If you answer the door in nothing but tight shorts...
And you are obviously compensating for lack of height by gobbling steroids...
And you tip $2.00 on a $30.00 bill...
I know more about you than your mother or Sigmund Freud ever dreamed.
Monday, May 18, 2009
BOOM! Goes The Indian Food
Indian food is both delicious and dangerous.
Every driver's nightmare is spillage. It's not much of a problem for the pizza slingers but for the multi-restaurant driver who handles every thing from Chinese to Jamaican to the dreaded Indian, it is a constant terror.
Indian food with its small army of sauces is a minefield of delivery danger.
For the first time ever, my Indian restaurant handed me food in a brown paper bag. The usual opaque plastic allows me to eyeball the plethora of tiny containers and quickly spy potential problems. Mr. brown bag, already stapled tightly shut, mocked me like a teenager's friday night shit bomb.
I had no choice but to pack it as tightly as possible and pray the grinning cooks had sealed all the containers.
Arriving at the customer's hotel room, I opened my carry bag and carefully lifted the little brown bag. What I could not see was the small puddle of wetness from a slow leaking cup of soup which was corroding the bottom.
BOOM!
The bottom of the bag blew apart in a pungent explosion of curry and peanuts.
I had no choice but to call dispatch and tell the boss I was headed back to the tandoori tabernacle for a second helping of nan and bean curd. And by God, this time it better be in a fucking plastic bag.
Every driver's nightmare is spillage. It's not much of a problem for the pizza slingers but for the multi-restaurant driver who handles every thing from Chinese to Jamaican to the dreaded Indian, it is a constant terror.
Indian food with its small army of sauces is a minefield of delivery danger.
For the first time ever, my Indian restaurant handed me food in a brown paper bag. The usual opaque plastic allows me to eyeball the plethora of tiny containers and quickly spy potential problems. Mr. brown bag, already stapled tightly shut, mocked me like a teenager's friday night shit bomb.
I had no choice but to pack it as tightly as possible and pray the grinning cooks had sealed all the containers.
Arriving at the customer's hotel room, I opened my carry bag and carefully lifted the little brown bag. What I could not see was the small puddle of wetness from a slow leaking cup of soup which was corroding the bottom.
BOOM!
The bottom of the bag blew apart in a pungent explosion of curry and peanuts.
I had no choice but to call dispatch and tell the boss I was headed back to the tandoori tabernacle for a second helping of nan and bean curd. And by God, this time it better be in a fucking plastic bag.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
We Know You're Having Sex
We know you're having sex.
Here is the scale of likelihood your customer was just having sex
Out of breath - Possible
Out of breath and sweating - Very Possible
Out of breath and sweating, partially disrobed - Likely
Out of breath and sweating, partially disrobed and other people in the same state in the dimly lit background - SWINGERS!
Also do your favorite delivery driver a favor - we know you're desperate for post-coital carbs, but don't open the door in your boxers and nothing else.
Here is the scale of likelihood your customer was just having sex
Out of breath - Possible
Out of breath and sweating - Very Possible
Out of breath and sweating, partially disrobed - Likely
Out of breath and sweating, partially disrobed and other people in the same state in the dimly lit background - SWINGERS!
Also do your favorite delivery driver a favor - we know you're desperate for post-coital carbs, but don't open the door in your boxers and nothing else.
Rainy Days Make Me Hard
Rain causes two reactions in your average Atlantan - the need to drive like a maniac and the urge to order food.
Reaction one makes my day frightening.
Reaction two fills my wallet.
Once on a rainy sunday, I made 13 deliveries during a six hour shift. Rockin and rollin in the rain and making bank. Make it rain, baby. Make it rain.
Reaction one makes my day frightening.
Reaction two fills my wallet.
Once on a rainy sunday, I made 13 deliveries during a six hour shift. Rockin and rollin in the rain and making bank. Make it rain, baby. Make it rain.
It Fell Off A Truck
Sitting in a car all day, you get some strange offers.
