 7

Total Sales: $143.45

Tips: $22

Hours: 3

Total Wage: $15.33 per hour

My Manager texts me around 9:30 a.m. to see if I can drive today, because delivery pre-orders, which we call "deferred orders," are quickly piling up (we open at 11:00 a.m.). During the weekdays we get several big orders ($100-$400) from local corporations, so it's easy to make a bunch of money in a few hours. Unfortunately, this day I've already signed up for a server shift, but I would rather drive. I begin frantically calling the handful of people who are qualified to serve. No one can cover, so I'm stuck serving.

When I see, through the front window of the pizzeria, the sleek, silver Mercedes and the light blonde hair of the first customer, I get excited. Probably in her early 60s, the woman walks a white poodle around the lot before putting it back in her car and entering the store. This is Marsha, a local. While Marsha's food choices vary, her drink order does not: a double Grey Goose Vodka on the rocks, served in a wine glass with a sidecar of soda water. Sometimes she drinks one, sometimes two but always during mid-day. I instantly fell in love with her for this. 

A couple weeks ago, she was the only afternoon customer, so I chatted with her for an hour. What I know about her: she was an airline stewardess, back when they and the customers had class, for United Airlines for 35 years; she married, then divorced a United Captain; her retirement pension was cut in half by United; she now sells high end real estate; she talks without punctuation.

"I'll just have coffee some cream please I don't use sugar I went to the doctor this morning you know what he said I have high cholesterol Can you believe that I'm in pretty good shape for a woman my age . . . " I know it's only 11 a.m., but I'm disappointed Marsha ordered coffee and not her usual drink. The doctor has her worried about her health. I worry, too. Marsha's skin looks weathered, not in the "I smoked my whole life" wrinkled leather way, but more of a "I drank my whole life and smoked a few of those years" sort of pallid way. The skin under her piercing blue eyes sags and has a bruise-like hue today. When I return with the coffee, Marsha begins her monologue. "When that doctor told me I need to exercise more and watch what I eat No red meat and what not I looked at him and wanted to say You aren't looking so good yourself buster a little chubby in the middle Ha Ha Ha Tell me which of these two here is more healthy the fettuccine alfredo with chicken or the pasta primavera You know he gave me a list of all the stuff I'm not supposed to eat It's a mile long but it didn't say anything about pasta So which one is better do you think." I suggest the pasta primavera because it has a light cream sauce and vegetables, which makes it seem more healthful. Marsha orders that and asks that the included salad be bagged up for home. "I can't eat all that food."

Closer to noon, the people pour in at the same time. It is only busy for about an hour, but with only two servers in the dining room, that hour is action packed, even with only a handful of tables each. I occasionally stop by to check on Marsha while refilling drinks and shuffling food around the dining room. She launches back into her monologue, adding in "I know you're busy so I won't bother you but . . . " while she continues to talk, and I must excuse myself. 

"Don't talk to that crazy bitch," my co-server says. "She'll go on and on all day." He doesn't know Marsha is already my favorite customer, that I admire her leisurely lunches and mid-day vodka drinking. 

At one table of three, two of the men only order soup and the other man orders the lunch pizza and salad combo. All of them drink water. I'm not a server who frowns on this kind of low cost eating, but many servers will grumble under their breath about these kinds of tables. When I return with the soups––always filled past the capacity of the bowled plate––I spill a little as I set the second one down. The man whose soup it is frowns at me. I thought the drip went on the floor, but I glance down and notice the wet face of his iPhone. I apologize profusely, and he says it's okay in an unconvincing way, as he wipes the phone with his napkin. I apologize several more times throughout their stay, but I want to give him a mother's reprimand for placing his phone on the table.

My final table is two men, one of whom is clearly the other's boss. The boss, in an effeminate voice, orders a diet Coke, lots of ice, lots of lemon, and another glass of only diet Coke on the side to "save me time." He repeats everything the other man orders, to make sure we know he's in charge. "Yes, he'll have the turkey sub," comes as an echo to the other man's order. The boss orders an Oriental Chicken Salad, dressing on the side, with the chicken hot. In all my years of working here, no one has ever asked for hot chicken on a salad before, so I'm a little baffled as to how that's going to go down in the kitchen. 

Now, this is going to sound weird, but the boss man is giving me the "I'm gay, are you?" eyes. This is the second time I've received this look from a customer, and I'm a little bummed, the way a female server would be creeped out by an aggressive male customer. My "gaydar" registers a ten on the gay scale for the boss man. I don't get offended when gay men hit on me, I usually take it as a compliment, but the boss man is just plain creepy. After I return to the table, another woman has joined them, orders a salad, and the boss orders a chicken breast for another woman who's coming. I bring out all the food, minus the chicken breast that's cooking, and the boss says, "And we still need that chicken breast," even though the woman still isn't here. When I bring it out, I notice it looks like a particular continent, so while placing it on the table, I say, "Here's you're chicken breast in the shape of Australia for the ghost customer."

At the end of their meal, the boss hands me a $100 bill for their $35.89 lunch and says, "Keep the change." I get excited. This lunch, while slow for lunch standards, is actually going to pay off. The driver who ended up with the driving shift I wanted this morning has already bragged about how he made $70 in an hour and a half. I've made $18 so far, and this is my last table. "Just kidding," the boss man says. I turn to walk away and say, "I'll be right back with your change." I tell my co-server what just happened, and he says, "That guy's a faggot." I don't reprimand my co-worker for gay bashing, because, in this case, the man is being a "faggot" in the "asshole" sense of the word, not the "homosexual" sense.  After the boss and his employees leave, I approach the table and find $4.11 on the table; an 11% tip.

