Day 119: September 27, 2009 (relative appreciation, speaking Japanese, and hitting dead ends)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $385.88

Tips: $62

Hours: 3.42

Total Wage: $26.13 per hour

In the name of altruism (and because my girlfriend signed up), I ran in the San Diego 10k AIDS Run this morning, and hurt my right knee. Every time I skateboard or run, my knees become a little sore. This is different. Sharp pains shoot up my leg whenever I press the gas pedal, but the rich need their food, and I'm the Mother Teresa of Rancho Santa Fe. 

I'm driving around delivering, bummed about my knee and the fact I don't have insurance and can't see a doctor, wondering why I'm working this job, when I hear an interesting statistic on BBC's Business Daily: people surveyed in the U.S. would rather make $50,000 a year in an environment where their co-workers make $20,000 a year than make $100,000 a year in an environment where their co-workers make $200,000 a year. It seems we only measure success by our colleagues' income. Right now, I'm jealous of my former teaching colleagues, some of who are making decent money working full-time, and some who aren't, only because their jobs bring a certain level of social respect and fulfillment, whereas mine doesn't. Strangely enough, many of them are jealous of my situation and freedom, because they're bogged down in work and can't write.

A few weeks ago, there was a nice gold Cadillac in the parking lot, and on opposite sides of the back were two large, white bumper stickers with black lettering. One said, "If you can read this, thank a teacher." The other one said, "If you can read this in English, thank a veteran." I assume the reasoning behind the stickers is something my high school history teacher, Mr. Wilcox, used to say: "If the Japanese would have attacked the mainland immediately after Pearl Harbor, then they could have overrun the west coast, and we would all be speaking Japanese." Mr. Wilcox would place his hands together and bow after saying that. Or maybe the thinking is that if England fell to Germany, we would have gone next.

The impossibility of those logistics aside, the point is simple: the Cadillac man wants to feel appreciated for his service. We all do. But my current job carries with it neither the satisfaction of changing peoples' lives nor being appreciated, and it's starting to bother me.

I'm driving up the steep hill of Del Mar Mesa on delivery, illegally talking to my girlfriend on my cell phone, discussing my lack of health insurance and need to find a better job, when I become overwhelmed by anxiety. I'm lost. Or, better put, I don't know exactly where I'm going, and my "terminal degree" in creative writing isn't helping. I hang up the phone to concentrate on the map. I pull over, and put my face in my hands and let out a loud, primal scream. What the hell am I doing here? The futility of this job is getting to me. The work of feeding the rich is never done, though, and I must go on. I look at the map, figure out the roads to my delivery, and continue pushing up the hill.

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.

Day 116: September 24, 2009 (the man who eats baby buffalo steaks, and Glen, the rich jerk who becomes successful only when he's poor)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 6

Sales: $284.64

Tips: $39.50

Hours: 2.20

Total Wage: $25.95 per hour

On one of my first deliveries of the night, I find myself stuck at a driveway gate in the Cielo development, a gated community. That's right, I'm once again at a gate within a gate, and can't get in. Unlike regular gate call boxes, this one doesn't have a "call" button but a little label sticker that says call (619) 555-5555 (*not the real number) to get in. I dial the number from my cell phone, but no one answers. Though I think it's silly, I leave a voicemail telling them I'm at their gate. The ticket has a special note that says, "There at 6, not before." It's now 6:06 p.m., so you'd think they might be expecting me. I try the (619) number again, before dialing the (858) number on the ticket. After two attempts, a man answers, "Dr. K_____ speaking." I tell him I've been sitting at his gate, and he apologizes before giving me the gate code to enter. I'm wondering why he didn't just tell us the number when he placed his order.

When I pull up to the masonry mansion, I'm greeted by two old labs, one black, one yellow. I gather the food, then tell the dogs, "Come on, let's go." They follow me to the door, jumping up but not knocking me around. I'm greeted at the door by a white man in his forties wearing only running shorts and shoes. He has perfect, superhero hair, cut pecs, and muscular, shaved legs. I always want to ask guys like this how the hell they get in such great shape, assuming they subsist on diets of baby buffalo steaks and ten mile runs. He has that spacey, happy look I attribute to the ultra wealthy. 

