Number of Deliveries: 18
Sales: $889.62
Tips: $115
Hours: 7.58
Total Wage: $23.17 per hour
It's Labor Day, and I'm working an all day driving shift while driver Alex is out recovering from knee surgery. Early on, I get a delivery to a mansion with a long steep driveway, and when I reach the top, I see it's one of those modern white houses with rectangular edges. Next to the front door hangs a full-sized gong, like something you'd see in a Buddhist monastery. The sun-faded mallet hangs from a hook on the nearby stanchion. I eye the electric doorbell but would rather use the gong. I ring the doorbell. While I wait for them to answer, I can't resist. I slip the mallet, which is heavier than I imagined, from the hook, and lightly bang the gong. An unexpectedly deep sound resonates from the vertical metal basket-like gong. I'm hoping the vibrations cease before the people open the door, or they will at least understand my need to bang the gong.
A short, husky blond woman answers the door, asks how much she owes, then disappears. I marvel at her entranceway, made of a rough, black stone that protrudes through the back, glass wall and into a triangular, enclosed pond. Standing guard in the pond are two human-sized warriors made out of black stone, who look to be from the Chinese Terra Cotta Army. One is bending down, while the other stands behind him. They both look directly at me, possibly disapproving of my unauthorized banging of the ancient gong.
I hear the woman and her friend discussing who has what cash, and she returns with the bills waded up. Over her shoulder, a large, half-abstract, half-image painting that looks like it belongs in the SFMOMA hangs on the wall. Between the gong, the soldiers, and the painting, I'd say she has more invested in them than most people do in their cars. I count the cash on the way to the car, and am disappointed to see she didn't invest much in me: $3.36 (6%) on a $56.64 order. I look back at the closed door. The gong calls to me again but for a louder bang this time. I hesitate before ignoring the call, and leave.
On my next run, I get an order for $137.10, and am expecting to make up ground on my tips, though the woman who ordered doesn't even know she's in the Santa Monica development and not the Santa Luz, like she said. When I pull into the driveway, I see men in the garage seated around plastic party tables in the shape of a wide U. The woman emerges from the garage wearing full San Diego Charges gear, including lightning bolt earrings, and asks me to follow her into the garage. The men wear football jerseys from various teams, and pinned to the white, garage storage closets is a large paper board that says "ABC Fantasy Football." The men take turns calling out players, and while one guy writes down the name, the others "Oh" and "Ah" and discuss the merits of the player chosen. My God, it's a fantasy football league draft, almost as professional as the real thing. Their attention turns toward me, and I get a few shouts of "The pizza guy!" before one asks me how I am.
I unload the food, and when I ask for the slip back, I see the Chargers girl has penned in a $6 tip (4%). The cheerful atmosphere of the place has lost its charm on me now, and I drive away thinking those people are pitiable. My overall mood shifts because of the bad tips I'm getting, and that makes me feel like the pathetic one.
The tipping gets better throughout the day, so I had no reason to fret earlier. One of my last deliveries of the night is to the Del Mar Country Club. The excitable old man who sometimes guards the gate, comes bouncing out of the guard shack. I've heard drivers say some pretty negative things about the guy, but I find him entertaining. He shifts onto his toes and asks me where I'm headed, trying to focus on my face through the thick lenses slipping from their perch on his nose. I tell him, and he hustles into the shack to call. I can tell they're not answering, because he keeps looking from inside the shack back out to me, and shifting his weight from heels to toes to heels. You get the feeling his actions somehow have an effect on the outcome of the entire world.
After a few minutes and several calls, he reemerges from the shack, and you can see the internal struggle in his face as his makes the all important decision of whether or not to let me in. He has the ability, like me and some of my fellow drivers, to create the illusion that his is the toughest job on the planet. He says, "They called you for the pizza, right?" I laugh, then hold out the receipt, showing him the order and address. I'm thinking in his mind he imagines we probably have a machine that generates these fake tickets as an international conspiracy to enter the sacred grounds of the Del Mar Country Club. "So I'm sure they're there," he concludes. He asks for my first and last name, which is customary at this gate, and for one of the first times, I give him my real name. I'd hate to make his job any more difficult by giving him my usual alias: John Maplethorpe. He lets me in, knowing it could be the decision that might not end the world but very well could end his employment with the DMCC.
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