Number of Deliveries: 11
Sales: $478.70
Tips: $62
Hours: 4.18
Total Wage: $22.83 per hour
My night's going well, when I get a two-bagger to Fairbanks. At the first house, I see the blond woman in the side window by the door, so I knock softly. I know she's on the other side, but she doesn't open the door right away. When she does, she looks like someone's mother in her 40s. She has an elaborate turquoise and stone necklace draped around her neck, the rocks acting as a roped bridge across the chasm of her cleavage. I hand her the credit card slip, and she stares at it. "I've had a few cocktails," she says. "I usually give you guys five dollars." The order is only $13.34, so five dollars would be an amazing tip. She continues looking at the slip, doing the math in her foggy head, then she pens in $18.34 on the tip line. She laughs, says that isn't right, and crosses it out and puts the total in the right place. I thank her, jealous of her solo party, and head off to my next delivery.
I pull into the driveway, and park behind the Escalade sitting under the large portico. Next to the Escalade sits a custom, 4-seat, silver golf cart. The tall blond woman who answers the door has that slightly disproportionate look about her face, denoting either lip or nose work. She gives me a decent tip, and when I'm pulling out of her driveway, I see something I didn't notice before. She has two of the popular, happy kids sculptures on her front lawn: a baseball pitcher and a catcher, perfectly distanced from each other. They both have a single, small light pointed at them, making them look like phantom players. Now is my chance to find out who makes these things. I think about getting out of my car and tip-toeing across the lawn to look for a signature in the bronze, finally ending the mystery. But I'm worried she'll see my car idling in the driveway, and she'll come outside to investigate only to find me bent down at the children's feet, looking like some kind of bronze child molester with a foot fetish. I drive off.
Near the end of the night, I carry deliveries out into the parking lot, and the driver Dustin says, "That guy's so wasted. He's blasting Eminem." I look up to see a guy running around his convertible black Mercedes to open the door for a blond woman. Eminem blares from the car's speakers. Unfortunately, he's blocking the delivery car I'm driving, and now he's outside of his car freaking the blond woman in the parking lot. They're not young. I approach, setting the pizza bag on the ground while I open the delivery car door. The man continues gyrating against the woman's body, and only she notices me and the parking situation. "This poor guy," she says. They say a quick goodbye, and as she gets in her Land Rover he jumps into his Mercedes and says to me, "You guys busy on Sunday nights?" I assume he's making small talk to break the awkwardness of what just went down. He appears to be in his 40s and wears a gray high school football sweatshirt. I tell him, yes, we are sometimes busy on Sunday nights. He says, "Take it easy," and rolls away with Eminem still blasting from his speakers.
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