He pays me, then another one of his dogs, a basset hound, decides to follow me to the car with the labs. The man calls out, "You better watch out; they'll eat you. Ha ha." I laugh and get into my car, thinking he could have given me a better tip for the gate inconvenience and entertaining his dogs.

On my way out to this house, there was a great special on NPR's Marketplace about rich people who've lost everything in the financial crisis. One particular story really stood out, that of Glen Pizzolorusso. Glen was the manager of a subprime mortgage sales team, making $100,000 a month. He was the prototypical young, rich, Wall Street asshole. He talked about how special he felt spending tons of money at Marquee, a super popular NYC nightclub: "We'd roll up at midnight with a line of 500 people deep out front. Walk right up to the door: 'Give me my table' . . . We ordered three, four bottles of Cristal at $1,000 per bottle. They bring it out––you know they're walking through the crowd, they're holding the bottles over their heads. There's firecrackers, sparklers . . . everyone's like, 'Whoa, who's the cool guys?' We're the cool guys."

His voice and story make me want to throw up or kick his ass or drive him to Harlem and drop him off with his bottles of Cristal. But then Glen recounts how he lost it all––the Porches, his house, his job––how he's been forcibly humbled, and has finally figured out what matters in life. He says, "None of the monetary stuff that we are preconditioned to think is important matters." 

That statement instantly reminds me of this passage about Seneca in Alain de Botton's Consolations of Philosophy: "It follows that wealthy individuals fearing the loss of their fortunes should never be reassured with remarks about the improbability of their ruin. They should spend a few days in a draughty room on a diet of thin soup and stale bread . . . The wealthy would, Seneca promised, soon come to an important realization: 'Is this really the condition that I feared?' Endure [this poverty] for three or four days at a time, sometimes for more . . . and I assure you . . . you will understand that a man's peace of mind does not depend upon Fortune" (97).

I wonder if the guy I just delivered to would still have the spacey, happy constitution if he lost everything. Maybe. Glen Pizzolorusso, who's stopped partying, lives with his wife and three kids in his father's old house, returned to school and now loves reading books on history and politics, goes on to say, "I have a beautiful family. That's success. I'm successful. And you can't tell me that I'm not." I grow teary-eyed, jealous of this new Glen, the one with the beautiful family, and I want to reach through the radio and hug him.  

Day 115: September 23, 2009 (feeling appreciated while relating to a gringo vato, and the men who make me crazy)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 9

Sales: $288.92

Tips: $53

Hours: 4.12 

Total Wage: $20.86 per hour

My first delivery of the night ends up being a single-bagger down to Cayote Ave., eight miles away in Rancho Penasquitos. That means a sixteen mile round-trip, while only getting paid $1.45 in gas commission. It happens. 

When I drive through this solidly middle-class neighborhood, I again notice the ordinary yards and multi-ethnic faces. I pull up to the driveway of my delivery and see two guys hanging out in a garage overstuffed with crap piled to the ceiling. In the middle of the storage, they've created a little chill-out nest with a red velour couch. A white man about my age, whose muscular physic is semi-camouflaged by the weight he's gained drinking beer in the garage, walks toward me wearing athletic shorts, calf-high socks, and slipper shoes. He looks like an intimidating gringo vato. His shaved head glistens in the sun, and his torso hair is slowly recovering from its last trim. I don't come from a people with hairy chests, so I don't understand the chest shaving phenomenon. I would sport my chest coat proudly if I had it (in the spirit of full disclosure, I do shave a small patch on my chest––in the name of symmetry––where a skin discoloration grows the only real chest hair I have).

His large, black friend, who looks like a not-so-intimidating Hootie from Hootie and the Blowfish, continues chilling on the garage couch. The shaved man in front of me says, "Sorry for the long drive. I know it's a long way." I suddenly like this guy. He gets it. I say it's cool, no big deal, and he writes in a tip on the credit card slip. "I appreciate it," he says. "This should help." I look down to see he's given me a $10.19 tip on his $29.81 order. I thank him twice, then get in my car.

