Day 5: June 5, 2009 (Pizza Zen Masters, "whales," sunset wine deck parties, and superheroes that aren't super)

Position: Driver

Soundtrack: Jane's Addiction Nothing's Shocking; Mahalia Jackson Gospels, Spirituals, &Hymns

Number of Deliveries: 10

Total Sales: $418.16

Tips: $52

Hours: 4.42

Total Wage: $19.76 per hour

By the time I arrive ten minutes early for my 5:30 p.m. Friday night driving shift, the Pizzeria is already steeped in controversy. The manager, in order to avoid the driver jockeying and whining and bitching that accompanies big orders being on the driver screen, has taken a $400 order and a $200 order and placed them on the pick-up screen. But the drivers are resourceful people and have spotted them. Whispers of favoritism and bullshit circulate. Who will get the big––what I call "whale"––orders?

As a driver, it's best to give yourself over to the delivery gods and accept your fate and routes without complaint. Pointing out extra deliveries that will work with your route is semi-acceptable, because as a manager I sometimes don't see everything perfectly, but the greed driven by larger orders borders on insanity. My favorite driver is David Herberg, the Zen Master of pizza delivery. David takes whatever he's given and never complains. Ever. Just being around the guy has had a profound affect upon my life and how I approach situations.

Tonight's big orders sitting on the pick-up screen are numbers 90 and 91. I am assigned numbers 95 and 99. A couple drivers behind me, the bigger whale order must be assigned in order to arrive by the designated time of 6:15 p.m. Alex, whom is also a Zen disciple of pizza delivery (possibly a yellow belt), gets the $400 order assigned to him. I'm cool with that. The problem is, the $400 and $200 orders take up the entire oven for some time. I fold boxes and wait for my orders, which don't seem to be emerging from the oven's conveyor belt anytime soon. I continue folding boxes for twenty minutes while Alex gathers his pizzas and pastas and loads up his car. He's out the door before my first order emerges, which is now 45 minutes old. We always quote people 45 minutes to an hour for delivery, so this one is going to be tight.

I realize my other order isn't even in the over yet, so I tell the manager. Number 99 is unassigned from me, and I'm off on a single-bagger with a sour taste in my mouth. When I get in my car, I think of David Herberg, crank up Jane's Addiction's Nothing's Shocking––which instantly takes me back to 1990––and enjoy the drive west.

This single order is to an area the local sheriffs call "Santa Land." All the streets in the neighborhood begin with the female Spanish word for saint: Santa Helena; Santa Rosita; Santa Hidalga, etc. In 1999, a man robbed the Wells Fargo on Santa Helena, then fled into Santa Land. The sheriff that told me the story said that a near-retired traffic cop happened to be right in the neighborhood when the robber took off. The aging sheriff searched Santa Land, and the rest of the sheriffs tried to keep their composure as he rattled off Santa names over the C.B. At one point, he said something like, "I don't know where the hell I am," as the rest of the sheriffs tried to join the pursuit. He eventually found the suspect parked in a driveway. The guy approached the sheriff's car, exchanged a few words, then  started firing his .9-mm pistol at the sheriff. Another patrolling sheriff ran to the scene, and a gun battle ensued. The sheriff who told me the story said the traffic cop finally got a bead on the robber and shot him in the head, but the much more detailed district attorney's review says the robber ended up with "fourteen gunshot wounds and four graze wounds," the ones to the head and neck being fatal.

I arrive at the house on Santa Helena. An affable Asian man maybe a few years older than me answers the door and takes the credit card receipt to his wife. Their children run around the house while a friend sits at the kitchen table. He returns with the receipt, and we say our kind goodbyes. I look down to see they tipped me $5 on $67.62, and the sour taste returns to my mouth. I've got a long way to go before advancing from the white belt category of pizza Zen Master.

Around 7 p.m., I get a delivery to Rancho Valencia, a resort and residence complex located right behind the Pizzeria. When I get to the gate, the two gray-haired guards ask if I've got any extras in the car. I pretend to look around my car and say, "Nope, nothing in here," hiding my disdain for this hackneyed joke. I swear the taller guy has no teeth, and when he keeps talking all I hear is "Hebidy jebidy huh huh Pizzeria." The shorter, Asian guard laughs and says something else, also unintelligible. I'm thinking maybe this place, as a community service, has hired two developmentally disabled adults for their gate. I smile, thank them for letting me in and drive off. The speed limit in here is 19 mph. I'm not sure how they came up with that number, but I imagine someone at the board meeting to decide the speed limit said, "We're rich, and we can set it at whatever arbitrary number we want." I drive 25 mph, the speed limit of average, working class neighborhoods.

I'm not sure what I've done to offend the delivery gods, but my bad luck for the night will continue. I arrive at a house at the south end of Del Mar to find a group of middle-aged adults drinking white wine and having a nice deck party. I want to set down the pizzas and join them for the sunset. A woman answers the door and hands me a check for $70. Her order is only $59.70, and I think the delivery gods are smiling on me. But they're a fickle lot, these gods. When I inform the lady we no longer accept checks, she and her guests scramble into their wallets for cash. They are clearly drunk, which usually works out to the delivery driver's advantage. A man approaches the door with the pooled funds and says with a slurred voice, "Here's sixty-five; is that cool?" I look at the ground and say, "Yeah, yeah, that's fine." I secretly wish I would have asked for the check instead and dealt with the consequences back at the Pizzeria.

And, later, I deliver to a dark house full of children watching a movie. When a pre-teen girl answers the door, I think, Oh, no, I'm not going to get a good tip out of this one. But she calls to her mother, who arrives, like a super hero, draped in a blanket-cape. She takes the credit card receipt into the darkness of the house and emerges with something less than heroic on the tip line: $4 on a $60.57 order (6.6%). 

Drivers spend a lot of their time thinking about what they could have made instead of what they did. As you can see above, I still made $19.76 per hour for the night, but I'm still thinking I somehow got screwed. It's a terrible state of mind. I can't criticize the wealthy while I operate by my own greedy mindset. I need to be more like David Herberg.  I return to the Pizzeria, cash out, clock out, and drive home, praying the delivery gods will look more favorably upon my endeavor tomorrow.