Can I be Nearly as Interesting as Slang?
 

The Pizza Chronicles, or "Why You Should be More Frugal in Your Next Life"
(inspired by "The Shitjob Chronicles" by Slang)

An imperative has been looming over me like a menacing cloud for a few months now. The ravenous wolves of increasing living expenses, decreased income, kids in the hospital and an affinity for indoor living and hot meals have managed to back me into a corner. They now stand growling and salivating mere inches from my quivering face. We need more money, and we need it RFN.

I had been talking about taking a second job delivering pizza for some time, but the fact that I have a pretty busy life even without the burden of added employment had been keeping from actually engaging such a job. When it finally became undeniable that the proverbial wolves were indeed actually standing at the door, waving paws full of envelopes stamped "overdue", I
swallowed my pride and headed out to the Papa John's Pizza where our family friend Robert has held a "when I need pocket money" sort of job as a delivery guy for a few years now. As he had predicted, they were pretty much willing to hire anyone with an unencumbered driver's license. Apparently, there is something of a high turnover rate, and a constant supply of warm
bodies and warmer vehicles is always needed. Whoda thunk it?

It felt pretty weird sitting there, filling out the requisite application paperwork and the reams of disclaimers, arbitration agreements, MVR Report approvals...you know - the same stuff that I have other people fill out at my real job? I gave the mound of paper to the 30ish blonde manager lady, whom we will call Stacey (because that is her name), and was told I'd be contacted in a few days, once the MVR came back.

As luck would have it, I didn't hear from anyone for a week, and so I took it upon myself to call back last Friday. Surprise! My MVR had just come back that very day! All looked good, and I was asked when I'd like to report. Nice to have a choice. Since I had major things going on over the weekend, I decided that Monday was as good a starting day as any.

I left my real job at 5:00, and made the 40 minute drive to PJ's in Lee's Summit, MO. I even had time to stop on the way and scarf a couple of greasy Quik Trip tacquitos and a Diet Coke on the way. I called it "dinner" (catchy, huh?). I reported to Stacey who was ensconsced in her managerial "office" (I have a closet bigger than her office, and my closet is much better organized). Flour dust covered everything within, including the hefty knit Papa John's embroidered uniform shirt she dug out from the floor under her desk (counter, actually).

"I'm going to have to call Raleigh to get you a hat...and a nametag. I don't have any nametags," she told me.

"Hat? Eewww...I'm not a real hat person," I replied. She laughed, and made me sign another pile of paperwork. Then, my training began.

Ten minutes later, my training was unceremoniously ended when I was handed my first order and given an unreadable 99th-generation photocopy of a map to guide me to the customer's house. Oh, my. I walked out into the dark, drizzly night and headed out on my first delivery, a two-location job.

Lee's Summit, Missouri is one of the largest cities in the nation in terms of physical boundaries. After experiencing phenomenal growth through the 90's and into the New Millenium, the formerly sleepy Midwestern farm town (home to the infamous Younger brothers of Wild West fame) is a hodgepodge of retail, new housing, old housing and vacant ex-farmland, all swirled together in a Daliesque, suburban hallucinogenic fashion. First note to self: get a better map. The cutup streets quickly became a major challenge. Fifth street runs for five of the necessary seven blocks from where I turned onto it, but abruptly ends in a cul-de-sac at 2000...I needed to get to 2200. Shit. The spitting, misty rain seems to consume the available light from street lights and porch lights, making house numbers impossible to see. Second note to self: either get a 1,000,000 candlepower rechargable floodlight, or a nightvision scope.

Amazingly, I found all my deliveries last night. Six out of the seven were late; two egregiously so. There is very little margin for error. You essentially have 10 usable minutes from the time you walk out the door to get a pizza to the customer within the targeted 35 minutes (pizzas take about 18 minutes from order to completion, bagging, adding extras and getting your directions more or less straight takes about five to seven), so if you go at all astray, you are going to be late. Apparently it is a fairly common thing as PJ's is now sending out recordkeeping sheets for drivers to have the customer sign, showing when their order was placed, and when it was actually delivered. I lost mine in the dark and the rain, and had to forge it at the end of the night. And so it goes...

Part of me enjoyed the delivery thing. Driving around, listening to the radio, playing hide and go seek with buildings and streets. It was a bit like being a detective, only with the aroma of pizza wafting around you. Maybe like being an Italian detective, I guess.

Next - The bad part of the job...

Watch out for secret shoppers! PJ's is notorious for employee checks....Did you know people are actually paid to buy a pizza? :D
Ha ha! Do you look cute in that hat? :D

Oh wow, keep writing these! The way you write, I could read these all day! :D

Ever deliver phone books, Patrick? Your epistle reminds me of that particular job that I have under taken in the past and probably will again this year. Ahhh, phone book delivery in the Colorado snow in December and January. Nothing to compare with it!

It's a shit, temporary job and they hire ANYONE (read me!) who shows up with a vehicle that runs and a driver's licence and insurance or reasonable forgeries there-of. Routes pay a flat fee. Your gas, oil, and vehicle wear and tear (which is considerable) all come out of that before you even begin to get a distant glimpse of a profit. You get your route sheets which if you are lucky may include a teensy indecipherable map of your delivery area. Then you go out to the loading dock where a surly crew flings 30 pound packs of phone books into your car until the suspension shreiks in protest. Then it's off into the snow to attempt delivery on icey mountain roads. If you're lucky, by time your heavily burdened vehicle has made it 5 miles from the delivery station a winter blizzard will have set in. The packs of phone books must be broken open, filled with 4 or 5 advertizing inserts and then each nicely placed in its own plastic bag to protect the book from the elements. Unless you are fortunate enough to have a heated garage (and, by definition, anyone desperate enough to deliver phone books does NOT have a heated garage); you must stand out in the elements doing this task with icey hands (tip: use gloves with the finger tips cut off). Normally one route consists of roughly 300 books. By time you have finished preparing your books for delivery, you will have lost all feeling in both your hands and feet.

