Six of One…

March 12, 2009 at 9:40 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  I never actually did go to that other pizza place that hired me.  First Detroit’s dad passed away, and then other things happened–I was trying to hedge.  Finally what I did was pick up more hours at Domino’s, driving.
  There were a few reasons I didn’t want to do that…
  First, I didn’t want to pick up more closes, because they (or we, or I, or however I want to distance myself from them) close at midnight, and I’ve already had my fill of that.  That’s why I only do two closes during the week (usually Monday and Wednesday) and one on Saturday.  Friday and Saturday are both 2am, and when I was doing Friday, I had the pleasure of getting up at 6am Friday morning and not getting to bed until 4am Saturday, which would invariably be followed up by waking at noon Saturday with a sore body, a traumatic headache, and an unnatural desire for chips and salsa.
  I can only do that for several months before it really starts to get to me.
  That also explains why I don’t want my two week-day closes to be consecutive, because it sucks.  Two sixteen-hour days back-to-back with five hours of sleep in betwixt them?  That sucks in gigantic numeration.  And doing three of those in a row–(let’s do the math real quick:  24 hours on my day job, plus 24 hours on my night job is 48 hours in the space of 72 hours.  That leaves 24 hours over three days for sleep AND travel, and any downtime.  I sleep about 5 hours a night)–sucks in biblical proportions.
  So I didn’t want to pick up more closes, driving or not.  And definitely no more closes running shift, because the rate they pay me makes my vote only count as much as 3/5 of a white person’s vote.
  I wanted to drive, and I thought driving at this other place, Imo’s, might be better.  I ended up needing a chart to compare the pros and cons of both places.  In the end, convenience and familiarity won out; I stayed at Domino’s.  As a side note (because that’s all the attention this warrants), a week or so ago our annoying driver Myron walked out.  Now, I only heard Stan’s side of it and he is maladjusted, nonetheless Myron is a conniving, money-grubbing little prick.  Either way he’s gone, and we should have had a party.
  Plus, the new place I would have delivered at didn’t pay by the hour; you just made tips and delivery charge and the occasional crack rock.  But at Domino’s not only do I get paid by the hour, but I get paid at my higher, shinier, above-minimum-wage-albeit-just-barely assistant manager wage.  So, yay?
  Another one of my hesitations for doing it is the cartop sign.  At Domino’s, they are "required" by drivers.  At the other place, they don’t even have them.  I did *NOT* want to put a sign on the top of my Mercedes.  It’s bad enough that I’m delivering pizza in it; I most certainly did not want to advertise the fact.
  But my understanding with Dina and Stan is that I don hafta wear one.  We were short on dinner rush drivers, and I can fill that spot on a couple of nights.  That pretty much resolved all the issues I had.  I still have Sunday off, so I have one day off per week, and I get home a little earlier on some nights, and I have off Friday night, mostly.  Plus of course, the extra money and extra hours which I needed.
  I haven’t made a lot of money yet, because I need to get back into that groove, and we’ve been a little slow.  But give me some time.  I’ll be rockin it soon.
  Real Soon.

  Speaking of rocking it soon, Tuesday was my first *official* night of driving in this new capacity, even though I had done it a few days the week before.  Of course it rained torrentially.  It was calm before hand, and other than the weather report there was no obvious foreshadowing.  I didn’t get to take many deliveries, but I managed to squeeze out about five.  The last one I took–
  I pass up the street the first time, because it is raining so hard.  I go down, turn around, and come back.  Wipers on high and going about 20 miles per hours, I could barely see.  I turn into this subdivision, full of small mansions.  I pull up in the circle drive (they all have circle drives) and go up to the door. After ringing the bell twice and waiting…in the rain…a fourteen year old girl answers the door.
  And she has a name-brand ziplock bag in her hand full of coins.  Yay?  She said, "I’m sorry, I know this is the worst way to get money."  I have a pretty good emotionless, Terminator-like stare specifically for customers.  She continued in a hopeful tone, "I counted it."
  I took the money, trudged back to the car (Again, in the rain.  Can I get some freakin sympathy here?  No?)  I sat and counted the money.  Then I counted it again, not believing.  The total was 13.51.  Four one-dollar bills, 6.50 in quarters, and other miscellaneous change added up to 12 bucks, almost.  I stared out the window through the pouring rain at the 4000 square foot house I had just left.  A buck-fifty.  Plus, no tip.  I’m not going back up to the door, because I know they don’t have it.  Instead, I look at the order slip I have, and call the phone number on it.  It looks like a cell phone–
  No one picks up, but the message on the voicemail is an adult.  I leave this message, "Hi, this is Bryan from Domino’s Pizza.  I just delivered pizza and the total was 13.51.  What I received was a bag with 12 dollars in it.  So, I really need to collect the balance.  If you could please call the store, we would appreciate it."
  I head back to the store, not holding out much hope.  Instead, I figure–well, it’s only a buck-fifty.  There is still a principle involved, but much like the concept of wearing matching clothes or having a full head of hair, there are things in this life that I have given up on.  Steve tells me, however, that the house I delivered to generally tips really well.  I said, "Kids."
  He nodded in understanding.  "Oh."
  But my phone call bore fruit:  after I had left for the evening, the parents called back.  The next day, I had five bucks.  So, they paid the balance and tipped.  Steve said they were a little pissed at their kids for that.  So, it all had a happy ending.
  It doesn’t take much to make me happy.  Everyone has a price, and apparently my price is three bucks and the change.

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