It's interesting how people in your same social class tend to relate more to your situation and sometimes tip more than those who don't. While I'm often thanked by wealthy customers, I don't think I've ever had anyone in Cielo apologize or thank me specifically for coming all the way up there, then overtipping me. 

I guess the gringo vato relates to me in a way that I can't relate to Adam Levinson, the chief investment officer of The Fortress Investment Group, who was interviewed the other day on BBC Radio. He received $300 million in shares last year as a bonus (which he won't discuss), and still talks in a haughty voice that makes me want to reach through the radio and punch him. He's probably a bad tipper.

There are some ultra-wealthy people I can relate to, like John McAfee. He's a computer anti-virus software designer and owner of the McAfee company, who, in the same BBC program (at 13:49), says he started giving his stuff away and selling off all his property after having a market-crash-induced epiphany (his worth went from $400 million to $4 million). He realized his excesses––like owning six houses, two $17,000 watches, and closets full of things he hasn't looked at in ten years––didn't make sense in a world where people are starving and people in America aren't able to pay their mortgages. He also realized the insanity of consumption caused by marketing, such as paying $2.50 for a bottle of water, "which, fundamentally, is worth one-tenth of a cent." He says, "It rains water; it's the most plentiful substance on this planet, and marketers have told us we need to drink it out of a bottle. Why do we do that? We do that because we're told that's what we should do."   

This world and delivery zone need more gringos vatos and John McAfees and fewer Adam Levinsons and B. Joseph Whites––the University of Illinois president who resigned following reports that the university admitted wealthy and well-connected applicants over more qualified ones. I think I'll refill my water bottle from the tap, and pour a little out for the homies who get it.

Day 109: September 17, 2009 (plastic silverware and paper China for the check-bouncing woman, plus the dog serenade in G minor)

Position: Driver
Number of Deliveries: 10
Sales: $304.66
Tips: $44
Hours: 3.30
Total Wage: $21.33 per hour

Halfway through the night, I get a nightmare run. I know the first delivery is going to suck, because the ticket has more temporary notes in red ink on it than food: "Paying With Cash" twice; "No Checks!!!!!!"; "Bring Napkins"; "2nd Driveway. Park At Fence"; "Bring Plastic Spoons Forks Knives And Plates." Down below, in the permanent notes section, which usually lists cross streets, it says, "Check address every time. Check order! They Owe Us $ . . . Must Get Mngr. Do not accept checks! Check Returned 3-26-09." All this on an order for one small pizza, totaling $13.83.

I ask the manager what's up with the order, and she says, "Don't bring her all that stuff. We're not providing the utensils for her house. She only ordered a pizza. She's crazy."

When I get to the second driveway of the ranch house, I have no idea what "park at the fence means," so I stop at the entrance. The house looks half-abandoned. At the end of the short driveway, I see and old, wooden fence, and decide that's what she meant. I pull up, and am immediately greeted by a wild Australian Shepherd, the kind with the crazy, whitish-blue eyes and bushy coat that looks like a black and white picture of Monet's "Water Lillies." The dog barks incessantly at me. A haggard looking woman––her hair a gray tangled mess, a droopy black T-shirt exposing a scabbed over chest sore––lurches toward me, saying, "Did you bring me a menu." I look at the ticket and the long list of messages, none of which says anything about a menu.

"They didn't say anything about bringing you a menu," I say, as her dog continues trying to herd me along the driveway with its barking. I did throw in one plastic knife and one fork, as well as some napkins and a paper plate, trying to be fair. I take her cash, and jump back in my car before she can ask about spoons, red flakes, or Parmesan cheese. Her dog continues barking at me as she walks inside.

When I get to my next delivery, a black Lab picks up the barking solo where the other dog left off. I ring the doorbell and knock on the door, making the dog increase the volume and intensity of its song. It runs from room to room, trying to decide which is the best angle to most effectively bark at me. No one comes, so I call their phone. No answer. I walk along the front, and the dog follows from window to window, making sure I can still hear the rhythm.

I get in my car and back all the way down the driveway, and repark near their cars, thinking maybe they're in one of the rooms near the garage. The dog shows up at an open balcony above the garage, where I can hear its bark unencumbered by glass windows and wooden doors. It sounds much louder. I walk around the back of the house, and the dog is kind enough to follow me from window to window back there, too. I take a moment to enjoy their backyard view of dry brush along the hills and check out their red brick pool area. The dog apparently doesn't need a break from barking.