At this point, winter storm warnings will have been duely issued, schools closed, and a drivers' advisory will be heard on your car radio telling everyone to stay home. This is your signal to set out for the foothills or out on the plains and start throwing books (not recommended by the friendly people back in the distribution center, but they're not driving through 3 foot snow drifts with a rabid pack of farm dogs chasing them and the clutch on their vehicle giving out). One year I got a route that I thought would be in my own neighborhood, but I had transposed the zip code numbers and the thing turned out to cover the eastern half of Colorado instead. I worked it out, and I figured the thing encompassed 300 hundred square miles for a lousey flat rate of 100 bucks.

I've done things like forget to deliver the other side of the streets on half my routes and then be forced to go back when the error was discovered, mistakenly delivering 500 books to a gated community that actually wasn't on my route, and forced the station manager to wait 3 hours on me because I was the last delivery person to finish up my route - no wait, he had to come in the next day, come to think of it - just for me.

If it was a regular job I'd be fired in a heart beat, but since they're used to the motley collection of derelicts and tramps who show up each year, they hire me back and don't remember about me until too late. I can't wait for this year's coming adventures with Qwest delivery. And my advance apologies to all cellar members who live in Colorado Springs. :D

Pizza Job, Part II - People
 

I guess it is a sign of advancing age that I cannot, at this moment, tell you the names of more than one of the five people I worked with last night. Perhaps it is more that I felt so incredbily out of place that I am blocking the details at the subconscious level; some sort of middle-aged guy autonomic self-defense mechanism is chugging away, keeping me from running screaming into the streets over the realization that, at one point, the ages of two of the people with whom I was working, added together, would not have equalled my own age.

In truth, I was mostly ignored by most of the other pizzaoids. I suppose that it must be amusing to have some old guy, a sweaty, long-haired, overweight version of your stepdad, knowing nothing about The Pizza Biz and waiting for you, the edgy, mulitply pierced and tattooed youth, to tell him what to do. Ah, well...the day can't be a complete loss as long as I've provided someone with entertainment. However, due to this rather impersonal juxtaposition of age vs. authority, I really only got to talk at length with one individual, whom we shall call Merle (again, because it is actually his name).

Merle is somewhere within shouting distance of 30, although from which side of it we'd be shouting I do not know. Merle is an almost-tall, rather slender, terribly frantic-looking fellow. Most people would likely feel fairly safe with awarding him the sobriquet of "nerd". Nothing we talked about during the course of the evening would have dissuaded me from handing him that particular tag, anyway.

I'm not certain how we got on the subject, except that, in retrospect, Merle probably tells *everyone* about his bipolar, depressive, psychotic bitch of an ex-wife and the associated trials and tribulations of being a single father. It is even possible that he regales anyone who will listen with the fact that he was the manager of a large mattress store in Texas before his wife's whoring and lack of domestic hygiene led to the demise of their tenuous marital relationship. Passersby on the street have probably heard tell of how even his parents, who revere the institution of marriage above all earthly things, told him that he really should divorce that crazy girl and embark on the adventure of single parenthood. Those who are so presented with the tawdry tales of a young marriage tumbling inexorably toward ruin might sense, as I did, a certain wistfulness in his manner; a slight peek behind a mask of righteousness and outrage that reveals the worried, rejected face of a guy who fears that he may never get laid again if he can't reconcile with the woman who screwed around on him, then ran away to Florida with her boyfriend.

As I listened to Merle talk, we folded up razor-edged cardboard stampings into the various sizes of boxes destined to hold the bounty of PJ's oven. The time passed pretty quickly, marked out only by Merle's incessant, obsessive, outraged rambling, and the occasional profanity uttered by me as I sustained multiple cardboard cuts on my fingers. Merle's work ethic was much the same as his verbal self-presentation...frantic fleeting from one task to another before punching out on the computer and dashing out the door to his next delivery (Note to self - try to work the next Merle conversation around to the subject of the wonderful psychoactive drugs that are presently available to treat OC and other hyperactive disorders). I basked in the peace and quiet of his absence for awhile, and tried to get a handle on my other co-workers.

Stacey, as I mentioned before, is the store manager, but she left for the day while I was out on my first delivery run. The guy left in charge, who we shall call "Captain" (not because it is his name, but because that's what it says on the name tag stuck to his hat), gave me a couple of other pointers, and generally oversaw what I did from an omniscient and safe distance. We passed a few niceties over the course of the evening ("So, have you ever had a driving job before?" - actually, I got asked that question three different times by three different people...I can't imagine what relevance it had, though. Do more experienced pizza delivery guys impress those with less experience?), but mostly, the gulf of age between us was too vast to bridge without benefit of beers or perhaps a CD collection to compare. Captain did ask me later on if I was hungry, and I replied, "That depends on what you're going to say next, I guess." I didn't know if there was free pizza in the offing, or if he was going somewhere else with the question. It turned out that they were getting up a run to Planet Sub next door, and he was just checking to see if I wanted in on that. I didn't, but at least there was that much of an attempt to reach out and be considerate of the new guy.

