Day 196: December 14, 2009 (keeping up with the Joneses holiday spirit, the fat man and his enabler, and the end of life)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 8

Sales: $273.45

Tips: $41

Hours: 3.00

Total Wage: $21.67 per hour

One of the cool things about my job is getting to see inside people's houses. Out here, every night is like one of those fancy home tours people pay tens of dollars to attend. And this holiday season hasn't disappointed. I've seen some of tallest, most elaborately decorated Christmas trees in my life. I've seen teams of immigrant men stringing lights around trees and houses. I've seen homes where every square inch inside has some decoration, be it a nearly full-sized reindeer, a Santa, wreaths, ribbons, or what have you. I've seen a beautifully carved ceramic nativity set that looked like it costs over a thousand dollars. I think these people would probably pay to have Jesus in their houses if he weren't already dead. Their holiday spirit can't be questioned. 

Not to be outdone, our Jewish friends have created their own displays: the pizzeria's neighbor had a Chanukah party in the parking lot tonight with a ten foot tall, tinfoil-wrapped Menorah and speakers blasting a mix of hip-hop and traditional music. And, of course, a man gave a maudlin speech about miracles. 

In the ultimate show of American religious fusion, I saw in the foyer of a house tonight a snow-flocked, Christmas tree with large, blue ornament balls and miniature Menorah ornaments throughout. Happy Chris-hanukah!

But sometimes it's not that cool to see inside people's homes. Like the time in Encinitas when I was called into a house with the front door open. The floor was stripped of its carpet, and the residents appeared to be remodeling. I assumed that's why they called me inside––they were stuck in the bedroom painting or hanging drywall. Instead, I found the most overweight man I've seen in my life practically squatting in a room with only a bed and stacks of papers and magazines. He wore sweatpants and a dirty white T-shirt. I suddenly felt bad for delivering a large pizza and a 25-pack of chocolate chip cookies to this lone man. I felt like an enabler, like I was giving crack to a crack addict. I'm not even sure the man could fit through his door. On my way out, he called to me and asked if I would grab the newspaper out front and deliver it to him. I did. I've never been able to shake that scene.

And tonight, I deliver to an older couple, by no means elderly. Maybe they're in their early 70s at most, but the scene inside their house disturbs me. Within the side door, where the man disappears to sign the credit card slip, they have two, faded La-Z-Boy recliners crammed into this small room, facing the television. On the wall hangs one of the most beautiful, vibrant paintings I've seen––a house and tree, all bright blues, oranges, and whites. It's clear this is where they spend their time, nesting among the T.V. and the painting. Along the floor, and lined up on the wooden T.V. tray (you knew there'd be one, right?) are bottles and bottles of prescription pills, vitamins, and dietary supplements, like the couple can't be bothered to put them in the cupboard. Here they are, living in one of the richest neighborhoods in the world, and their lives have been reduced to this single room, these bottles, this T.V., that painting. It depresses the hell out of me. Better to die young, I think. At least they're together. For now.