Day 145: October 23, 2009 (flesh-eating zombie cougars, disembodied arms, and the scariest costume of the year: a••hole)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 9

Sales: $337.49

Tips: $44

Hours: 3.18

Total Wage: $21.84 per hour

As I said in my last post, the weather change seems to have gone to people's brains, making them behave in ways they otherwise wouldn't. Or at least I hope they wouldn't. Maybe it's the proximity to Halloween that brings out the freaks. 

A couple nights ago, on my last delivery, I arrived at a home candle shop where the porch was decorated with elaborately carved pumpkins, the most memorable of which was a professionally carved pirate face with a knife sticking out of the front and dripping blood actually carved into the pumpkin. (Side note: in general, people have gotten extremely lazy about pumpkin carving, leaving them blank or allowing their children to draw faces on them. These pumpkins should immediately be smashed in the name of tradition and artistic integrity.) 

Through the windows, I saw a couple of women sitting at the kitchen counter. An attractive woman––in a capable/confident, sure of herself New-age manner––answered the door and invited me inside. More pumpkin carving was going down, so I said, "You guys having a pumpkin carve-off?" as she walked me into the kitchen. There were actually seven or eight full-fledged female cougars (ranging from mature-attractive to scary-aggressive) hanging around, and as we entered, the woman who answered the door said, "Yeah, we're having a pumpkin-off, a drink-off, and a pizza-off," and another woman chimed in, "So why don't you take your clothes off?" Open bottles of hard alcohol sat on the counter near the women carving pumpkins. One pumpkin carver turned around and said, "Yeah, why don't you take your clothes off?" I let out a nervous laugh, and a woman seated at the counter said, "All the delivery guys do it." They laughed. Time slowed down, and I focused on the hostess cougar's forearm, which had a large tattoo of a scorpion. Oh, she's a Scorpio too, I thought, but her marked admission of her astrological sign is more of a warning to future boyfriends and husbands, I'm sure. Feeling like a piece of dangling meat, who would probably make more money if I allowed them to tuck tips into my boxers, I waited for them to reveal that they're really flesh eating zombie cougars. I realize this scene might be some men's fantasy, but I wanted to get paid and leave. It was a bizarre ending to a weird night. 

Tonight, I find myself at the door of a  family that has gone above and beyond the call of duty when it comes to Halloween decorations. Sure they have the usual pumpkins, spiders and skeletons, but they've added a hay bale, on which sits two disembodied hands, and over the door they've hung a large, orange Happy Halloween! banner, complete with the family name, meaning "mighty" or "powerful" in Arabic. 

When I ring the doorbell, I see through the door windows a large, Indian-looking (Pakistani?) man standing in the foyer. Instead of walking the ten feet to open the door, he nods to his Mexican maid, who is standing stage left, and he points at the door. She comes to the door wearing a maid's apron (not to be confused with a cooking apron), and asks in broken English if she or the woman needs to sign, while the man trails off down the hallway. I tell the woman the credit card holder needs to sign, and she closes the door before walking off stage left. The man enters from stage right, looks at me through the doorway windows, and just stands there, surveying his kingdom. The Mexican maid enters stage left, passes right by the standing man, who apparently doesn't deal with small scale finances of the household, and exits stage right. The man, buying into the meaning of his last name, wanders off stage left. While standing there, I decide to push the "push here" buttons on the disembodied arms. One lurches forward then dies. The other one, which has a referee's torn shirt, doesn't work at all.

The Mexican maid returns with a four dollar tip written on the slip, and asks if it's okay. I step away from the disembodied arms and tell her, yes and thank you. The aloof master's actions remind me that scary household tyrants come in all shapes and sizes, that being a wealthy jerk isn't the exclusive dominion of the lighter skinned people of the world. Maybe a more appropriate translation of the family last name would be Arabic for a**hole. 