There were two other drivers working beside Merle and myself. One was pretty intent on what he was doing, and he got the lion's share of the deliveries. He also left the earliest. I assume he is the top dog delivery guy, by dint of his "get-it-done" attitude. We didn't pass a word between us. Merle, blessedly, left for the night around 9:30 to go get his kids from his folks' house, and to take them home and put them to bed (I could give you more details, because he gave them to me, but really...why?). His departure came on the heels of a long and animated telephone conversation of which I could only hear one side. However, the side I could hear sounded very much like what I had heard from him while we folded boxes, so I assume the person on the other end was saying very little anyway. I mean, I had done so, mostly due to a lack of space into which insinuate comment.

As the evening wore on, I had more interaction with the youngest member of the driver corps. I'm not going to name him yet because, well, there was nothing particularly notable about him, and so I think I'll just relate the information once I actually absorb his name. He was rather helpful for the most part. Had I been more aware and less in shock over the whole concept of being 48 years old and working at a pizza place that I don't own, I might have taken more notice when he asked me, "So...are you closing tonight?"

The question really should have piqued my interest more. After all, my first job, at age 15, had been in a restaurant. Although I was technically the dishwasher at that time, I was essentially the complete slave of the place. The end of my shift last night had much the same sort of elements as that first job, albeit on a lesser scale. I had signed up to be a delivery guy, but I had been warned by my friend Robert that there were other associated tasks besides the driving. I knew, for example, that I would be making pizza boxes. I guess I hadn't stopped to consider that I, now 33 years past the labors and physical demands of that first job, would once again have someone point to a large tile floor and say, "You'll need to sweep and mop that." I was wholly unprepared for the moment when Captain started handing me dirty utensils and containers, and instructed me on the proper volume of water and mixture of chemicals to put the triple-well stainless steel industrial sink from hell.

I spent the last hour of my first day as a pizza delivery driver making $5.65 per hour, pushing a broom, wrestling a mop and doing dishes like a busboy, sweating like a stevedore. My arthritic hands and knees were crying the blues. My mind was busy considering the irony of the fact that I would probably be rendered unable to play the guitar and sing the composition my joints were working on, once I was finished with the mopping. No, I hadn't counted on this aspect of the job at all. I must have thought that I was going to drive clean, baby; cruise the streets of suburbia, bringing succulent, steaming junk food to adoring masses. I thought I was going to ride high in my Explorer, dashing through the night, assuaging the grumbling stomachs of Middle America, and reveling in my service to mankind.

By the time I left at midnight, headed for home after what had been, effectively, a seventeen-hour day, all such romantic notions of the life of a pizza delivery guy had left my head, replaced by a tired, chafing reality. And no free pizza.

More to come as more happens...

Well, it's pretty obvious to me what you should be doing.

Strangely, very little interest has ever been shown in paying me for my writing. I do receive many kind words from nice people like Cellarites. Certainly, I've made very little money at it in the real world.

I used to get paid to write for the UMKC U-News about seven years ago. My wife was then the Ad Manager and Arts and Entertainment Editor (the two most plum jobs on the staff for non-sports types, and even at that, I got to go shoot the Division I basketball home games). I was the Arts and Entertainment reviewer and Photo Editor. Now *that* little arrangement was sweet. Lots of free stuff like movies and concerts and promo items, plus a meager paycheck were ours each week. It was definitely my idea of a primo part time job. It was, in fact, much more like being paid to entertain yourself than being any real sort of work. I mean, I learned to shoot and develop black and white pictures just for fun, and there I was actually paid by the picture. Sigh.

Unfortunately, she graduated, and it all ended. I had to take at least one credit hour in order to classify as a "student" to be able to work for the paper, but I didn't even do that until I'd been at it for a few months. Even then, the class I took was a four-day local geology course that was held over two consecutive weekends, which was also big fun.

Life isn't nearly as fun or easy as it was back in those days.

Mari, no...I haven't delivered phone books, and Gods willing, I never will. :)

Mari. They have no dumpsters in CO?

No free pizza? :(

Patrick, you should write. You should be playing music (I understand how careful a guitarist has to be of his hands). What a travesty that you should be delivering pizza's. Oh well, whoever said life was fair? But I'm mad at life on your behalf.

And no, Busterb, dumpsters are not an option in my own little story. They have this computerized route checking system and if more than three people indicate that they didn't get their phone book, you don't get paid for the entire route.

Oh well, just an idea.

Els, reading your account was hardcore deja vu for me. I worked for Domino's Pizza for 3 years. I was unfortunately too young to be a delivery driver--technically I was too young to be working at all in that environment (95 degrees was the cutoff I think, and the store usually ran about 105) for the first year, but what Child Labor Law enforcement folks don't know won't hurt them, right? Anyway, trust me, driving is at least a little better than being an insider. Once you get a little more familiar with your delivery area you'll get reasonable tips.

The thing about my experience was, in both of the stores I worked in, my best friend and I were the only two kids working there. Every other employee was 30+, and most were supporting families. One guy was semi-retired and did it for the camaraderie, but he was weird.

The food service industry sucks, but it does get a little better with experience. After awhile, you'll be adept at folding boxes without getting cut, you'll know that area of town like the back of your hand, and hopefully you'll be a little more relaxed throughout the evenings, which will help with the arthritis. And at the very least, you'll know you're working your ass off for a good cause: your family.