The other day, two young men in a van wheeled up to my open window and offered to sell me a home theater system. One of them actually used the old "the store had an extra one and my boss said I could have it" line.
I pointed to my car topper and said, "Dude, I'm a delivery driver. I can't afford a home theater system".
To which the wild eyed thief replied "But dude! You drive a Mustang!"
Apparently having a 7 year old pony car equates to lots of money in the eyes of your average cross-eyed cat burglar.
The other day, two young men in a van wheeled up to my open window and offered to sell me a home theater system. One of them actually used the old "the store had an extra one and my boss said I could have it" line.
I pointed to my car topper and said, "Dude, I'm a delivery driver. I can't afford a home theater system".
To which the wild eyed thief replied "But dude! You drive a Mustang!"
Apparently having a 7 year old pony car equates to lots of money in the eyes of your average cross-eyed cat burglar.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Love And Hate
In case you haven't figured it out, I'm a multi-restaurant delivery driver. Unlike the pizza slingers, I visit multiple joints each night and they range from the cheap-o sub place to one of the oldest high end italian swank pits.
But no matter the clientele or price, restaurants break down into two categories - love or hate.
However, those two broad categories do have their subtle differences. Let's take a look at them.
HATE
El Cheapo - Cheap food equals small bill equals small tips. The only upside is the occasion when some corporate yahoos get a hankering for plebe food, order a shit load of burritos causing the automatic gratuity to kick in.
Far, Far Away - One reason that is obvious is you lose money on gas. A reason that's not so obvious is the longer a run takes the higher the chance the driver rotation will get fucked up and you will miss a milk run (see below).
Slowwwww - No matter how far away it is, no matter how long it takes to get there, no matter how simple the order, it won't be ready. See Far, Far Away for the explanation on why turning and burning is important.
The Fuck Ups - How hard is it to fuck up fish with a simple lemon and herb glaze? How hard is it to remember to put three cookies in a bag? You'd be surprised.
LOVE
The Milk Runs - They are not only close by but because they are neighborhood joints their customers also tend to be nearby. A true milk run can take less than 20 minutes and is only a 6 mile round trip.
Big Tickets - They are so outrageously expensive they almost always result in the automatic gratuity. Also, people paying $80 for two entrees plus a delivery fee plus an automatic gratuity probably have so much money they don't buy toilet paper - they just use spare dollar bills. They will occasionally throw an extra $20 on top of the automatic. Not kidding. I once made $38 on a single big ticket milk run.
Hot Bartenders - Two things make me a little tingly - women who play guitar and women who serve me drinks. A hot bartender who will provide a little non-customer interaction on a long night can wipe out all the hate.
I get a little bit of it all and it does keep the job interesting.
But no matter the clientele or price, restaurants break down into two categories - love or hate.
However, those two broad categories do have their subtle differences. Let's take a look at them.
HATE
El Cheapo - Cheap food equals small bill equals small tips. The only upside is the occasion when some corporate yahoos get a hankering for plebe food, order a shit load of burritos causing the automatic gratuity to kick in.
Far, Far Away - One reason that is obvious is you lose money on gas. A reason that's not so obvious is the longer a run takes the higher the chance the driver rotation will get fucked up and you will miss a milk run (see below).
Slowwwww - No matter how far away it is, no matter how long it takes to get there, no matter how simple the order, it won't be ready. See Far, Far Away for the explanation on why turning and burning is important.
The Fuck Ups - How hard is it to fuck up fish with a simple lemon and herb glaze? How hard is it to remember to put three cookies in a bag? You'd be surprised.
LOVE
The Milk Runs - They are not only close by but because they are neighborhood joints their customers also tend to be nearby. A true milk run can take less than 20 minutes and is only a 6 mile round trip.
