Day 102: September 10, 2009 (25% of black people can't afford chipping greens, single people aren't poor, old people are cheap, and I wake the baby)

Position: Driver
Number of Deliveries: 14
Sales: $451.87
Tips: $69
Hours: 4.62
Total Wage: $22.94 per hour

As I pull into the driveway at my first delivery of the night, I admire the 4-hole golf, chipping course on the right side of the house. While the hilly course is real lawn, the greens and mini-tee boxes are artificial turf. I picture rich, white men wearing pastel polo shirts and holding imported beers and cigars, laughing and betting hundred dollar bills as they compete on their short game. So I'm surprised when I'm taking the food out of my car, to turn around and see an atheltic, light-skinned, black man sporting new Nikes and a handful of cash.

Of course my surprise isn't only born out of cultural racism but also experience: it's rare to see African-American faces in these houses, and they're usually attached to professional athletes or entertainers. That should come as no surprise, as the new 2008 census numbers on poverty came out today, and while the national numbers of people in poverty rose almost 6% (from 12.5% to 13.2%, or from 37.3 million people to 39.8 million––a 2.5 million person increase) from the previous year (2007), the number of blacks living in poverty is holding steady at 25%. That's right, while the number for "non-Hispanic whites" living in poverty is 8.6%, one in every four black people in America lives in poverty. Holy crap!

And while this Yahoo News story lists the poverty lines for families of four, three, and two ($22,025, $17,163, and $14,051, respectively––I guess in their logic, the more of you there are, the less each person needs), they fail to list what qualifies someone as a single poor person. Can a single person not experience poverty? Changing from a university Teaching Associate and Graduate Assistant to a pizza delivery driver, I have risen out of single person poverty (which I'm setting at my gross income last year: $10,216) this year, already grossing more than an impoverished couple. But I, along with 46.3 million other Americans, according to the story, am still without health insurance. Hopefully, I won't get hurt and that spot on my right thigh isn't skin cancer.

On my second delivery, an elderly man comes to the door at the same time his teenage grandson skateboards up from the driveway. "How much do I owe you?" the decrepit, old man asks. I tell him the total, $22.63, and he says, "It's $18.79 for the pizza. How'd we get to twenty-two dollars?" Because of tax and the delivery charge. "Oh," he says, and hobbles off.

"It's actually closer to twenty-three dollars," I say.

He turns around, confused. His grandson says louder, "It's twenty-three, grandpop." The man disapears into his nice house, and I'm left standing with the awkward teen who looks as if puberty has left him somewhere between a child and a linebacker. A few seconds of silence passes, then he says, "The Chargers play Monday."

"Yep," I say, and look around him for the old man, hoping he's going to include a tip.

"I heard they might start Sproles instead of LaDanian," he says.

"Really?" I feign interest. Thank God, his grandpa shows back up, but he's only carrying exactly twenty-three dollars. I thank them, and drive away, bummed.

Once I get back to the store, I have to wait ten minutes for a second order to be cooked, because the address is near the order I'm taking. The problem is, when I arrive at that second delivery out in Crosby, the man at the door looks at me and says, "We didn't order any food." I show him the address and the order, and he says, "This is the right address, but we're definitely not the L_____s."

I call the phone number, and Mr. L_____ tells me that I'm at his old address, that he now lives at Morgan Run, clear on the other side of the delivery zone. Apparently, he wasn't paying attention when they read his address back to him, or one of the phone girls didn't put in the new address. Either way, I call the Pizzeria, and it's so busy, the manager asks me to stop by on my way to Morgan Run and get more deliveries headed that way. Trying to get back to the Pizzeria, I get stuck behind an SUV going 35 m.p.h. in a 45 m.p.h. zone. My sour mood increases.

But I notice a grasshopper has hitched a ride on my windshield, holding tight, even at 50 m.p.h., and that makes me think of the old 1970s "Kung Fu" TV show and "young grasshopper." This sucker rides with me from the Crosby to the Pizzeria to Solana Beach and back to the Pizzeria, long enough to change my mood from sour to happy. Lesson learned, Master Po.

Near the end of the night, as I'm approaching a pitch dark doorway, I trip on a small step and land on my knees and elbow, and the pizza bag flies forward but lands upright. When I hit, I let out a loud yell/groan. I collect myself and the pizza bag, and crawl around feeling for my my pen. I stand up just as the man turns on the light and opens the door. He looks like a younger version of my uncle Gerald, only angry. "Hello," I say, trying to act casual.

"What was all that yelling?" he asks.

"I tripped over your step, because I couldn't see."

He turns to his wife, as if it's all her fault, and says, "We should have had the light on." He steps toward her. "Did the baby wake up?" She nods, yes, and he turns around to glare at me. He takes the credit card slip, and as he signs it, he says, "Dammit."

"Are you okay?" his wife asks, standing over by the couch.

"Yeah, I just landed on my knees," I say.

The man now looks concerned. "Oh . . . are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, thank you," I say, and head out, thinking his $2 tip won't even pay for Band-Aids.