If you can, get one of the insiders to teach you how to toss dough. I can still do it, and it's a great party trick. :)

Hang tough, Ep.

I've been thinking about doing pizza delivery myself, though I probably wouldn't do it in my own neighborhood...I dunno...

You are going to look back someday and laugh. Try it now just for practice...

I could just see Syc delivering pizzas !!!!!

" Here is your FUCKING pizza !!!! Now where is my damn tip BITCH !!!!!!"

I feel for ya Splode , I delivered pizzas in southern Cali in the early 80's , !!!!!

It's nice to know that shitjobs suck ass with the same intensity regardless of the geographical location.

Sometimes going through the bullshit is a bit easier when you know you will be writing about it later. It helps you keep your sense of humor because you can already read the story in your mind. From my experience, it makes you pay more attention for little details and sharpens your writing skills.

Keep them coming Ep. I feel your pain!!!!

You forgot, "Have a nice night, dickhead!"

I delivered for Pizza Hut for a bit in the late 90s...I liked the job, but not Pizza Hut.

In that respect, I almost look forward to my next night, which will be on Thursday. Friday night I'm not delivering pizza because I get to make $50 for an hour of Xmas music playing for the old folks at the ritzy retirement home, an annual gig I've done for some years. I'll make about the same money as I would delivering, and I won't have to mop anything.

I truly, deeply have this overriding sense of doing something that is *so* beneath me, that the only things that make it bearable are the money to keep the family going, and the fact that I can, in fact, write about it. There has got to be something about me that is going to eventually start making this experience come out like a fish out of water story.

Don't get me wrong...I'm not dissing people who do this as a regular gig. It takes a special kind of person to dedicate themselves to feeding a largely unappreciative public day after day, just as it takes a special kind of person to pull bleeding drunks out of mangled automobiles. All things being equal, I'd rather deliver pizzas.

Syc, this isn't exactly my neighborhood, but it is fairly close. Lee's Summit is just to the East of Grandview. It is about a fifteen minute drive for me to get there from my house. It is largely a higher-end suburban bedroom town, and hopefully there will be some good tips in my more experienced future.

Mari, I appreciate the good vibes, and I'm taking as good care of my hands as I ever have. I have very tough hands for some reason. I think the tradeoff is the arthritis and tendonitis, but I played for a couple of hours tonight, and I can still type.

Speaking of typing...you know what blows my mind? I try so hard to proof this stuff before I post it, and every time I read back over it, I find another stinking error. Missed words, bad punctuation...I used to be able to catch this stuff first time through. So, please forgive apparent demonstrations of illiteracy...I banged those things out at work during lunch and breaks, then copied them and pasted them in.

Your doing fine.......on all fronts. :thumbsup:

Tomorrow will be my second night...rain again in the forecast, and I'm assuming it will again be dark, sooooo....I picked up a Coleman 1,000,000 candlepower rechargeable spotlight today. Yes, I know...if I can afford stuff like that, then why work a shitjob? Well, let me relate my thinking on this subject.

First...how can I deliver pizzas at all if I can't see the addresses? I wouldn't have gotten half as lost on Monday night if I had been able to see the addresses. Second, finding the right house quicker should presumably equate to better tips. Starving, pissed-off people waiting for late pizzas probably don't feel like paying a little extra for the privilege. Therefore, the light could logically result in increased income, not to mention improved job performance overall.

Finally...damn thing only cost $27.00. It has *got* to be worth that.

In truth, the night vision thing seemed cooler, but that *is* too expensive...although Sam's club had a monocular version for $140.

Now, on to this question I have...does anyone here at the Cellar have a copy of Garmin's Metroguide USA v 8.0? I *really* need better routing technology, and I've already got the GPS.

No routing software, but I could probably offer some suggestions for a small, easily concealable handgun that is essential equipment for any food delivery engineer.

I have had friends who delivered pizza, the best story I ever heard was the one guy who was delivering in Delaware County, PA and had an encouter with a wayward cougar.

Shame you aren't in my delivery service area ... we tip really good. The nuts don't but the staff do (for the delivery place we actually like) to make up for that.

If you haven't already, read Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. A different view of pizza delivery.

how about buying a nice new 2005 pathfinder from....oh, someone in the northeast let's say....., that has the GPS system built right in? makes sense, right?

Um, he has to justify the purchase of a $30 flashlight. I think you'd need to be offerin a pretty incredible deal...

Let's see...$30k at 2.6% APR paid off at at $60.00 per month (the amount of tips I can expect to make working a couple of days a week)...

Do you have any 40 year loans available, Jim?

Splode , like wolf said BECARFUL !!!!!

Ok a few different storys about delevering pizzas in southern Cali in the early 80's, oh and i was in the USMC at the time .

The place i worked for backed up to a resedental neiborhood , all the houses had STEEP driveways , there was this kid that used to have the BEST time shooting down these drive ways on a skate board JUST missing oncomeing traffic , he FREAKED me out the first 3-4 times, then i got pissed off , on trip 15 or 16 I timed it JUST right and layed his stupid little ass accross the hood of my car , i then drug him home by the scruff of his neck , knocked on the door and explained to his dad what had happened , his dad appoligized , made his son appoligize , as i was walking away i heard a WHOP !! and a kid crying .
Said kid NEVER did that to me again !!!!

