Day 117: September 25, 2009 (the night of bad directions and almost getting overpaid. Check, please)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 9

Sales: $464.44

Tips: $58

Hours: 3.33

Total Wage: $25.42 per hour

When I get to work and see my paycheck, without hesitation, I speak up. "As much as I'd like to keep this money, they overpaid me by giving me the manager rate of $14 per hour instead of the driver rate of $8 per hour." This triggers a series of calls and faxes between the restaurant and main office, and we arrive at, not the simple solution of canceling this check and issuing a new one, but of me depositing this check, then writing the Pizzeria a personal check for the difference. The office even suggests that if I don't have a personal checking account, I can just get a cashier's check. I tell the manager that when I make a mistake at the bank, they charge me, so maybe I should charge the Pizzeria an "inconvenience fee." Or maybe next time I won't speak up, and I'll donate the extra money to charity. To make everyone's lives simpler, I write the Pizzeria a check.

Tonight is a night of bad directions. The first problem delivery, on Via de la Valle, seems simple enough. Cross street: Calzada del Bosque. Directions: First driveway on right going west. It's dark, but I have no problem finding the first driveway on the right among the eucalyptus forest. The only problem now is that there are actually two driveways to the same place, and both paths have signs with attack dog silhouettes that say "property patrolled by dogs." I'd hate to choose wrong, and I can't see any address numbers, so I give the guy a call. "Where are you?" he asks. 

"I'm parked on the first driveway heading west. There are two driveways and signs warning about dogs. Is this the right place?"

"I think you're in the wrong place," he says. "What does it look like?"

"I told you, there's a split driveway and dog signs."

"Are you at the gate? I'll come down."

"I don't see any gates. Am I in the wrong place?" I ask.

"Where are you?" If he asks one more time, I'm leaving. "What's across the street? Is there the gate where the Morgan Run maintenance people keep all their shit and that?"

"I don't know, man." 

"I'll come down and get you." He keeps me on the phone, while updating me on his status. "I'm getting in my car. Ow." I hear the beeping of his door being ajar. "Okay, I'm coming down the driveway. I see you. I see your lights." I can't see him. "You're where I thought you were. Come up one driveway." 

I'd hate to point out that makes his driveway the second or third (if you count the double driveway) heading west and not the first. He parks his car on the driveway and opens the gate with a remote. I leave my car at the gate and walk up. He fumbles with his cash and slurs his speech a little. He's drunk. "You'll have to pull your car in," he says. "There's no way you can back up onto that road; it's too dangerous." I take the cash and thank him, then follow his directions for turning around, even though no cars are coming and I'm not drunk.

At the end of the night, I get a delivery to Camino del Mar, which is the name for Highway 101 from the north end of Del Mar to the south. The cross street says 15th. By the time I get to the street before 15th––Paseo las Flores––I pull over in the L'Auberge Del Mar Hotel parking lot, realizing I've already gone too far. I call the guy and he says, yes, it's actually before the hotel. "I can't turn around here, though, can I?" I say. 

"Nope. you'll have to go back up Hwy 101 to the stop sign and turn around, and when you come back up the hill, look  for the fire hydrant, and it's the driveway right past that. It's really dark." Yeah, I know. I get out of the car and think I'll just run up the highway to his driveway instead of wasting the time driving almost a mile out of the way to get there on the road. But I'm not sure how far the run will be, so I opt for the car.

I see the fire hydrant, and find the dark, asphalt driveway. I park. The property has four residences, and they're all so dark, I can't see their addresses. I stumble around without a flashlight, walking south, then north. The numbers I can see don't make any numerical sense. I finally figure it must be the northernmost gate, and I find the right address half covered by overgrown vines. The guy could have come outside and guided, but he didn't. When I get to his door, he says, "I'm sorry. This place is really tough to find." He could have just given better directions, maybe mentioned the fire hydrant the first time and not 15th street, which is two blocks south of here. 

When I get back to the Pizzeria, I pull up both the addresses with the wrong directions, and correct them without complaining about the time I lost, nor asking anyone to write me a personal check.