Day 139: October 17, 2009 (getting comfortable, the writer's vow of poverty, skeletons on the porch, and the fiery crash that wasn't)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 10

Sales: $314.41

Tips: $43

Hours: 3.63

Total Wage: $19.85 per hour

I've been reading Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott's co-authored book, Which Brings Me to You: A Novel in Confessions, and I came across this fitting passage: "I didn't want to be rich. What I wanted was the sense of ease I imagined the rich kids possessed, of being able to relax, not having to try so hard all the time." This has generally been my attitude toward the rich and being wealthy, but I've found myself slipping lately. Don't get me wrong, I don't want the oversized house and attendant staff, nor the gaudy, golden furniture with flower patterns, but every once in a while I'll see a real cool, Spanish-style house with nice, comfortable furniture and beautiful paintings on the wall, and I''ll think, That sure looks like a nice place to relax and read a book. Or I'll wonder what it's like to drive a nice car––say an entry-level BMW––since I've never owned a new car in my life, much less an expensive one. Maybe it's nice to settle into your squeaky, heated, leather seats without having to worry if today's the day your car is finally going to say it's had enough, that 188,000 miles is the limit. And if you're going to make the choice to drive a car, all environmental considerations aside, why not drive a nice one?

When you spend your life wanting to be a writer, it's as if you've taken a monastic vow of poverty. You're supposed to somehow be above the banal yearnings of worldly possessions. I'm always shocked when I enter writer/professors' houses that are really nice; it's something like the disappointment I felt when I found out a certain Zen poet/teacher smokes, drinks, and eats meat. But what is wrong with wanting a few nice things? Nothing, as far as I can tell.  

I enter work tonight tired. It finally feels like fall, with fog creeping its way up the valleys from the sea. Darkness has been descending earlier and earlier, and people do dumb things when the weather changes. On two separate occasions tonight, a car stops suddenly in the middle of a busy road, trying to figure out where they are in the fog. I almost slam into both of them. People in San Diego aren't used to fog, and many make the mistake of turning on their brights. I have a premonition that something bad will happen tonight, like maybe I'll die in a fiery car crash.

I arrive at a darkened house in the Crosby, and ring their doorbell. Then I knock before ringing the doorbell again. Nothing stirs within the house. I pull out my cell phone and call them. "Oh, we're not home," the man says. I don't need him to tell me that. He doesn't apologize and say they'll be here in a minute, he says, "Can we pay with a credit card and have you leave it on the porch?" I explain that he'll have to call the manager, give her the number, then she'll have to call me back and okay the whole transaction. "How much is it?" he says.

"I don't know," I say. "I'm on your dark porch, and I can't see anything." We hang up, and I stand around on the porch waiting for the manager to call. It's cold, and the Halloween decorations, especially the realistic, miniature, hanging skeleton, are a bit unsettling. I stare up at the stars, which you can actually see tonight, and forget about the fake images of death surrounding me. I walk out and sit on their steps, and think about how I really want to celebrate El Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead) this year instead of Halloween, that it makes much more sense to honor dead relatives than it does to carve pumpkins, gorge on candy, and attend parties where women wear various versions of the the same skimpy costumes––the suggestive nurse; the naughty cop; the unholy Catholic school girl––that aren't scary. 

The manager calls and says everything is okay, so I leave the two large pizzas and salad to cool on the dark, stone porch. The man calls while I'm driving out and asks if everything is okay. I tell him his food is on the porch, thank him (not sure why), then quickly hang up.

Other than receiving fewer tips tonight, barely missing a few car bumpers, and wasting time on a dark porch thinking about my dead relatives, my premonition of a fiery death turns out to be wrong. These are the premonitions we can ignore and forget about, keeping our premonition batting averages higher. At the end of the night, I still have the same job, same old car, and the same unheated house. But that's good enough for now.   

Day 138: October 16, 2009 (why the rich both give and don't give a sh*t)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $370.03

Tips: $63

Hours: 3.80

Total Wage: $24.58 per hour

As I drive around, I enjoy BBC Business Daily's program today about rich people and giving, from different cultural perspectives. They mention that the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation spends as much on worldwide healthcare as the entire World Health Organization, just over one billion dollars a year. That astounds me. Conversely, Martin Brookes, chief executive of New Philanthropy Capital, says the British, traditionally known as a tight-fisted people, are giving "a smaller fraction of [their] total income" today. He says one reason people in the U.S. might be better givers is because we give much more visibly: naming buildings, business colleges, etc. after ourselves. Brookes says, "Research shows that if you give money, and you talk about it openly, you're more likely to inspire others to give." Turns out, we're always trying to keep up with the Joneses, even in our giving.    