As close as i was to a Marine bace there were some different challanges as well , like getting a call to deliver the pizzas to a piticuler cross road , and haveing 2-3 camo faced armed marines come out of the brush with money , one dude tryed to sneak up on me once , he explained he was just messing with me as i sat on his chest ready to beat him , another time i delivered to a gym , these 2 Hanz and Franz type dudes asked " what would you do if we just TOOK the pizzas ???" His face went white when i whipped out my butterfly knife , he pulled out the cash for the pizza , put it on a desk and backed up , i put the pizza on the desk , grabbed the cash and backed up . Dude had the balls to ask " what about the change ??"
30 min delivery time ???? All you had to do was call the gate and ask the MP's to slow the deliver guy down a bit , this didn't work on me , i knew most of the MP's .

The civilian folks were weird as well , like the VERRRRRRY gay couple that wanted to have ME for desert , i verry politely thanked them , but declined .
I once delivered to a BIG house , i heard I think it was Roy orbinsen playing in the back ground , unless i am greatly mistakned it was live music .
Almost getting squashed by a Lamborgene at HIGH speed in the hills .



Splode , you were talking about trying to find the addresses of the houses , different neiborhood and all . Try that in a town and a state that you are NOT from !!! Be carefull with that spot light , make shure your windows are CLEAN or you will loose ALL night vision .

Luck to ya dude !!! :thumbsup: :thumbsup:

I nearly put my car in a ditch when I drove past the Uncle Enzo's down in Birmingham, PA the first time.

It appeared out of nowhere, on an intersection lot that I KNOW held a gas station only the week before ...

Thanks for the pizza tales! Gives me something to shoot for.

Tonight was my second night, and I don't have a lot to say about it. It was mostly delivering pizzas, strangely enough. And making boxes. No new cardboard cuts...I'm getting more skilled already!

The steel-melting spotlight was a *definite* good idea. Shaved a lot of time off of my fruitless gyrating in the dark, looking for addresses. Having a job like this *really* demonstrates to me just how much advancing age is affecting my senses. The drivers' table (where we punch in and out on the computer, stuff the orders into the big insulated bags, and make up boxes) is right next to the oven, and the oven is both hot *and* noisy. This makes it really hard for my ever-lessening aural discrimination abilities to pick out what is being said to me from across the restaurant. Worse yet is the fact that the map, the only thing that stands between me and ending up in Cleveland when on a delivery, is *just* far enough away that I can't read it...not even with my glasses. Therefore, I just get a general idea about the area into which I'm headed, then go out and translate that rapidly fading memory onto the indecipherable photocopy they gave me on Monday. So far, I've only gotten badly lost once.

It was really busy when I got there, so I didn't get to do more than pass a few words with Merle. In fact, he was equally as quiet and solemn tonight as he was rambling and outraged on Monday. Perhaps I won't need to have that talk with him about the meds after all?

I met a couple of other people I hadn't met before. One of them, whom I shall call Brad (does anyone want to guess *why* I'm going to call him Brad?) is a late twentysomething dude, with closely cropped reddish hair and a boisterous sort of attitude. I liked him right off. It did not harm my opinion of him at all when I pulled in from my second delivery and he called me over to the trunk of his car to show off the new set of katanas he'd just bought at some import place. I mean, I'm sure they're shite and all, but they were pretty, and really, who the hell wouldn't like someone who shows off their ninja hardware in the parking lot of a pizza place?

I only ended up working three and a half hours, which was actually fine with me. I did not care to mop the floor again, thanks, and so I was relieved not to have to close again. The downside of the short night is that I made only $10 in tips. It would have only been $9.95 if it hadn't been for the generosity of the woman who presented me with $15.25 for her $15.20 tab and said, "That's okay...keep it". Oh my. A whole shiny nickel? Oh, how I wish penny loafers were still in fashion! I could find another customer like her and have one for *each* shoe! Still and all, that was five cents more than I got from my first five pizzas.

The champion tipper tonight? The drunk on his ass guy who was apparently living with his mother (too many big stuffed bunny things and other Home Interiors type decor inside to be *his* home) in the duplex part of town. While I hastily tried to remember how to properly count back change, he shoved a couple of ones into my hand and said, "Here ya go, man" in a boozy slur. Trust me...he needed to eat.

You hope that they belonged to mother ...

Important safety tip #2 ... buy a map produced by Alexandria Drafting Company, or whatever company produces excrutiatingly detailed maps of your delivery area. It's worth the $10.

MAPSCO is the one to have around here. It's a freaking book, and every neighborhood gets a full page. Very convenient.

I hope to make a trip downtown to our local map emporium very soon. I know what I need, I just need to pony up the bucks and find the time to go get it.

Right here in this thread you've opened up a universal theme for those of us with age and responsibility. You should exploit it musically as well as writing on it further. Sometimes life hurts because it has to hurt to be significant. MAKE MUSIC OUT OF THIS! You can be funny as hell with it or more sober but your diety here use it, it's your life man you own it.

You probably don't even need to go to a map emporium, Patrick. Around here many 7-11's, the grocery stores, and Walmart, among others sell a big book of local county street maps put out by MapVan (or some name like that). The thing retails for 19.95 for my area, and if you are doing ANY sort of delivery, it's worth every penny. Hint: resign yourself to middle age and score a cheap pair of readers at Walmart. Once you get over the humiliation of putting them on for the first time, you'll be amazed at how much easier they make your life - especially when it comes to map reading!

I picked up a nice, cheap collection of maps for KC Metro that includes my delivery area. I'm going to take my magnifying glass with me tonight.

I wear glasses, Mari...they just aren't quite enough for a lot of this fine print. Drives me nuts. The worst part is that it is even difficult to read the house numbers sometimes. Takes my eyes a moment to adjust from looking inside the vehicle, to looking in front of it, to looking clear up to someone's house.

