The Shit List

Much like everybody in a restaurant will recognize the pain in the ass or cheap table, there are certain addresses that every delivery person at a pizza place will recognize. Oh, we know people think we don't remember them. How could we possibly do so, when we deliver to an area with thousands of houses? Oh, foolish customers, how they underestimate us.

Some addresses, we all just know right off the bat because the order so frequently. There's one address that I have occasionally manipulated the driver assignments to get, because if the husband pays he tips five bucks - but if the wife pays, it's anywhere from ten to twenty-five dollars. And then there are a couple of addresses that we all know immediately will be a big fat zero tip, and so we try to take another order at the same time as that one so it's not a total loss.

Of course, some don't order often enough to just be a known quantity. For the first year I was delivering, I didn't keep track of those houses in any way. But a few months ago, there was an infuriating upsurge in the number of times I was stiffed. It went from one or twice a week to ten times in three days, and I got pissed. So now, at the back of the notebook where I keep my delivery tags, there resides The Shit List. It's not like a fuck up their food or anything, but I like to know what to expect.

And, okay, there are a couple of seriously repeat offenders who I will take my sweet ass time delivering to. If they haven't tipped the last five weeks, they can wait while I stop at 7-11 for a refill. And okay, maybe a time or two I've "accidentally" left the warming bag open so their food isn't as hot as it could be. What can I say. I'd rather those people stop ordering from us.

Anyway. Most drivers have such a list, but most are also more liberal about adding people. All the coworkers I've talked to note anybody who tips less that two or three dollars - I normally only note those who do less than a dollar or zero (unless they're incredibly assholish in another way).

However, this week, I decided that there are certain times when the threshold will be raised. Yesterday night, it was fucking -4 degrees Farenheit here. And we are not allowed to wear our own coats - only company jackets, which are of course $50, and are really just shells that provide so warmth. So when it's that fucking cold, and I'm saving someone from having to go out in that shit? They'd better be fucking appreciating my frozen nipples and numb toes with more than two bucks. Otherwise I will remember. Oh yes. I will.

Money problems.

I've had two people in the last two days who just don't quite get how the whole "paying the bill and getting change" thing works.

The first was when I delivered a pizza to a woman. Her total was $15.85. She handed me two dollar bills and said "keep that." Then she gave me a twenty and said "give me change but keep a dollar." Okay ....

The second was possibly even weirder. This rather old gentleman paid his bill with a twenty and a five. His total was $21.11 ... and he told me to give him back one quarter. His son was as baffled as I was and said "Just let her keep it, Dad." But the old guy shook his head and said "No, it's okay." and held out his hand for his quarter.

Whatever, people.

Pizza girl, babysitter ... whatever.

FEAR THE PICKLES

One thing I've learned in my pizza tenure is that it's not generally a good sign when someone has their kid answer the door. Occasionally it's just because the kid wants to play grownup and help, but usually it's because the parents aren't going to tip and don't want to look me in the eye - kind of like the people in a restaurant who throw down their money and bust out of the place like their asses are on fire. Still, it's not usually a big deal. Kid hands me the money, I hand kid the pizza, done.

Oh no. Not this time.

I rolled up to this house with seventy dollars worth of pizza, and when I knocked on the door it was promptly flung over by a five year old chubby-cheeked little cherub of a girl and her diaper-clad, penis-fondling, binky-sucking little brother. They were immediately joined by a tiny little bundle of black and brown fur that I soon learned was named Mister Pickles.

Just as the little cherub started squeaking about her dog and how they were watching Frozen, an older girl (maybe ten) came rushing up. She took the pizza, then took the credit card slip around the corner. So far, so good - pretty normal. Binky Boy was still staring at me with his hands in his pants and Cherub was blathering on about something about a snowman. The older girl came back with the slip signed, but with no tip or even total written in.

Nine times our of ten, when I point that out to people, they tip me. So I politely told her I needed her mom to fill in the whole thing, and I even circled the tip/total lines. So she took the slip back around the corner ... and that's where everything went terribly wrong. For the next ten minutes, I stood in their doorway waiting. The older girl kept walking by saying "I'm sorry it's taking so long" and "just a minute" and "my mom is checking her bank balance" and "just a second."

Meanwhile, another little girl and two other boys have materialized and are standing around staring at me. Cherub is still trying to get me to tell her my favorite part of a movie I've never seen. Binky Boy has wandered out the door past me and nearly faceplanted right off the stairs, except I caught him. Two of the other boys started wrestling and I intercepted one of their heads right before it met the doorjamb. Mister Pickles was the best of the bunch - he kept licking my ankles and then making a break for freedom. At one point I chased him out to the street and retrieved him.

Ten minutes later - actual time, I checked my phone - the girl comes back with the clipboard and says, "My mom doesn't understand what you need her to do." I almost just let it go but I felt like I'd come too far to give up at that point. So I told her the tip and total needed to be filled out and away she went again. Another five minutes went by; another girl of maybe 12 had appeared and was restraining Mister Pickles at that point, but the rest of the herd of children was still wrestling and screaming.

Finally, finally, the girl comes back with my clipboard .... with the total only filled in. No tip. Fifteen minutes of basically minding this woman's kids and dog, and no tip.

I gave serious thought to snatching Mister Pickles as a tip and running away.

Release the hounds!

Last night was a pretty typical pizza delivery night except my very last delivery. I knocked on the door and heard several dogs barking on the other side, and then someone's footsteps. I expected the usual muffled yells of "get back, get back!" and to be standing around waiting for someone to get their hounds under control.

Times three. Sniffing ferociously and whomping me with their tails.

Instead, the door was flung open as a woman yelled, "Get 'im!" and three fucking enormous German Shepherds came bounding out and began enthusiastically sniffing me.

Now, I'm not afraid of dogs, especially not big ones - I grew up with Rottweilers. Being jostled off my feet by three noses on legs normally wouldn't phase me as all. But as one of her dogs stuck his nose in my crotch, I found myself staring speechlessly at this woman, wondering what the fuck just happened? Did she really just sic her dogs on me, sort of?

To her credit, she stared at me just as speechlessly for several seconds and then began apologizing over and over. "I thought it was one of his friends!" she said, pointing at her son. "I'm so sorry! I didn't expect it to be you at all!"

Maybe look through the peephole next time.