Number of Deliveries: 10
Sales: $384.86
Tips: $55
Hours: 3.63
Total Wage: $23.15 per hour
It's the night before Thanksgiving, and on my second run I score a three-bagger that includes an order for $115.33. Woo-hoo! I pull up to the development, which consists of four mansions within the main gate, each with their own driveway and walkway gates inside. Once I'm buzzed in through the main gate, I ring the buzzer to their house gate. "Are you at the walkway gate?" a voice asks through the speaker box. He lets me in, but I still have to ring the doorbell before they open the door. Once inside, I pass through a dining room with the largest Thanksgiving setting I've ever seen: a long main table with ten to fifteen place settings, along with two more picnic type tables with at least another ten settings each. I say hello to the three women setting up the tables, and follow the man through to the kitchen.
The kitchen opens up into one of the largest family rooms I've ever seen. There's a family room set-up over there, with couches and a big screen t.v., but between that and the kitchen is a visiting area created by two quarter circle couches facing each other, like a circle of trust. Three men sit talking and drinking beer. The home owner is friendly, and signs the credit card receipt with enthusiasm and flair. He slaps me on the back and says, "Thanks, buddy. We really appreciate it," and I say, "Thank you very much, and happy Thanksgiving." He wishes me a happy Thanksgiving, and walks me toward the door. Like the village idiot holding a golden ticket––I assume, given the holiday spirit and size of the place, that's he's given me a huge tip, though I don't look––I tell each lady "Happy Thanksgiving" on my way out. It's not until I'm outside and the door is shut that I look down to see he's given me a five dollar tip (4%), which leaves me less than thankful.
It's okay, because I have two more deliveries on this run to make up the difference. I arrive at the second house, and use the gate code on the ticket to get inside. A man with a thick English accent answers the door and looks at me dumbfounded. "We didn't order any pizza(r)," he says. (British people always add an "r" onto words ending in "a"). I confirm the address, but he can't figure out why I'm there. I ask him if someone else inside may have ordered. "No. It's just my wife and I here. What kind of pizza(r) is it?" I tell him the pizza is half pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms and bell peppers, and half pineapples, Canadian bacon and bell peppers, and he says, "Well, we're vegetarian. Sorry." I guess he was thinking maybe he would like some pizza, were it not for the meat. While we're talking, three tall, skinny, furry dogs wind about his legs. They look like Greyhounds with long coats.
When I turn to leave, I see the dogs have found a way outside and are hustling toward me. I hesitate for a second. "They're fine," the man says. "They won't hurt you." They follow me to the car, bumping their lanky bodies against me. When I place the pizza back inside the bag, one noses his long neck into the car and almost into the bag. I push back until he stops. I get the door closed and myself inside, before the dogs head back over to their master.
I call the number on the ticket, half expecting to hear an English voice say hello, but an American woman answers. "Oh, you went to our ranch house. We have a couple of renters in there." I tell her they were surprised to see me, without mentioning how unnerving it is that I had the gate code and let myself into the ranch (those could have been loose Rottweilers instead of Greyhounds). "We're out in the Crosbies. Do you know where that is?" She goes on to blame our phone girl, saying she had the correct address and she doesn't know how I ended up there. I tell her it's going to be awhile, because I have another delivery and I'm not really near the Crosby development. I call the manager to let her know what's happening, and she says the lady must not have paid attention when the phone girl read back her address. When I arrive at the correct house twenty minutes later, a pretty, youngish woman answers the door and apologizes for "the confusion." It takes all I have not to say I think the confusion is all on her part. After all, the customer is always . . . well, wrong half of the time.
My last delivery of the night is a single-bagger for $52.90. When I arrive at the door, a short, stocky Asian woman with an accent answers. She says something about her husband being gone, then walks off with that slouching, inconvenienced walk that's reserved for bored housewives in the mall, where everything is within reach. She pulls out a house phone, then a cell phone, and tries to call. She walks off again and returns with another house phone and dials her husband. "Where are you? Hello . . . hello? Where are you, pizza guys been here five minutes already. Stop saying hello. Hello?" She apologizes to me, saying he went to the bank. Their handsome, mixed-race children walk by. The boy, who appears high school aged, takes his little sister under the arms and does curls with her. "Wheeeee," she shouts, "do it again." He obliges.
While the mom tries to call him again, I begin speculating on their relationship. Too young to be a Vietnam vet's wife. Her English is too good and she seems too well assimilated to be a mail-order bride. Why am I even thinking this stuff?
"Hello?" she says into the phone "Where are you? Pizza guys been here ten minutes already. What you mean you'll be here in a few seconds? I don't see you. What are your few seconds? Don't be a dipshit . . . where are you?" Just then, headlights illuminate the gate. A large, black SUV comes hurrying up the driveway. "Don't hit his car," she says into the phone.
The man jumps out wearing an Indianapolis Colts hat and jeans. He's maybe in his 40s and has a country accent. "Sorry about that," he says. "I went to the bank in Rancho, but the ATM was busted, so I had to drive over to Del Mar." I don't ask why he didn't just pick up the pizzas in the first place, since Rancho is much closer to the pizzeria than his house. He gives me three crisp twenties, and I leave them arm and arm in their doorway, happy that there's hope and love (if strained––she did call him a "dipshit") for two people from opposite sides of the world.
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