Things on me used to work better than this. I remember. I think.

Breaking in and working........
 

:D Just do what I did recently....find an empty office somewhere and start working while the boss is out. Wow I manage four companies now. No maps, no driving, just go hire yourself. Hahaha! I'm pure evil but no one would suspect what happened anyway. Go pick another place to work, take a seat,find an available computer, and watch the paychecks roll in. (they are now trying to figure out how much to pay me) Ha Ha! (and it's a lot) :D It's crazy but it works. I CrACk myself up sometimes I sware. Yesterday I had pizza delivered on the company dime (with cheesy bread). I thought of you El.

May I add........HAHAHAHAHA SUCKERS!!!!

That's the ticket!

I wouldn't want to deliver in my neighborhood b/c 1) I don't think the tips would be that good and 2) the neighborhood gets more...colorful...not that far from here.

:lol: :lol2: Ok one more time....HAHAHA! They even taught me how to Make checks yesterday! HAAAAAAA! And why is this tool-bar following me all over the cellar?

:D Elspode go hire yourself somewhere it's a blast!! I'm having a great time and the best thing is....They can't fire me because they never hired me!!!! HAAAA! Sorry guys I'm just completely and utterly amused with the complete incompetence of the masses especially at work! Everyone! Go hire yourself somewhere for about a week....Oh and, Don't get caught....well their collective dummy heads may explode. HaHA! I'll report back later on the lucky winner who finally 2 + 2's it and has a complete melt-down. :D Oh and I don't even think I broke a law. HAAAAA!

Took the words right out of my mouth as off thru the snow I go like Santa with an Explorer full of phonebooks for all the bad boys out there waiting for a new list of numbers to make obscene phone calls to! :notworthy

I really think he means less colorful, but is too PC to say so.

I wouldn't deliver pizza in your neighborhood either.

I have a hard time just driving through your neighborhood.

Funny...I actually thought about my choice of words after I typed it.

"Colorful" in this case means "dangerous."

As far as actual color, it depends on which way you go...further into Germantown or towards North Philly, more color. Towards Roxborough, West Mt. Airy or East Falls, less color.

FLippant?? What are you smoking, dude?

My fourth night as PizzaBoy was last night. I had anticipated it would be a busy one, and it was. Even with a woeful football team, Monday Night Football in KC is a big deal, and the pizza consuming public did not disappoint. I ran from the moment I walked in the door at 6:00 until the moment I left at 10:30. In my pockets I carried the highest total of tips earned so far, as well as the largest number of route fees.

Last night was the first time I had seen a bona-fide pizza frenzy. The Captain was slinging dough like a demon with its tail ablaze. Stacey seems unflappably cheerful, even when covered head to foot with flour, a phone on her shoulder and pizza toppings flying from her fingers. Everyone else was just a blur, ebbing and flowing with the tsunamis of phone orders.

There are so many nooks and crannies in the city of Lee's Summit. I have good, close friends who have lived there all their lives, and I have spent innumerable days and nights there, but I have driven to places I had no idea even existed. Entire shopping districts have sprung up, complete with theaters and giant box stores, and I was utterly clueless until now.

The absolute worst is delivering to apartment complexes. Most are posessed of a numbering scheme that has no discernable rhyme or reason. Even numbered apartments are sometimes on one side of the building and odd on the other; sometimes even is upstairs and odd down, and so forth. Nothing for it but to look for them, sometimes on foot.

The most interesting event last night was when a woman zoomed up the street and stopped right next to me.

"Are you looking for someone?", she asked.

"Just trying to find an address. I'm delivering a pizza."

"Oh...I see. We were all just wondering who was spotlighting our houses."

I had been told people would get miffed about it, but hey...I have to see the address to deliver the pie. Even with the megalight, there are some address plates/numbers that simply don't show up. Sometimes it is because they are embossed, and the shadowing renders it unviewable. Sometimes, the letters are so reflective, that I can't read them due to glare. Always, I am trying to pick an address from an apparently unoccupied house so as to not disturb people, but I suppose I can understand people's concern about the entire concept.

There is another Patrick working there. He goes by "Rufus", which is a nickname derived from his last name (which I will omit). Rufus is the most upbeat, totally consumed by the pizza biz guy I've ever seen...or can ever imagine. He zips back and forth, doing all jobs possible, even delivery, all the while spouting statements of support and encouragement, singing oddball tunes, patting people on the shoulder. It is inconceivable that anyone could dislike him. So truly does he seem to enjoy what he does, so completely in his element is he, that it is like watching a fish swim or a bird fly. Whether sweeping the floor, tossing dough or taking an order, he is a gem to work with. I hope they pay him better than they do me.

Well done work is satisfying. I have great respect for that, particularly when it is the least glamorous. Good job Patrick.

Warch is right.......as usual. ;)

Our plant had a system where if I was being laid off I could choose the “labor pool” as an option to going out the door. The 50 or so highest seniority people that chose the “labor pool” would stay in the plant. Lowest pay grade, mostly 2nd shift, doing mostly maintenance (read janitor), or things like re-labeling parts coming out of the paint shop.

The reason for the “labor pool” was if they needed help in one or more of the shops due to poor planning or sudden customer demands, I was already in the plant with my tools and I knew the ropes. In 8 hrs they could have me where they needed help, ready to work.

