Day 4: June 4, 2009 (migrant workers, a Rolls Royce, Bo Derek, pills, and unofficial speeding tickets)

A.M. 

Position: Manager

Hours: 7

Tips: $15

Wage: $16.14 per hour

One of our managers is sick, so I cover the day shift for her. On my drive to work, I pass the intersection of Manchester Avenue and Encinitas Blvd., where migrant Mexican workers line both sides of the road, waiting for day labor. Again, as I get closer to work and turn on San Dieguito from El Apajo, male migrants stand and shuffle and stare, waiting for someone to stop and give them work for the day. There's another spot, on Rancho Santa Fe Farms Rd., behind the pizzeria, where workers gather daily, sitting in the sun or standing against a chain-link fence, waiting for cars to pick them up. They're even there on Sundays, ready to work the Sabbath. A taco truck often pulls onto the dirt shoulder of the road in the afternoons and sells these men food. 

This is the dirty secret of the wealthy: while, in general, they are politically against these migrants and their spouses, they depend on their inexpensive labor for up-keeping their yards and homes and caring for their children. The workers are seen as a shelf-ready item, like sugar or laundry detergent. As my landlord said to the neighbor the other day when he couldn't find anyone to help him move a refrigerator, "I'll just go pick up some Mexicans."

Many residents wonder how "undocumented workers" can stand around, day after day, in the same spots without being busted. But I've seen the border patrol, la migra, occasionally raid a similar spot at Encinitas Blvd. and Interstate 5, and while many of the men ran in different directions, some stood still and offered up papers. A landscaper friend of mine, whom I worked with several years ago, said many of these men can earn a better wage ($9-$10 per hour) doing day-labor projects than working in restaurant kitchens ($8 per hour) around town. 

I arrive at the Pizzeria just before 9:30 a.m., and the head cook and his brother––themselves immigrants from Mexico––greet me while they prep food for the day. This kitchen has one of the better relations between the cooks and servers and drivers that I've seen. The brothers have even invited a few of us to come visit their family ranch down in the state of Jalisco. This doesn't mean the cooks don't resent the perezoso nature of the drivers, whom they watch standing around and chatting while the cooks work their asses off. The cooks also understand the nature of American tipping, or propiñas, which are rarely shared with them.

The day drivers and a server arrive sometime before 11:00 a.m.––opening time. I busy myself cutting pizzas and folding boxes and routing the drivers. Another server shows up at 11:30 a.m. By the time the lunch rush is slowing for the drivers, between 12:00-1: 00 p.m., the dinning room begins filling up. One of the servers informed me when he came to work that he needed to leave around 1:00 p.m. for a camping trip. I tell him it shouldn't be a problem, but we'll see how it goes. 

At one point, I cruise through the dining room to check on things, and over at table 13 I see Marsha sipping her double Grey Goose and soda from a wine glass. Things are as they should be. I stop by to say hello, and she begins her monologue: "Can you believe all these pills this doctor has me on Look at these They're horse pills these two bigger ones And I have to take them three times a day I can't swallow pills that big This morning when I tried to take them, " she leans closer to me and hides her mouth from the other customers with her hand, "I threw up Can you imagine I don't know how I'm going to do this everyday but that's what the doctor wants." 

I tell Marsha about how when I was a child and I couldn't swallow pills while I was deathly ill, the neighbor, Mrs. Davies, whose husband was a doctor, came over and crushed up my pills and put them in grape jelly for me to swallow. "That's a great idea I can just crush them up and throw them in my orange juice That's what I'll do I don't think I really need to be taking all these you know I'm in great shape You know what a doctor told me one time I was in for a physical and he asked if I had been an Olympian He said I had the fitness level just under an Olympian and I told him I'm no Olympian but I ran the aisles of an airplane for 35 years . . . " I laugh and excuse myself to tend to business in the back.