Big Tickets - They are so outrageously expensive they almost always result in the automatic gratuity. Also, people paying $80 for two entrees plus a delivery fee plus an automatic gratuity probably have so much money they don't buy toilet paper - they just use spare dollar bills. They will occasionally throw an extra $20 on top of the automatic. Not kidding. I once made $38 on a single big ticket milk run.
Hot Bartenders - Two things make me a little tingly - women who play guitar and women who serve me drinks. A hot bartender who will provide a little non-customer interaction on a long night can wipe out all the hate.
I get a little bit of it all and it does keep the job interesting.
The Fizzle
The fizzle is one of the rarest deliveries.
It's always a cash run.
You show up and nobody's home.
Annoying, yes. First, it wastes time when you could be picking up the next run. Second, it's a stiff, so your only working for your delivery fee which if it's a long one means you're breaking even. It can reach the depths of tortuous hell if you are required to visit douchebag land on a full moon Friday night.
Dispatch eventually reached tonight's fizzle. She was asleep.
Dope fiends are a blessing and a curse.
It's always a cash run.
You show up and nobody's home.
Annoying, yes. First, it wastes time when you could be picking up the next run. Second, it's a stiff, so your only working for your delivery fee which if it's a long one means you're breaking even. It can reach the depths of tortuous hell if you are required to visit douchebag land on a full moon Friday night.
Dispatch eventually reached tonight's fizzle. She was asleep.
Dope fiends are a blessing and a curse.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Doubles
Doubles are a blessing and a curse.
On the one hand, a successful double gives you twice the money in roughly the same amount of time as a single. On the other hand, it is like a series of dominoes where each piece must be carefully aligned in order reach the correct conclusion.
Here's how you get a domino disaster.
While you're at restaurant 1, dispatch calls with the wonderful news that you have a second pick up and your additional destination is only a half mile from the first.
You already know things will be tight since restaurant 2 is on the other side of the territory but if the dropoffs are that close it shouldn't be a problem.
Then restaurant 1 takes 15 minutes longer than normal.
This results in the food at restaurant 2 sitting an additional 15 minutes.
Also dispatch failed to tell you customer 1 wants a six pack of coke. Since you sold a single coke earlier, you're short one. You'll have to stop at a store to buy a coke.
Restaurant 1 finally completes order 1 which now has been on the clock for 35 minutes.
It takes 13 minutes to get to restaurant 2 to pick up the now lukewarm food.
You now have 12 minutes to get from northwest Sandy Springs to southeast Buckhead. Oh, and you have to find a store to get a can of coke.
As you dash into a store, dispatch calls for a status. You explain you're going to run about 5 minutes past an hour. Dispatch promises to let the customer know.
Then you catch every red light in Buckhead. Not hyperbole. Every mother fucking one.
Your first dropoff is a fancy condo complex with 24 hour security. Except the security guard ain't there. SHIT!
Finally, after spending the time finding the customer on the hideous callbox, you enter the complex.
The only thing that goes right is this is a regular customer and you know exactly where he lives. He's also nice and doesn't give you any grief.
Time for the second leg of the double. Although, its on the clock at 58 minutes since its close, there is a chance to get it in under the wire.
But this is an address you don't know. You punch it in to the trusty GPS and your digital guide chirps out that it is 9 minutes away.
It's not a half mile from the first drop off. It's three miles and buried in a neighborhood. A neighborhood with some road closures due to damage from last week's storm.
15 minutes later, you finally drop off at customer 2. He doesn't seem to notice the containers are not piping hot and says it's okay when you mumble a lie about bad traffic making you late.
You peel out before he discovers he's going to need the use of his microwaves and silently thank the driver gods that the tips were pre-paid.
And that my friends is how the dominoes get spilled all over the table.
On the one hand, a successful double gives you twice the money in roughly the same amount of time as a single. On the other hand, it is like a series of dominoes where each piece must be carefully aligned in order reach the correct conclusion.
Here's how you get a domino disaster.
While you're at restaurant 1, dispatch calls with the wonderful news that you have a second pick up and your additional destination is only a half mile from the first.