In industrial setting's the men’s toilets are usually called the “shithouse” for a very good reason and not the most pleasant ambiance. Cleaning them means spending enough time in there to be considered cruel and unusual treatment by my nose. I figured if I had to be there I’d make it as pleasant as possible, so I scrubbed and sterilized places people don’t even know exist. Having been a plumber I knew things could be worse.

It’s funny how people you work with a month before look down their noses when you’re doing that work. Some would say, “Oh yeah, I was in the labor pool back in....”, but most avoid eye contact and hustle away. But after a couple weeks I started overhearing things like, “It don’t stink no more” or “It ain’t never been THIS clean.” Strangely, after a few weeks, when I’d come in at the start of my shift there would be less paper towels on the floor, less soap on the wall and mirrors and less general filth.

So even if you’re cleaning “shithouses”, if you do a good job it’s noticed and appreciated. :)

In my "real" job, I'm a manager, and have long known the worth of a good job done, and positive reinforcement given out. In particular, my current job seems to require it as a means of self defense, but I've told those stories before.

If you had just done what I did...and pulled it off........you'd laugh yourself to pieces. We'll call it a prank gone too good. :) Don't call me dude. And no I don't have any. :D

Not All Nights are Worthwhile
 

Last week, I worked on Monday night, and made my best take so far. Last night, without a Monday Night Football home game for the Chiefs (Home of the Swiss Chiefs Defense!), it was utterly futile. I only worked for 3 hours, had only four deliveries, and made $8 in tips. I checked my mileage, and I calculate that the $1 per run they pay me covers my gas expense +25%, based on my MPG.

Mrs. Elspode commented that it was hardly worth the time spent to make so little money. I made just over $8.00/Hr. once expenses are removed, so I don't know...at least I was keeping a positive flow of money, little though it was. Even if this was all I made three days per week, I would still bring in close to $250.00 more per month than we have now. That's enough to pay a couple of bills, right?

I can't bring myself to consider what I'm doing to be in any way futile, no matter how little it earns. Working this part time job impacts my most treasured personal commodity (free time), and has caused my many projects to be put on hold indefinitely. Therfore, I really *need* to view it as a positive contribution, lest I go screaming into the night and developing untreatable depression.

It was drizzly again last night. It has been *very* grey and drizzly here for about the last six weeks. In fact, it has drizzled, rained, fogged or otherwise dampened me on every single delivery night I've worked. Even the comraderie of the storefront seemed pretty dampened and low-key last night. There was very little joking around, everyone being quite serious about what they were doing. The Captain was totally efficient, using a minimum of words and expression as he directed the crew. Merle was cheerful, but mostly gone on deliveries all night, so I didn't get much out of him either. I'm going to consider this a blessing, at least until such time as I begin to get comfortable enough to be bored. The younger guy (whose name is Robbie, BTW) was similarly on the run all night (full time guys get kept busier than part timers like myself), pausing only once to comment on his anticipated paid vacation in the coming year.

I put in quite a bit of time pulling pizzas from the oven ("Hot pie!"), cutting them and boxing them up last night. You wouldn't think that cutting pizzas would be real tough, and in fact, cutting an eight-slice isn't. But - there's something unnatural about doing a ten-slice cut. The 5x5 symmetry required just doesn't ring true in my mind; I can't visualize it before I cut it. The result was four rather creatively cut pies, with geometries and areas of individual slices varying radically. I could only hope that those pies found their way to individuals with good senses of humor.

My "Happy Chore" was stocking the pop cooler. I want this to be my Happy Chore forever, please. Nice and clean, and not much to do on a slow night. Most people don't get soda with their orders, and I didn't break a sweat.

On the positive side, all four of my deliveries were on time! This is a first. Each of my other nights, all but one pizza were late. I chalk my success up to many factors. First, I didn't have any multiple deliveries. Second, I actually have gotten much better at locating addresses. Third, when it is less busy, the turnaround time on the pies is much, much shorter, leaving me more time to effect delivery. The map book and mega-light have also been invaluable additions to my routing.

I'm going to work all weekend this week. I hate the thought of it, but I've got to bite the bullet. Yule is just around the corner.

Oh, Patrick, I am SO there! As usual you took the words right out of my mouth. I try not to think about how little money I'm really making. Instead, I think about the checks that should soon be coming in, netting me about $350.00 after gas, etc. It's not much, but I need it desperately, so I try to keep my spirits up by playing Loreena Mckennett on my boom box and singing along and telling myself that by this time next year I will be a paid writer and I'll never ever again have to deliver another phone book. Drive carefully out there. Colorado's last snow storm must be hitting you guys about now.

Have you guys considered being a barrista at the Barnes and Noble, or even *shudder* Staryucks?? Lame ass tips and minimum wage, but it's indoor work ...

Too wonky. Delivering pizza is honest work, and I'm not trapped in a building full of stuff that I lust for and cannot afford to buy. ;)

I applied at Barnes and Noble but never heard back from them. Same old song - too old, over-qualified, and hole in my work history. Plus in my case, I'm in this "all or nothing" situation. It's very important that I continue with my medical treatment, but if I earn more than $200 a month, I will be dropped off SSDI and have no medical insurance. Most minimum wage jobs don't offer medical benefits, so I have to make the jump into a "real" job again. Anything less will only hurt me more than help.

My son has to deal with that. Earn too little and starve to death in the cold. Earn too much and starve to death in the cold.

Starbucks and American foodstores* do.

*Jewel
Albertson's


Hey Patrick - when do you work again? I really appreciate the humor you inject into what must be a stressful situation for you. i hope the rain clouds move off your doorstep soon.

