Number of Deliveries: 9
Sales: $288.92
Tips: $53
Hours: 4.12
Total Wage: $20.86 per hour
My first delivery of the night ends up being a single-bagger down to Cayote Ave., eight miles away in Rancho Penasquitos. That means a sixteen mile round-trip, while only getting paid $1.45 in gas commission. It happens.
When I drive through this solidly middle-class neighborhood, I again notice the ordinary yards and multi-ethnic faces. I pull up to the driveway of my delivery and see two guys hanging out in a garage overstuffed with crap piled to the ceiling. In the middle of the storage, they've created a little chill-out nest with a red velour couch. A white man about my age, whose muscular physic is semi-camouflaged by the weight he's gained drinking beer in the garage, walks toward me wearing athletic shorts, calf-high socks, and slipper shoes. He looks like an intimidating gringo vato. His shaved head glistens in the sun, and his torso hair is slowly recovering from its last trim. I don't come from a people with hairy chests, so I don't understand the chest shaving phenomenon. I would sport my chest coat proudly if I had it (in the spirit of full disclosure, I do shave a small patch on my chest––in the name of symmetry––where a skin discoloration grows the only real chest hair I have).
His large, black friend, who looks like a not-so-intimidating Hootie from Hootie and the Blowfish, continues chilling on the garage couch. The shaved man in front of me says, "Sorry for the long drive. I know it's a long way." I suddenly like this guy. He gets it. I say it's cool, no big deal, and he writes in a tip on the credit card slip. "I appreciate it," he says. "This should help." I look down to see he's given me a $10.19 tip on his $29.81 order. I thank him twice, then get in my car.
It's interesting how people in your same social class tend to relate more to your situation and sometimes tip more than those who don't. While I'm often thanked by wealthy customers, I don't think I've ever had anyone in Cielo apologize or thank me specifically for coming all the way up there, then overtipping me.
I guess the gringo vato relates to me in a way that I can't relate to Adam Levinson, the chief investment officer of The Fortress Investment Group, who was interviewed the other day on BBC Radio. He received $300 million in shares last year as a bonus (which he won't discuss), and still talks in a haughty voice that makes me want to reach through the radio and punch him. He's probably a bad tipper.
There are some ultra-wealthy people I can relate to, like John McAfee. He's a computer anti-virus software designer and owner of the McAfee company, who, in the same BBC program (at 13:49), says he started giving his stuff away and selling off all his property after having a market-crash-induced epiphany (his worth went from $400 million to $4 million). He realized his excesses––like owning six houses, two $17,000 watches, and closets full of things he hasn't looked at in ten years––didn't make sense in a world where people are starving and people in America aren't able to pay their mortgages. He also realized the insanity of consumption caused by marketing, such as paying $2.50 for a bottle of water, "which, fundamentally, is worth one-tenth of a cent." He says, "It rains water; it's the most plentiful substance on this planet, and marketers have told us we need to drink it out of a bottle. Why do we do that? We do that because we're told that's what we should do."
This world and delivery zone need more gringos vatos and John McAfees and fewer Adam Levinsons and B. Joseph Whites––the University of Illinois president who resigned following reports that the university admitted wealthy and well-connected applicants over more qualified ones. I think I'll refill my water bottle from the tap, and pour a little out for the homies who get it.
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