You already know things will be tight since restaurant 2 is on the other side of the territory but if the dropoffs are that close it shouldn't be a problem.
Then restaurant 1 takes 15 minutes longer than normal.
This results in the food at restaurant 2 sitting an additional 15 minutes.
Also dispatch failed to tell you customer 1 wants a six pack of coke. Since you sold a single coke earlier, you're short one. You'll have to stop at a store to buy a coke.
Restaurant 1 finally completes order 1 which now has been on the clock for 35 minutes.
It takes 13 minutes to get to restaurant 2 to pick up the now lukewarm food.
You now have 12 minutes to get from northwest Sandy Springs to southeast Buckhead. Oh, and you have to find a store to get a can of coke.
As you dash into a store, dispatch calls for a status. You explain you're going to run about 5 minutes past an hour. Dispatch promises to let the customer know.
Then you catch every red light in Buckhead. Not hyperbole. Every mother fucking one.
Your first dropoff is a fancy condo complex with 24 hour security. Except the security guard ain't there. SHIT!
Finally, after spending the time finding the customer on the hideous callbox, you enter the complex.
The only thing that goes right is this is a regular customer and you know exactly where he lives. He's also nice and doesn't give you any grief.
Time for the second leg of the double. Although, its on the clock at 58 minutes since its close, there is a chance to get it in under the wire.
But this is an address you don't know. You punch it in to the trusty GPS and your digital guide chirps out that it is 9 minutes away.
It's not a half mile from the first drop off. It's three miles and buried in a neighborhood. A neighborhood with some road closures due to damage from last week's storm.
15 minutes later, you finally drop off at customer 2. He doesn't seem to notice the containers are not piping hot and says it's okay when you mumble a lie about bad traffic making you late.
You peel out before he discovers he's going to need the use of his microwaves and silently thank the driver gods that the tips were pre-paid.
And that my friends is how the dominoes get spilled all over the table.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Big Uns
Two groups of people every driver loves: stoners and people with too much money.
Stoners are so happy to see you, at times they just throw money at you.
People with too much money (not just rich people - there' a difference) order great gobs of food leading to the mandatory minimum tip and then give you money on top of that.
It only takes one of those to make your night.
Stoners are so happy to see you, at times they just throw money at you.
People with too much money (not just rich people - there' a difference) order great gobs of food leading to the mandatory minimum tip and then give you money on top of that.
It only takes one of those to make your night.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Adrenaline Crash
There are bad nights. Then, there are crash nights.
You're already tired. Don't really feel like working. And you hit the ground running. Non-stop for six hours - half of it in Friday traffic.
Everything is fucked up. The traffic is fucked up. The dispatcher fucks up. The restaurants fuck up. The customers are fucked up and share their fuckupedness by tipping poorly.
The evil of it all means your first three runs take over an hour each. The cruel calculus of delivery means your making minimum wage - maybe less.
You can't stop to eat. You barely have time to grab a Coke. Only the few minutes in a restaurant allows you to deal with the consequences of that Coke.
The next to the last run (the front of a double) is late but you weren't told so when the customer opens the door, you are the target of the fury. The last run (the back of the double, now late because you had to deal with the screaming customer on the front end) is to the edge of your territory, in a neighborhood you've never seen.
Then it all ends. You return to base. You check out. And you return to your car one last time.
That's when the shakes start.
It's the adrenaline crash.
You see, your body has been feeding on raw fight and flight instincts for hours. Pure adrenaline. It has sustained you through the maelstrom and now it is gone. The body no longer needs that ragged edge focus and wants nothing more than to shut down.
When the shakes finally pass, through force of will, you start your car and carefully make your last drive - home.
You're already tired. Don't really feel like working. And you hit the ground running. Non-stop for six hours - half of it in Friday traffic.
Everything is fucked up. The traffic is fucked up. The dispatcher fucks up. The restaurants fuck up. The customers are fucked up and share their fuckupedness by tipping poorly.