Sometime during the chaos of the lunch, Marsha quietly left cash on her table after I dropped off the check. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. Her empty coffee cup and half-uneaten pasta remain on the table.

P.M.

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 9

Total Sales: $300.02

Tips: $45

Hours: 3.83 hrs.

Total Wage: $19.74 per hour

Since the day driver made so much cash, I asked him if I can cover his night shift. "Sure, why not?" he said. So here I am, cruising around in one of the pizzeria's Chevy Aveos (which may be the worst car ever built), listening to NPR and "slinging pies." 

My first delivery is in Fairbanks Ranch, to a mansion that has a front door that looks like it belongs on a Medieval castle, and the man never gets off his cell phone during our entire transaction. I delivered to this same house two nights ago, but that time the door was answered by an Australian man who called up to a beautiful woman, who drifted down their spiraling staircase to pay me and take the salads. I can't figure out all the relations in this house, but I spend time thinking about them anyway.

On my way back to the Pizzeria, a lady in a Land Rover is driving way too slow and swerving around, clearly distracted or lost. As I pass and notice she's on the phone, and I think, Dumb rich lady. I catch myself. It's interesting how our prejudices color our interactions. I said "dumb rich lady" the way many people in a similar situation with a different driver, would say, "Dumb Mexican" or "Dumb Asian" driver as they pass the offender. I need to overcome my hostility toward the wealthy.

During my second delivery run, I pass Torrey Pines High School, where nine years ago I subbed P.E. for one day. Seeing the school made me laugh, but it also made me feel bad about my situation. I should be teaching, I think. But I wouldn't enjoy teaching high school on a daily basis, especially not there, I console myself. I remember sitting in the coaches' locker room office––which looks exactly like my high school's (they even have the same colors and football helmets)––before class began, and one of the coaches, incredulous, looked over at a younger me and asked, "Are you a sub or something?" 

I spent that half hour staring straight ahead, while the coaches exchanged stories about students. "This one kid had $200 in his pocket, and I said, 'Why you carrying around all that cash?' And, get this, the kid says to me that it's his allowance for the week. Can you believe that?" Another coach shared his unbelievable student story: "So I overhear this student tell another student that their family maid is on vacation for two weeks. Then he says, 'I have to make my own bed; how ghetto is that?'" 

I'm better off delivering.

I love listening to NPR while I drive. Tonight, I learn on the Writers' Almanac, hosted by Garrison Keillor, that it's Allen Ginsberg's birthday. Keillor begins by reading the first few lines of "Howl," and I'm pulled back to 1998 when I first read that poem and was blown away. I wrote a paper about the biographic elements manifested as poetry in "Howl" three years ago in Dr. Skeen's Beat Writers course. Keillor rattles off bits of information about Ginsberg (including a reminder that he worked for an ad agency in 1954, right before quitting and writing "Howl") and his mentally deranged mother, and I learn something new: Ginsberg sold his collected poems to Harper in 1984 and his papers to Stanford in 1994 for a reported $1 million. I'm glad someone got rich off poetry. He died in 1997.

I have a delivery to nearby Morgan Run, also referred to as Whispering Palms or Concha de Golf (the main street of the development). I like delivering in this development because there aren't any gate guards to deal with, and most of the residents seem like kind retirees. I get to the glass front door of the house, and can see a man in an electric wheelchair. He asks me to enter and set the food on a nearby small table where he has the cash ready. I don't know why I do this, but I stutter my words and become nervous in the presence of such catastrophe. He's not as messed up as Christopher Reeve was, but he must have spinal damage. I'm sure he wants me to act normal, but I overcompensate for his handicap by shucking and jiving and talking in something bordering on mother-ease. He smiles, thanks me, and I'm out the door wondering if he has help and how he'll maneuver the pizza through his house. The encounter reminds me that no one is beyond the reach of tragedy, not even the wealthy.

On my last delivery of the night, at what I call a "Silver Spoons" house (from the old TV show) in downtown Rancho Santa Fe, an elegant Mexican woman with a black shirt and pink collar answers the door. I assume it's her house. Behind her, I notice a painting by my art teacher, Allison Renshaw. I'm excited to recognize her abstract painting, and now realize who can afford her $5,000-$10,000 price tags. The Mexican woman calls in Spanish to the children, and a small, white child clutches at her clothes and hugs her leg while I hand her the pizza. Oh, she's the nanny, I think. I hand her the credit card slip, and she signs it before handing it back. I point to the unfilled-out portion and say, "I need a total here." 

She looks at the slip, then me, and says, "No tengo dinero." 

"It's okay, I need a total," I say. I point to the credit card slip and say, "Una propiña," a tip.

"No tengo dinero," she repeats.

I point at the tip line on the credit card slip and say, "Aqui."

She takes the pen, says something in Spanish containing the words "five" and "okay." I take this to mean "is $5 okay?" "Si, está bien," I say. She calls out to another child while she fills in $5 on the tip line. A ten to twelve year old boy arrives as she hands me back the slip. He asks to see it, then takes the pen and scratches out the $5 and makes it $10. She argues with him in Spanish, which he apparently understands, and he says, "It's ok. It's THE pizzeria." I end the night a happy camper, driving back to the pizzeria while listening to Beyoncé sing the words, "If you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it."