Day 8: June 8, 2009 (worn out dads, alarm clock crushing jobs, the wisdom of children, and how being tall and beautiful isn't the best way to live)

Position: Driver

Soundtrack: KPBS (NPR)

Total Sales: $341.75

Number of Deliveries: 11

Tips: $60

Hours: 4.00

Total Wage: $23 per hour

My first delivery of the night is to a tall dad wearing a pink business shirt and who looks like he's had a long, exhausting day at the office. He's ordered the "Family Special": large cheese pizza; spaghetti and meatballs; full Caesar salad; and a dozen fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, all for $24.99 plus tax and delivery (a discount of $12.58). This dad customized his order a little and added a pasta, bringing his total to $40.20. I don't even get mad when he pens in a $2 tip, because, in my mind, he's the working class of the area, probably barely hanging on and paying his adjustable-rate or "interest only" mortgage that put him into this $700,000 home in the first place. He lets out a heavy sigh when I hand him his food, a long day coming to a semi-rewarding end. I thank him and feel bad, even if all my speculation isn't true, that his American Dream isn't looking so dreamy.   

On my second run of the night, after I ring the doorbell, an adorable, towheaded boy with a Gimme a Break (the 80's television show) Joey Lawrence, bowl haircut, runs up to the three-foot-high fence of the backyard and pulls himself up to see me. His dad pays me at the door, and the kid follows me to my car. He's wearing a white T-shirt with a Star Wars stormtrooper head and the words "Birthday Boy!" on the front. I tell him I dig his shirt. He blushes but remains silent. His younger brother joins him, and they watch me climb into my car, admiring me like a superhero. I wave goodbye and they scream, giving me the full rock-star treatment. As I drive off, they run alongside the car on the sidewalk, hollering and waving. I love that children have the insight their parents––who usually show a sort of embarrassed contempt when their children think the pizza man is a legitimate career choice––lack: that we are an integral part of an affluent society and somehow deserve children's admiration. After all, we deliver pizza parties into every home, every day is Friday (or the last day of school), and who doesn't love a pizza party? 

I'd like to think children just inherently understand the words written by Booker T. Washington in his classic 1901 autobiography, Up From Slavery: "No race can prosper till it learns that there is as much dignity in tilling a field as in writing a poem." I'd like to substitute "delivering a pizza" for "tilling a field." Either way, somewhere along the line we convinced ourselves that some jobs have more dignity than others. Yet, many people with "respectable" jobs crush their alarm clocks every morning and drag themselves to another day of drudgery at a job that offers them little personal nourishment outside of financial reward and a certain level of respect from society. For example, everyone says they hate lawyers, yet what parent doesn't puff out their chest when speaking of their child who's in law school? How many times have you heard people swoon, "Oh, he's a lawyer"? I've seen people light up and nearly throw themselves prostrate on the ground when my neighbor mentions he's an attorney. His main job: defending DUI drivers. Is it the money we respect or the extra schooling? Because I've had plenty of schooling, but no one respects an unpublished writer who delivers pizza. A doctor, whom didn't seem too bright in an everyday sort of way, once said to me, "I don't know how you study English. I was always terrible at writing papers." I'll take my kudos where I can get them, even if they come as backhanded compliments from doctors or from earnest children in Star Wars T-shirts. I smile while I work.

On my next delivery run, I arrive at a massive brick mansion in Fairbanks Ranch, where, if it wasn't for the large remodeling Dumpster, it looks like they're filming an episode of MTV's popular show Cribs in the driveway: a full-sized, black BMW sits parked next to a shiny, dark-blue Land Rover. The teenage kids who answer the door look like they could be teen pop idols, with their forward-wind-blown haircuts, luminescent green eyes, and hip skateboarder clothes. One of the teens calls out to his step-dad, who walks around the corner of the house, his millionaire hairdo flowing in the wind; he has that same leisurely, successful look of Virgin owner, Richard Branson. And this is something I'm noticing: the wealthy tend to be beautiful. To make this statement more scientific, all I need is to imagine a stroll through a Wal Mart, and my theory becomes axiomatic. In a couple of days, I will even hear an NPR interview with Arianne Cohen, who has done extensive research on the benefits lavished on tall people––who happen make an average "$789 more per year per inch" than their shorter counterparts. These same sorts of benefits can be found for "beautiful people," according to the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis's research; 5% more per hour. And if you're a rich, successful man or woman and have your pick of the litter, aren't you going to choose the most desirable looking mate? It's evolution at work, and I'm staring at the results in nearly every doorway.

For the third time in one week, I deliver to the Fairbanks house with the medieval castle front door, and this time the lady from the first time I delivered answers the door. She, too, is very beautiful. She gives me a $20 bill for her $12.47 salad and waits for change. I reach in my pocket but quickly remember the Richard Branson look-alike took all my change with his $100 bill. I explain about Branson and the $100, but then remember I have a few ones in my wallet. I pull out three, and she says it's fine, really. I apologize and tell her it's bad form on my part. She flings her hand outward and upward, motioning that "it's only money." Sometimes, I guess it pays to be unprepared rather than tall or beautiful.