Tonight, actually. Just got home a bit ago.

I'm starting to see the rhythms of the place. Obviously, dinnertime is crunch time, so when I walk in the door around 6:00, the joint is rockin'. Twenty bucks for change-making is stuffed into my hands, and I'm "routed" almost immediately. That's fine by me, because the more time I spend delivering, the less time I spend standing next to the evil Baal of a pizza oven, folding up boxes. Oh...and I'm also making more than minimum wage.

There was a whole boatload of drivers tonight, so the pickings were slimmer than I would have liked. Once 8:00 hit, things died totally, but I squeezed one more double run out of it. One of those runs was a no-charge delivery to a woman who had bullied the manager into a free pizza for some reason unknown to me. That delivery was in the lowest-rent part of Lee's Summit, a sea of fourplexes that are pretty much held together by the most recent coat of paint slapped on them. You know the kind of place...crackerboxes meant to generate income for landlords who would sooner have surgery without anaesthesia than to have to fix a dripping faucet or rebuild a deteriorating staircase.

Apparently, when they painted them the last time, they neglected to replace the frigging addresses, because I could *not* find this place. I finally used the last-resort technique of calling the customer (on my own cellphone...I am constantly impressed at the cleverness of the people who thought up the criteria for pizza deliveries - any worse, and I'd be paying *them* for the privilege). The call was illuminating, not only due to my being apprised of how to find the right apartment, but because the background noise explained to me *why* the woman who called the pizza in was such a bitch. It was because she lived in a rotting fourplex with three kids whose only method of communication with their mother was by screaming at her, she apparently having recently emerged from her rust and dent ravaged 1980-something Mustang parked in the street. I'd be a bitch, too, if that were my lot. In the end, Grandma (who was babysitting the wild beasts...er, children) stood outside and flagged me down as I drove slowly by.

Lee's Summit is quadrasected by two major highways; US 50 running essentially East-West, and Missouri 291 doing the North-South chores. Any of you who live in a suburb similarly divided will be familiar with the hodgepodge constructs that are produced by such an arrangement. Businesses cluster along the highway itself; set back from this is often a layer of light to medium industry. Get back several blocks, and suburbia begins. There is, of course, some variation to this theme, but you get the idea. My store is fronted right on 291, about a half-mile from that highway's intersection with 50. Therefore, I can get pretty quickly to any part of the city. Whoever picked the site did well. Consequently, in the course of my runs, I see a little bit of everything that this little slice of the Midwest has to offer.

One of my frequent routes takes me through the light-industry/Home Depot layer near 50 Highway as I make my way back to a residential area. Located in this industretail area is an anomalous piece of artwork. I'm sure most of you Cellarites are familiar with the "fiberglass critters decorated for a good cause" thing that has spread across the nation these past few years. Cows, bears, and Mickey Mice are decorated, displayed for a period of time, and then finally sold to benefit some charity or other. The KC Metro has been through all of these manifestations, and one of those products has found its way to a curb that I pass frequently. The artwork in question is a bear that has been decorated like an orange and white striped safety barrel, arm raised and holding a warning sign in its paw. It reflects quite brightly as I approach it, and it is altogether distracting. It is sited in front of a gymnastics studio which is in turn located next door to what looks like a warehouse of some sort. I don't know if the reflective fiberglas bruin is a permanent feature, or if his presence has something to do with the relative state of incompleteness and ongoing construction in the area, but it does qualify as "something different".

The Captain was a lot more jolly this evening. Sometimes he seems like a self-important Manager type, and sometimes he seems just a goofy kid. Tonight, he was the latter, as we discussed various computer geek things and how those things related to the obtaining and playing of games at no charge. Merle had started us on this conversational path by mentioning that his computer had been seized by a piece of evil spyware, and we were trying to explain to him what to do. I think I see a visit to Merle's crackerbox fourplex some evening soon. Robbie the goofy kid driver has paired off with a 17ish year old order girl. They make a cute enough couple, although she is almost dwarfishly short. She tried to con me into swapping "Happy Chores" (can you believe someone named all the scummy work "Happy Chores"? Sheesh) with her, but fortunately someone else stepped up and did it for her while I was on a run. I got to stock the pop cooler again. This is rapidly becoming my favorite non-delivery task as it is quite clean and very, very easy. Rufus was his usual killer self...I don't think the place could function without this guy, so excellent is he at what he does. In fact, I think every place like this needs at least one person like him.

My fellow workers were in a bit of a tizzy tonight. It seems that the printer which spits out our order/delivery summaries was toast, and it made the preparation for our runs rather cumbersome. I found myself writing down the pertinent info on the colorful box ads that we have to stick on with glue pens before the folding commences. Needless to say, the technological failure did not enhance our speed, accuracy or attitudes. In fact, I hosed the disagreeable woman who got the free pizza because of it...I forgot to give her the 2 liter she was supposed to get. So I brought it home and gave it to the kids.

And so it goes.

Does the cast of characters know they are being immortalized (immoralized :biggrin: ) in this thread?

Probably much like slang's cow orkers at the shitjob, these folks would have a hard time operating a computer and reading what came up on the screen if they blundered into it accidentally.

There aren't enough pictures for them.

Speaking of which ... any chance you can get a shot of the warning bear, Els?

:confused:
is that what you call a practitioner of bestiality?

Actually, it's a little something that I adopted from vsp, whom I first noted to use this many years ago.

I thought it was funny.

It stuck.