They also interview Ram Gidoomal, who came to Britain from India via Pakistan and East Africa. When asked about rich people's motivations in giving, he responds, "When I became a follower of Christ, what I learned was that when I give, I give as an expression of thanksgiving. I know that when my father gave, and my father gave generously to the temples, he was paying for his karma, his karmic debt." He also answers the Wall Street Journal's article, "India's Rich, Open Your Wallets,"  by saying there are 600 million poor people in India, and most rich Indians give in their communities by building infrastructure for their villages. Apparently, Indian billionaires aren't winning awards like Bill Gates. But then again, giving in India isn't like the U.S., where the Wall Street Journal writer says, "giving [is] practically a competitive sport in U.S. business circles."

When asked how ego and guilt drive giving, Gidoomal answers, "Some people want to get acknowledgement and recognition. And I say, 'So what? Let them get it.' If it's out of guilt, so what? Let the money flow." He also says, "So what if the motive is different? In one sense, giving was done." 

The interviewer asks one final question: "What's the duty of the rich people to give, if there is one?"

And Gidoomal answers, "Oh, I'm driven here by Andrew Carnegie's statement, 'A rich man who dies with any money is a disgrace.' His point was, we must give and give and give, and to die with wealth to your name is a statement that you didn't give enough, even if you gave. We must learn to give, and to give generously. I love Bill Gates's example. You know, Bill Gates with his multiple billions has taken care of his children and grandchildren and probably a generation later, and he still had surplus. At least he's giving it . . . the answer is in a simple word: give, and give, and give. Don't hoard it."

I come away from the program feeling inspired by the giving of the rich, the sense of redemption, that they're not all those terrible, greedy people in the news who've been taking massive bonuses in the face of our national economic collapse, a collapse they created with derivatives, sub prime mortgages, and naked short selling. No, some choose to use their superpower for good instead of evil; it's not all the Legion of Doom; there are Super Friends. Yay!

And then this happens: I get to a delivery, pull all the way up the driveway, and a man comes walking out of the garage, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. He looks like a long lost, overweight Baldwin brother, and he clearly dresses down on the weekends. You should know I've recently grown my beard out in anticipation of the Valient Thorr concert next week (they're from Venus––long story), and this man keeps looking at me suspiciously. Instead of digging out his cash first, he takes the two large pizzas and box of cookies from me then looks down at his pocket, realizing his logistical error. Instead of handing back the food, he places the pizzas on the hood of my car. Now, I'll admit, my car is an elderly clunker, oxidized paint on the trunk and all, but it's my car, my space. He certainly wouldn't like it if I put the pizzas on his BMW and asked for the money. It's this kind of disregard that I don't like about the wealthy, that my life and crap aren't as important as their lives and crap, and that's why it's okay to make millions of dollars while the very people you screwed lose everything. All I can say to that is "Alahoyus!"

Day 133: October 11, 2009 (cocktail math, the bronze kiddie toucher, and the young man who isn't young)

Position: Driver

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.

Day 131: October 9, 2009 (you won't get me next time)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 12

Sales: $453.27

Tips: $62

Hours: 4.13

Total Wage: $23.01 per hour

Halfway through the night, I'm delivering to a house in Fairbanks, and a handsome Mediterranean looking man in his late 30s answers the door. I instantly get the What did you do to earn so much money? feeling. He asks me how much he owes, and I tell him. But he's not really paying attention, because he's talking to his kids, taking the food, and messing with the money in his hands all at the same time. He tells me he needs to get more money, and yells to his wife, I assume, that he needs more money. He turns around and asks again how much he owes, and I tell him, "Forty-fifty-eight." 

"Oh, I've got that," he says, pulling out two twenties and three ones, emptying his hands. And, realizing his tip sucks, he says the lamest thing on a long list of lame things you can ever say to a pizza man: "I'll get you on the next go round, then." I've never delivered to this house before, and I don't assume I ever will again. I'm no statistician, but we have eighteen delivery drivers, and the odds of me getting his next order are slim. I probably have better odds of winning the lottery if I buy two tickets and a gum ball with his crappy tip. On the outside chance I do deliver to his house several months from now, what is the likelihood he'll remember bending me over the tip barrel? I will definitely remember him. The one getting screwed always remembers.

