Day 91: August 30, 2009 (people's stupidity causes ethical dilemmas and existential crises)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 9

Sales: $390.39

Tips: $116

Hours: 3.70

Total Wage: $39.35 per hour

On my first delivery of the night, I find myself at a yard gate, wondering if a large dog resides on the other side. I can't get to the front door without entering the yard. I step inside and whistle. No jangling of dog collars, no barks, nothing. I start for the door, but then stop, thinking it's better to be safe. I walk back outside and call the woman, telling her I'm at the gate. "Oh, good," she says, not mentioning anything about dogs. I assume rich people are more concerned about being sued, so they're more responsible with their dogs. I walk back into the yard, and when I'm on my way to the front door, I notice the rest of the yard is fenced off from this entrance area by a tall iron fence. My caution was unwarranted.

The woman who answers the door looks to be in her 70s, her pale face and skin drawn down like the mummies in the Museo de Las Momias in Guanajuato, Mexico. She has a thin stack of bills in her hand, which she looks at, then trades me for the two pastas, cookies, and slice of carrot cake. We exchange thanks, and I fan the bills to see she's given me one fifty, two twenties, and one five, or $95 for a $30.95 order. 

When faced with moral or ethical choices, I usually try and do the right thing. When I get a twenty dollar "bank" at the beginning of the night with an extra dollar in it, I give back the dollar; when the manager messes up in my favor while checking out, I say something. Maybe because I know whom that will affect––the owners of the restaurant––but mostly I want to do the right thing. When I'm undercharged at a store or receive too much change, I usually speak up. Sometimes I don't. And then there's those times when you wished you didn't say anything. 

When I worked at a country club in Fresno, I once found an envelope stuffed with over two hundred dollars in cash, someone's golf tournament winnings. I had spent the weekend being mistreated and undertipped by these drunk men, while I watched them overtip and harass female co-workers (one co-worker made $200 in tips while I made $11 doing the same job), and a member even offered a female co-worker $200 to go home with him. This is what I don't like about the wealthy: they think everything and everyone has a price. So I could have easily slipped that envelope into my pocket and no one would have been the wiser (the man who dropped it was likely plastered). But I gave it to my boss, who seemed shocked by my honesty. The next day, he said whom the money belonged to, and handed me a $20 bill from the man as a reward. I didn't point out that $20 amounted to less than a 10% tip. I felt like I should have kept the money.  

I once had a history teacher who said when you don't do the right thing, you're selling yourself out for however small the amount is. When he was charged twenty dollars for a cab from the airport to his hotel in L.A., then charged fifteen dollars by another cab heading back, he paid the second cabbie twenty dollars in order to not feel ripped off by the first cab. I always think of that when faced with these situations.

The mummified woman closes the door before I have a chance to say anything. I start walking to my car, but turn around to go ask if this is right. Nothing about the bills makes sense. Two twenties would have covered it, so why the fifty and the five? 

She's a grown woman, even if it's a mistake, it's her dumb fault, an angry voice says in my head. You should make sure, a more soprano, kinder voice says. But that's wasting my time. It's the right thing to do. When people tip too little, I don't say anything; I'm not allowed to. Why shouldn't it go both ways? And I'm growing to resent these Rancho people. I'm going to take this as luck, as the universe balancing things out. Why question luck? Because you know it might be a mistake. What if she's suffering from dementia, like your grandma? Shit. I look at the massive house. She can afford it. Maybe she meant it. I've got to go. I leave.

This decision will stay with me for days. I tell a co-worker tonight what happened, just to test the ethical waters, and he just says, "Cool." But the next day, I will think of calling the woman and asking her if she meant to give me a $64.05 tip or not. But I don't. This time, I feel like I failed, and my sell-out price is only sixty-four dollars.