I call the manager and tell her no one's home. She calls them and leaves a message, saying I will only be there five more minutes, then I'm out. I start up the car, and a Suburban drives up behind me. I get out, and they drive right by me, on up the driveway to the front door, so I have to carry their food up there. I'm not happy at this point. The family hops out of the SUV and walks right by me, while the mom messes with something inside the car. They let the dog out of the house, and all but make love to the thing. The woman finally approaches to sign the credit card slip and get the food, saying, "You guys were more on the spot than she said you'd be." The old "see if we can beat the pizza guy home" trick, my least favorite. At forty-six minutes, I'm actually right on time.

I don't say anything about the ten minutes I spent wandering around their yard while the dog serenaded me, or how rude it was to pass me and make me walk the food up here, nor do I take comfort in winning our race to her house. I just smile and say thank you, as if disrespecting the pizza man is the most natural thing in the world.

Day 108: September 16, 2009 (your credit is no good here, and neither are your checks; except yours, of course)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 14

Sales: $412.59

Tips: $60

Hours: 4.75

Total Wage: $20.63 per hour

I can't say I know right away this is going to be bad, but I have an order with a wrong credit card number and the woman won't answer her phone. The manager says the woman was driving when she told her the number and didn't pay attention when she read it back to her. I can either wait for the woman to return my call or phone the Pizzeria with the correct number when I'm at the door. To save time, I opt for the latter.

When I get to the house, it takes a few minutes for anyone to answer the door. An older Mexican woman wearing an apron takes the food and says thank you. I tell her the credit card number didn't work, and she looks confused. Why I don't try out the Spanish I'm learning in my class right now, escapes me. With the woman standing there, I call the Pizzeria. While I'm waiting for the manager, an Asian-American woman about my age walks by and sets up her computer on the long, wooden dining table that looks like it belongs in Hearst Castle. I tell the manager what's going on, and she asks who is there. I hesitate, then say, "It appears to only be . . . employees." I almost said servants. I assume the Asian-American woman is a tutor. A young blonde boy walks by dialing a cell phone, saying something about his mother. I tell the manager that the kid's calling his mom, I think.

I stand around waiting, shifting, while the Mexican woman stands next to me, also shifting but not speaking. We smile at each other. She asks me how much the order costs. "$31.33," I say. When the kid comes back and says he can't reach his mother, the maid, in heavily accented but not broken English, says, "I'll just pay, then she can pay me back." She walks across the room and pulls crisp bills out of her purse, then hands me $32. Even though the ticket said "add a $5 tip," I don't mention anything about a propiña to the woman. I thank her, and walk away with my head down, feeling like I just lost five dollars and precious delivery time. 

Side note: the woman who placed the order calls later and yells at the manager about being double charged. When she's told her credit card wasn't charged because we had the wrong number, she moans about the inconvenience of having to pay back her maid. I wish I would have received that call.

On my next delivery run, I arrive at the house of a locally famous car dealership owner. Actually, the family owns multiple car dealerships all over town, and I recognize the woman at the door from their TV commercials. She shows up with her checkbook. We had stopped accepting checks several months ago, because of the number of bounced checks we received, but we recently started taking them again. 

My friend and fellow driver, Mike, had a customer lose his cool on him a few weeks ago when Mike said we no longer accepted checks. When he told him that, yes, even in Rancho people bounce checks, the man said, "Can I just pay you tomorrow?" like some kind of Wimpy from the old Popeye cartoons ("I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today"). When Mike said that, too, was not possible, the man said, "Listen, my house is worth over five million dollars; I think I'm good for it." Nope. 

I'm disappointed to see Mrs. Car Dealership hasn't filled out her check, even though we told her the total on the phone. Once she fills it out, I have to ask her to put her driver's license number on it, and she looks inconvenienced. Trust me, it's a bigger inconvenience for me, as the time ticks by. She tells Azucar, the yellow lab barking at me, to stay inside, then she disappears to hunt down her license. 