Day 129: October 7, 2009 (Marilyn eases the rich pauper's blues)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 10

Sales: $278.13

Tips: $49

Hours: 3.53

Total Wage: $21.88 per hour

About halfway through the night, I power up a driveway in Fairbanks and park before a marble, double staircase entrance to a mansion. I ring the doorbell, and through the side window I see a man scuffing toward me, past dark, silhouetted objects littering the floor. He manages to turn on a light and open the large front door. With his unshaved, salted beard, uncombed mop of hair but nice, cable-knit sweater, shorts and sock-less loafers, he looks like a rich vagabond. A large picture of Marilyn Monroe's face leans against the plant on his round entrance table. Below, items lie around in paper and bubble wrap. The scene is similar to the writer-looking guy I described back in the Day 46 & 47 post. 

He asks me what he owes. "Twenty-twenty-nine," I say. I can't smell alcohol, but his jerky movements are definitely hampered by it's consumption. He hands me a twenty, then starts peeling through the fattest money roll I've seen to date, all hundreds and fifties. 

"You can keep the dime," he says.

"I'm not sure what you mean," I say, while Jim Croce's "Operator (That's not the Way It Feels)" echoes deep inside my cranium.

He sways back and forth. "What have I given you?" 

"Twenty, so far."

"Oh." He digs through the hundreds and fifties, finally locating another twenty, and hands it to me. "I'm not into finance right now . . ." he says, his voice slurring and trailing off. This makes me think he's going through a divorce, where money loses its meaning and nights are long, full of drinks and guilt and self-loathing. But then there's Marilyn Monroe, the girlfriend of the world. He'll always have Marilyn. He asks me for ten dollars change, leaving me a $9.71 tip (almost ten dollars). One of those tens must be the dime he's talking about, though the meaning in Jim Croce's song got lost a long time ago when pay phones started charging a quarter.

Day 127: October 5, 2009 (I'm not waiting to toss your salad, nor feeding the starving couples of the IE, nor reseting watches)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 18

Sales: $1,048

Tips: $120

Hours: 8.98

Total Wage: $21.79 per hour

I worked all day, made good money, and am about to leave with a pizza for my brother and neighbors, who are watching Monday Night Football at my house. I hear a counter girl tell the manager that a customer walked out pissed off about his salad not being ready, saying we could deliver it to him. Since I'm waiting for my pizza to cook and the man's house isn't far, I offer to take the salad. But the deliveries on the screen are getting so old, the manager asks if I want to take more, even though I'm all but clocked out. "Sure," I say. I could use the extra cash, the two orders are big ($57 & $69), and it shouldn't take too long.

I accidentally pass the entrance where the salad man lives, and turn around. I sit at a compound gate with no last name and no code. I call the Pizzeria, and after some research, the manager comes up with the gate code. I'm into the compound, but there are multiple unmarked driveways and fenced pastures. It takes passing two before I turn around and try the first steep driveway. I'm all up in these people's yard, turning around on their driveway, shining my lights in their house and on their garage, searching for a number I can't find. No one comes outside, so I figure it must be the wrong house, or they would have investigated the motor boat with the searchlights in their driveway.

I head back down to the entrance road and call the salad man, telling him I don't see any addresses. He tells me I need to keep driving on the road for about a mile (a mile!) and cross the bridge, then I'd find him on the left. I cross the bridge, but see multiple buildings––houses, stables, etc.––on the left and no numbers. I drive a little more, and a driveway on the right almost has the number I'm looking for. I call the salad man again, thinking he's going to lose it on me. He says to turn around and come up the dirt driveway to the building on the left of the main house just past the bridge, which looks to be stables connected to a house. I find him, and the salad controversy is over, but my other orders are now bordering on fossilization.

I haul ass way up El Camino Real, where the address numbers are usually hidden in bushes or adorn unlit rocks near driveways. When I finally arrive at delivery number one after stopping to read several hidden address numbers, an "Inland Empire" couple answers the door: black motocross logo clothes and crooked hat for him ("Metal Mulisha, bro"); bleached hair, black clothes, and tall rubber sandals for her. "We're really hungry," she says, which is code for you're late. Funny, they look well fed, and I assume they have cupboards and cupboards and an entire refrigerator full of food in this big ass house. She punishes me with a $2.48 tip. Expected.

