Number of Deliveries: 14
Sales: $422.37
Tips: $68
Total Wage: $23.56 per hour
On my third run of the night, I end up with a triple-bagger. The first one is in Rancho Pacifica, the second one is on Quarter Mile Drive, two miles away, and the third is farther away on Mango Drive. When I arrive at Quarter Mile Drive, no one answers the door. I call, and a woman's voicemail answers. I leave a message saying I'm outside, but I'm splitting for my third delivery if she doesn't call back or answer. The townhouse looks dark in the upper windows. I call the manager, and he tells me to hit my third delivery and stop by on my way back. I do, and the scene repeats, including a voicemail that I'm now leaving for good. When I turn the corner on San Dieguito, the manager calls and says he got through on the phone, and they're in Rancho Pacifica, not Quarter Mile Drive. They own the place on Quarter Mile, though. This happens more often than you would believe (see Day 177). Wealthy people around here own multiple properties and can't be bothered to confirm the address attached to their phone number when we read it back to them. It's been an hour and fifteen minutes, and the manager called them, not the other way around.
When I get to the house gate, I sigh to see it's one of my least favorite customers. The guy who usually comes to the door looks like a college basketball player, and he refuses to put away his Pit Bull, even though I tell him every time I don't like big dogs, and stand by my car. Tonight, a high school aged kid comes outside, while the rust colored Pit Bull barks through the window. The kid signs the credit card without saying a word to me. The silence is super awkward. No "sorry you went to the wrong house, twice, and here we live on a street you delivered to on this same run earlier. Gosh, we're idiots." I get out of there as quickly as possible, and I later find out the man actually called to say his food was cold and the pizza was a little smashed (I had to slam on my breaks at a stoplight with camera enforcement). I have a hard time mustering any sympathy.
Two runs later, and I'm stuck at a gate with the wrong gate code. I dial the last name on the call box, and the lady seems baffled by my presence. She lets me in anyway, and when I turn left, she's standing on the porch, waving me in. Turns out the food is for her son, or grandson. I can't figure out their relationship, but the pasty kid who comes to the door has a sparse "soul patch" on his bottom lip and drug dealer eyes; you know, they look painful to keep open and he speaks in that labored "hey, bro, thanks" way. I can't tell if he's been shipped to grandma's house to shape up, but someone in this house has a big job ahead of them. The kid is clearly a mess.
My next delivery is to the Crosby, and when I get to the guard gate, a new, husky/nerdy guard with thick glasses asks me for the delivery address. I tell him, and he confirms the last name from inside the booth where I can't see him. He comes out and launches into a man-talk non sequitur: "Fuckin' Steelers lost tonight. But they deserved to lose. Oakland's going to be a good team next year." He walks around to write down my license plate number, which is something only newer guards do here. "Chargers' fans don't believe me, but they (Oakland) beat the Steelers and Cinci." He walks back to the booth, and then hands me the pass, while I nod my head to his monologue. "I think the Chargers will fall short. Unless they can get past the Colts. But I don't see that happening."
I like football, but it doesn't rule my life. I don't have a fantasy football team, and I'm not going to criticize the twenty million people who do. I understand why people turn to sports for entertainment, or to fill a void in their lives. At the end of the day, the outcomes of games don't affect anyone's lives except those involved in playing them. I oblige the guard, and say, "It will be hard for anyone to beat the Colts."
As I'm about to drive off, he says, "Bring back any extras, man," then disappears into the booth. I make the delivery and leave through the other Crosby gate to the south.
On my last delivery of the night, I end up at gated apartments with no gate code and no last name. I want to drive back to the pizzeria and call it a night, because if this guy can't remember he lives in a gated community, he doesn't deserve to eat tonight. I call him on my cell phone, but a resident who pulls up behind me opens the gate, and I cruise in. The guy who answers the door is probably in his late twenties or early thirties, sporting a few days worth of dark scruff. And get this: I can't really give him crap about the gate, because he spends the whole transaction at the door with a toothbrush in his foamy mouth. He signs the credit card, and says "thanks" with that gargled, I can't understand you because you have a toothbrush in your mouth voice. I feel . . . not violated but disgusted. What kind of grown person answers the door while brushing his teeth? And how's that pepperoni and jalapeño pizza going to taste?
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