While I'm standing there, I have plenty of time to consider why people still pay with checks. The answer: I have no idea why people still pay for anything with checks, except rent or bills. One woman recently tried to pay at the Pizzeria counter for a $4.35 order with a check from Lakeside, CA, which is outside of our delivery zone and another no-no. I commented to my co-workers that her attempt reminded me of the Dude in The Big Lebowski paying for a carton of milk with a $.69 check. Mrs. Car Dealership returns with her properly filled out check and a smile, matched by mine when I see the 20% tip. 

Day 106: September 14, 2009 (the man who was attacked)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 17

Sales: $877.91

Tips: $133

Hours: 7.41

Total Wage: $25.95 per hour

The attack was over by the time I arrived, but the scene wasn't. A large, dust covered, tattooed man at the construction site tells me where to set the food down, that it will be just a minute because of the attack. "It's not that bad. Just scraped him, and he's crying," says the tattooed man. "He'll pay you over there," he says, nodding toward the neighbor's driveway. I let out a nervous laugh to show solidarity with the real men, the ones who don't cry. But when I walk down the dirt driveway under construction and turn the corner of the green Cyclone fence, I see the man crumpled on the driveway, holding his own hand and being comforted by the foreman and an older couple. 

Forget about the $45 tip I received earlier this morning at Horizon Prep, this man needs help. As I approach, the man who was attacked lifts his hand from his right forearm, and I see puncture wounds. "Jesus, did he get you there too?" says the old man. "Shit." The man who was attacked shakes uncontrollably, tears still forcing their way out, when I notice a small chunk of flesh missing from his middle finger, which is now a red half-circle. He's Asian-American, close to forty, and his baseball cap dangles from his ponytail, somehow still hanging on. The foreman is an old, solid surfer type, his blond-gray hair poking out from his dirty black visor. He pours peroxide on the hurt man's finger, and when the man who was attacked lifts his hand from his forearm again, I can see the puncture wounds are multiple and swelling, the shape of the dog's teeth.

The older couple, who own the dog, keep saying "shit." Shit, shit, shit. And it's a weird kind of shit: part sympathy for the victim and the blood; part worry that their dog will be euthanized; part worry about being sued. The fact that they're rich makes the middle scenario unlikely but the last quite possible.

The man who was attacked is calm now, saying, "It was my fault," and asking for gauze as his middle finger continues to drip blood. The woman makes the scene more tense by being hysterical, going inside and getting an ice pack and gauze, but returning to say, "Ohhh, ohhh, ohhh my God." The man who was attacked bandages his own finger, only asking the foreman to cut the gauze lengthwise so he can tie it off after he wraps his finger. The foreman splits it with a box cutter, then helps tie it.

"Shit," the old man says as he takes a dollop of Neosporin and gobs it onto the attacked man's forearm. I just read the instructions to Neosporin last week when I jammed my knuckle into the doorway, and you're not supposed to apply it liberally. So I grab a paper towel from the nearby roll and bend down to wipe away the excess Neosporin from the man's forearm. I feel like a field doctor.

"He shouldn't do that," the old man says. "We've had him trained." We all look at the old man, who still kneels next to the man who was attacked. "We take him every Tuesday to have that aggressive crap taken out of him." He pauses. "I guess that's money wasted. Shit." The man who was attacked blames himself again, saying it isn't the dog's fault, that he reached for the owner and the dog protected him. I ask what kind of dog it is, but the woman is still pacing and panicking and the old man is still cursing, so no one hears or answers me. I picture a German Shepherd.

Since it's the middle of the afternoon and I'm the only driver, I need to get paid and get going, but I can't ask. The old man keeps letting out heavy breaths of frustration and "shits," for the victim, his dog, or his money, I'm not sure. The man who was attacked says, "I thought he took my finger off." That would explain the crying and shaking.

When things calm down, the foreman finally stands up and pulls out his wallet. "How much do I owe you?" 

"$82.87."

He pulls all the bills out of his wallet and counts out eighty-three dollars, then fingers the other five ones before handing them to me and saying, "That's all I got." Under the circumstances, the small tip doesn't seem so bad. After all, I wasn't attacked by the dog, and I still have all five fingers to count the tip.