I'm off, and when I arrive at the last delivery, a young girl answers the door, looking excited. Dinner time. But then Dad comes to the door, and makes an exaggerated gesture to check his watch. Translation = you're late. He decides he, too, should punish my tardiness, and writes in a $2 tip on the $69.64 order. Ouch.

By the time I get back to the Pizzeria an hour later, my pizza is coagulated and curling in on itself, I only have six more dollars in my pocket, and I'm going to miss the end of the football game (Brett Favre battling his old team!). When my neighbor calls to see where I (the pizza, actually) am, I don't even answer my phone. The impatient salad man, the I.E. couple, and the watch tapper have ruined my entire day. 

Day 124: October 2, 2009 (hundred dollar bill, y'all, school inequalities are black and white, and making up research)

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $339.71

Tips: $59

Hours: 2.75

Total Wage: $29.45 per hour

When I arrive at the first delivery of my second run, a stocky man, wearing a light-blue polo shirt and shorts, waddles out and hands me a $100 bill for his $31.86 order. I tell him I only have twenty dollars worth of change, and he says, "That's all I got." We seem to be at a standstill. 

"Is it okay if I take it into town and get change?" I say. He agrees, and I dart off to nearby downtown Rancho Santa Fe with a short list in my head of possible places to get change. The local elementary school appears to be having an open house, so I must drive extra slow. Most of the little boys wear suits, while the girls wear colorful dresses; one even wears white gloves. 

I've been reading Jonathan Kozol's Savage Inequalities: Children in American Schools lately, and the scene in front of me contrasts greatly with his descriptions of schools in East St. Louis and inner city Chicago (with mostly black students). Kozol writes, "For children who begin their school career at Anderson Elementary School [in Chicago] . . . the high school dropout rate is 76 percent. For those who begin at the Mckinley School, it is 81 percent. For those who start at Woodson Elementary School, the high school dropout rate is 86 percent"(58). 

In the affluent north Chicago suburb of Winnetka, 98.5% of students at New Trier High School graduate, most going on to four-year colleges. Oh, and their demographics? 90% White, 8% Asian (which is over-represented in their website photo montage––multiculturalism is in!), 2% Hispanic, and >1% Native and African American. The children on the sidewalk in front of me are all white and rich. Their futures look bright.

I park on Granada, and run over to the only liquor store in Rancho to get change. And wouldn't you know it, even though it's only 6:10 p.m., it's closed. It's also closed on Sundays. One lousy, overpriced liquor store for all these residents, and it's closed. Whereas, the Chicago neighborhood [of North Lawndale], "according  to the [Chicago] Tribune, 'has one bank, one supermarket, 48 state lottery agents . . . and 99 licensed bars and liquor stores'" (41). In case you're wondering, Rancho Santa Fe has at least seven banks in a four block radius.

I'm in panic mode now, because I have other deliveries and I still need to get this fool his change. Luckily, I notice my next delivery is $53.06 and they're paying with cash. The $100 bill man will just have to wait. 

When I arrive at the mansion in the Bridges, a beautiful blond woman answers the door and doles out the cash. Three suit jackets hang on the formal dinning room chairs. I figure a group of business men must be unwinding this Friday night, and that's who the three large pizzas are for. But before I leave, a beautiful Latina woman and her two young boys dressed in suits arrive. This must be the post open house party. Jesus, I didn't have a suit when I was their age. As a matter of fact, even now, I only have a suit jacket and pants my dad gave me years ago. Maybe that explains why I'm on this side of the doorway.

I arrive back at the $100 bill man's house with change, and he waddles out of his garage, past the Porshe Carrera, the Mercedes SL63, the Cadillac Escalade, and the super-custom Silverado truck. I hand him his change, and he gives me an $8 tip and apologizes for his large bill. "It's cool, man," I say.

Later in the night, a hippy-like, teacher woman answers a condo door, and her husband asks me if I'm in junior high school, then laughs. "She's doing research on junior high kids and she needs some subjects," he explains.

The woman looks at the credit card slip, and sees the total is $33.31. "You know, the last time I ordered this same thing, it was only twenty-seven dollars. It gets more and more expensive every time. This is the last time I'm ordering from THE Pizzeria." I feel like it's somehow my fault, and she's going to take it out on my tip. She ends up tipping me $4, and as I leave, she says, "I'll put that down for research." In other words, she's going to lie.

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.