Day 109: September 17, 2009 (plastic silverware and paper China for the check-bouncing woman, plus the dog serenade in G minor)

Position: Driver
Number of Deliveries: 10
Sales: $304.66
Tips: $44
Hours: 3.30
Total Wage: $21.33 per hour

Halfway through the night, I get a nightmare run. I know the first delivery is going to suck, because the ticket has more temporary notes in red ink on it than food: "Paying With Cash" twice; "No Checks!!!!!!"; "Bring Napkins"; "2nd Driveway. Park At Fence"; "Bring Plastic Spoons Forks Knives And Plates." Down below, in the permanent notes section, which usually lists cross streets, it says, "Check address every time. Check order! They Owe Us $ . . . Must Get Mngr. Do not accept checks! Check Returned 3-26-09." All this on an order for one small pizza, totaling $13.83.

I ask the manager what's up with the order, and she says, "Don't bring her all that stuff. We're not providing the utensils for her house. She only ordered a pizza. She's crazy."

When I get to the second driveway of the ranch house, I have no idea what "park at the fence means," so I stop at the entrance. The house looks half-abandoned. At the end of the short driveway, I see and old, wooden fence, and decide that's what she meant. I pull up, and am immediately greeted by a wild Australian Shepherd, the kind with the crazy, whitish-blue eyes and bushy coat that looks like a black and white picture of Monet's "Water Lillies." The dog barks incessantly at me. A haggard looking woman––her hair a gray tangled mess, a droopy black T-shirt exposing a scabbed over chest sore––lurches toward me, saying, "Did you bring me a menu." I look at the ticket and the long list of messages, none of which says anything about a menu.

"They didn't say anything about bringing you a menu," I say, as her dog continues trying to herd me along the driveway with its barking. I did throw in one plastic knife and one fork, as well as some napkins and a paper plate, trying to be fair. I take her cash, and jump back in my car before she can ask about spoons, red flakes, or Parmesan cheese. Her dog continues barking at me as she walks inside.

When I get to my next delivery, a black Lab picks up the barking solo where the other dog left off. I ring the doorbell and knock on the door, making the dog increase the volume and intensity of its song. It runs from room to room, trying to decide which is the best angle to most effectively bark at me. No one comes, so I call their phone. No answer. I walk along the front, and the dog follows from window to window, making sure I can still hear the rhythm.

I get in my car and back all the way down the driveway, and repark near their cars, thinking maybe they're in one of the rooms near the garage. The dog shows up at an open balcony above the garage, where I can hear its bark unencumbered by glass windows and wooden doors. It sounds much louder. I walk around the back of the house, and the dog is kind enough to follow me from window to window back there, too. I take a moment to enjoy their backyard view of dry brush along the hills and check out their red brick pool area. The dog apparently doesn't need a break from barking.

I call the manager and tell her no one's home. She calls them and leaves a message, saying I will only be there five more minutes, then I'm out. I start up the car, and a Suburban drives up behind me. I get out, and they drive right by me, on up the driveway to the front door, so I have to carry their food up there. I'm not happy at this point. The family hops out of the SUV and walks right by me, while the mom messes with something inside the car. They let the dog out of the house, and all but make love to the thing. The woman finally approaches to sign the credit card slip and get the food, saying, "You guys were more on the spot than she said you'd be." The old "see if we can beat the pizza guy home" trick, my least favorite. At forty-six minutes, I'm actually right on time.

I don't say anything about the ten minutes I spent wandering around their yard while the dog serenaded me, or how rude it was to pass me and make me walk the food up here, nor do I take comfort in winning our race to her house. I just smile and say thank you, as if disrespecting the pizza man is the most natural thing in the world.