I return to Marsha's table with a knife for her to cut up her large, white "horse pills." She starts: "These ones are easy to swallow, " pointing at two smaller, jell capsules, "but can you believe the size of these That's what I'm going to do though I'm going to put these suckers in a napkin and smash them with an ice hammer and put them in Well I'm not going to put them in jelly That seems," she lowers her voice, "cowardly." I interject that I was young when that happened. "Oh honey you're still young I'm sixty-four on the other hand but I'm going to stay young," she covers the side of her mouth again and lowers her voice, "If it comes to plastic surgery fine One thing is I'm not getting old." I laugh and turn to leave, looking back at Marsha. She says, "You've been a wonderful addition to this place You're a joy to have around." I thank her and walk into the back before my eyes tear up.

By 1:00 p.m. the early server announces to me that he's done taking tables, that the other server has them all from here on out. I walk out into the dining room and notice people waiting to be seated. I seat them, and more people walk in. I'm taking drink orders, then food orders, and running around. I tell the early server that he can't just announce to me that he's done. The other server tells me, "I've got it." 

"No, you don't," I say. He always tries to take on too much, because he wants the tips. I understand this and don't blame him. "I'm not going to let this dining room fall into chaos. It's not your call," I say. I end up with three of my own tables while acting as a busboy for this one server I have left. It's stressful, and I hate playing the asshole, which is the role managing puts you in sometimes, but we get through lunch, and everyone's happy again.   

P.M.

Position: Driver 

Number of Deliveries: 4

Total Sales: $135.17

Tips: $21

Hours: 1.65

Total Wage: $20.72 per hour

Tonight, I'm worn out from my day shift. I took almost an hour break, but I'm exhausted from not sleeping well the night  before. On my first run, I'm assigned a delivery in the Del Mar Country Club complex. Mike, one of the drivers I skateboard with sometimes, says, "You don't want to speed in there. The limit's twenty, and they clock you." The manager chimes in and says he's been pulled over before. And what happens? Mike says, "They find out which house you delivered to and fine the residents $50 for your speeding." Seriously? "Yeah, we used to give out $50 food credits all the time for drivers getting busted in there." 

When I get to the guard gate, the just-beyond-middle-aged guard wants to know the address where I'm going, the last name of the resident, and my full name. He prints out a guest pass and writes down my license plate number. "You know where you're going?" he asks. "It's about a mile or so back, on the right." Great: 1 mile @ 20 miles an hour = 3 minutes in and 3 minutes out. Add in door time, and it takes a full ten minutes just within the complex. Meanwhile, the other pizza delivery order in my car is cooling. As I idle through the complex with the speedometer pegged at 20, an old Rolls Royce passes going the other way. "Wow," I say. I'm not a car fan, but something about seeing such a regal automobile reminds me of childhood fantasies about mansions, fancy cars, and marrying models, such as Christie Brinkley or Bo Derek. There was even an elementary school game we played on paper where you listed your three top cars, three models, and three top places to live, and through some now-forgotten algorithm, the answer as to which car you would own, which model you would marry, and at which locale you would live out your dream life presented itself.

At the door of my first delivery, the woman fills out and signs the credit card receipt, then hands it back, saying, "Can you make sure I did the math right?" I look down to see the order total of $46.42, plus a generous $8 tip, and a final total of $52.42. 

"Nope, that's not quite right," I say, and pen over the first 2 with a 4.

"Oh . . . yeah . . . I want to make sure you get paid," she says. You wouldn't believe how many of these people can't do basic math. One of our jobs as a manager is to adjust all the credit cards with the tip totals at the end of the night, and there are always a handful of wrong answers to basic math problems.

I take one more delivery run for the night, and I'm done. It's slow, and I'm tired. I cash out and drive home, the dark streets are empty of migrant workers, whom I imagine are probably eating, sleeping, drinking, or making love to their girlfriend or wife in a crowded apartment somewhere, preparing for another exhausting day of labor and an answer to their nighttime prayers.