Why I Make the Big BucksApril 26, 2011 at 10:09 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
Tags: 1980s, customers, domino's pizza, drugs, money
Jonathan’s wife is hot. Too hot for him. He’s a short, chubby, slightly Mexican-looking dude. She looks like a model. I’m a tall, chubby, basically Caucasian-looking dude. What gives?
Ah, well. I already have a girlfriend. She’s not young and hot, though. She’s old but still pretty. The lesson I’m sure that I need to learn in life is to not always let my dick do the driving. But there’s still time—I’m young.
I’m finally able to put some names to the faces, and remember the faces. I thought two of them were the same guy, but it turns out they are brothers, Ricky and…the other one. Ironically, they have a Latina last name but don’t look it, while Jonathan doesn’t, but does look it. There’s also Marty and his brother as well–didn’t catch his name. There are others, like this cocky football player-looking dude, some tall guy I hear people calling “Mabes,” and a random assortment of others.
Oh, and Thomas just rolled onto the scene. He’s new here but he’s done this before, he said. After a fashion he kind of latched onto me, so I guess I have a friend. Thomas is a good guy, a little insecure, and a loud talker. Don’t tell him I said that.
During one conversation with him, he said that from some source (I wasn’t really paying attention) he learned that the secret to making more money—getting a raise or what-have-you—was to act like you were already earning that money, and worth it. “If I want to make 3.60 an hour,” he said while we were both sweeping the floor, “I need to work like I’m already making 3.60 an hour.”
Minimum is 3.35 an hour. I couldn’t see much difference in the effort for 3.35 and 3.60.
Besides, that was a quarter. Nobody got a quarter raise. He might get a dime or fifteen cents. Not a quarter. I kept quiet; my personal belief was that with delivery, you made your own raise by getting better and more efficient at it, taking more runs and kissing the customers’ ass more.
I had no idea how to do that. Man, I wish I did. That jackoff football player-looking dude—Jeff—always made out really good in tips, or at least he claimed to. If so, he was much nicer to the customers than he was to anyone here in the store. I had to make up for what I lacked in social skills by driving fast, and running hard.
We all run. We run to the car. We run to the door. We run back to the car. We run back into the store. When the phone rings, we run to it. Two rings, max. Always.
So I run. I’m not built for running, so much, but I do it. Plus I like to get high while I deliver. I didn’t do that so much at first because I wanted to get used to the job and learn the area. But after a few months of driving up and down these streets all over the place, I rarely look at the map, except to figure out the right hundred-block.
Getting high kind of slows you down, but I have a solution. I take some mini-thins. For those of you not hip to the drug lingo, that’s speed. Actually, they’re just caffeine pills. But three minis will get me through a close, and I can still get high.
I was having a pretty good Saturday night—I was closing. It was just after dinner rush and a few drivers were cut. It would start to open up for me. I came back from a run, and Tom grabbed me and said, “Hey, come in here a minute.” The office. He closed the door. Hell, I didn’t even think this broom closet-sized office had a door.
We had a quick meeting. “Bubba, I just wanted to tell you, that you’ve been doing a really good job, and I’m impressed. I really didn’t think you were going to make it—“
Which is always nice to hear. Did I suck that bad when I started? I guess so.
“—but you’ve proven yourself, and you have integrity.”
“Aw, well, hey—thanks. I appreciate that—“
“Starting Monday you get a raise. Three-fifty.” He raised his furry eyebrow, letting it sink in, because 15 cents is the highest increment raises came in. I had only been there a few months.
“Awesome! Thanks, Tom!”
“And Bubba—listen: don’t tell anyone about it, okay? Not everyone is getting a raise right now. Just keep it to yourself.”
I nodded. But I had a question. “Why you calling me ‘Bubba’?”
He was taken aback. “I thought—“ He grabbed a clipboard and flipped back a couple of pages. “Every time you sign the daily—see there? You’re signing ‘Bubba.’ I thought it was your nickname.”
“That’s just my initials. BB. I didn’t really want a nickname.”
Tom looked down sheepishly. “Yeah…it might be too late for that.”
Fuck me. But I got a raise, so what the hell. We exited the office. Joel caught my eye. “Bubba, you’re up.” That fast? It happened that fast? Christ in a—
So I continued to have a good night, and I was happy about my raise. It wasn’t the money, really. Fifteen cents over thirty hours, or sixty, on a biweekly paycheck—was going to be…a couple of bucks. The difference between a couple of decent tips and a couple of good tips. But it was a marker, like proof that I got a pat on the back. Recognition for a job well done and all my hard work.
In the course of having a good night I may have celebrated a bit, like taking a few hits from my bat—my one-hitter. The mistake, of course, was that this was some serious skunk weed, and had an odor to it. An odor that lingered, and clung to me. Imagine my surprise when later, about 930, Tom caught me and had me come into his office again. He had a somber expression on his face.
“Bubba, I need to ask you to not get high anymore while you’re working.”
You know pot makes you paranoid, right? Getting busted doesn’t make it better. I was shaking on the inside, so I froze, held completely still. I may have held my breath. Tom continued. “We can smell it on you, and a customer called—“
“Yeah. So don’t—don’t do that anymore on the clock. When you’re off I don’t care what you do. But I don’t want to catch you high on the clock anymore.”
I nodded. “Okay. No more. I promise.”
And I meant it, too. He would never catch me.