The evil of it all means your first three runs take over an hour each. The cruel calculus of delivery means your making minimum wage - maybe less.
You can't stop to eat. You barely have time to grab a Coke. Only the few minutes in a restaurant allows you to deal with the consequences of that Coke.
The next to the last run (the front of a double) is late but you weren't told so when the customer opens the door, you are the target of the fury. The last run (the back of the double, now late because you had to deal with the screaming customer on the front end) is to the edge of your territory, in a neighborhood you've never seen.
Then it all ends. You return to base. You check out. And you return to your car one last time.
That's when the shakes start.
It's the adrenaline crash.
You see, your body has been feeding on raw fight and flight instincts for hours. Pure adrenaline. It has sustained you through the maelstrom and now it is gone. The body no longer needs that ragged edge focus and wants nothing more than to shut down.
When the shakes finally pass, through force of will, you start your car and carefully make your last drive - home.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Fat Ass Americans
The reason Americans are fat tubs of goo is because they do things like back out of a parking space they just pulled into so they can move their car to another parking space 20 feet closer to a restaurant.
All the time blocking a delivery driver who no doubt in the future will deliver feed bags to their homes when they can no longer fit their morbidly obese asses into their monster SUVs.
All the time blocking a delivery driver who no doubt in the future will deliver feed bags to their homes when they can no longer fit their morbidly obese asses into their monster SUVs.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Specter Of The Night
As a double shift ends, the city at night oozes the surreal. Water on the pavement raises mirage-like shimmers which blur the boundaries between the sodium yellow of the streetlights and the green haze of the skycraper lit sky.
It fogs the mind.
Am I on a pickup or a drop off? Should I make a right or barrel on straight? Did I just see a ghost? No, just a pedestrian on a suicidal stroll down a street without sidewalks. Was that thump my car topper slipping the grasp of magnetism to plunge to its destruction?
The driver becomes a laconic robot.
Dispatch. Drive. Park. Pickup. Drive. Park. Drop Off. Dispatch. Drive. Park.
One zephyr of thought sustains.
At least I'm not one of those poor pizza bastards who have to do this shit until 2:00am.
It fogs the mind.
Am I on a pickup or a drop off? Should I make a right or barrel on straight? Did I just see a ghost? No, just a pedestrian on a suicidal stroll down a street without sidewalks. Was that thump my car topper slipping the grasp of magnetism to plunge to its destruction?
The driver becomes a laconic robot.
Dispatch. Drive. Park. Pickup. Drive. Park. Drop Off. Dispatch. Drive. Park.
One zephyr of thought sustains.
At least I'm not one of those poor pizza bastards who have to do this shit until 2:00am.
No Need To Wave
If you forcibly thrust the nose of your vehicle in front of mine making me choose between high speed ramming and high speed brake testing - do not wave.
No polite, southern, ritual gesture will slake my thirst for karmic retribution in the form of transmission removal via speed bump as you desperately proceed to your next ALTA match.
No polite, southern, ritual gesture will slake my thirst for karmic retribution in the form of transmission removal via speed bump as you desperately proceed to your next ALTA match.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Hello Ma'am
Hotels are a roulette spin into the unknown.
99% of the time when that mystery door opens, you will be greeted by the warble of a television, a glance at scattered clothes and a business traveller only thinking of food.
But sometimes, you are greeted by a person in a towel.
Sometimes, it's a middle aged dude who doesn't give a shit that my seeing his paunch jiggle does not make my day.
Then...sometimes...it's 5'10" with skin the color of creamy coffee, raven hair and a frame barely contained by the skimpy hotel towel.
Those make you forget things like the drinks which were also part of the order. That of course requires a return trip. Which isn't really that unpleasant.
99% of the time when that mystery door opens, you will be greeted by the warble of a television, a glance at scattered clothes and a business traveller only thinking of food.
But sometimes, you are greeted by a person in a towel.
Sometimes, it's a middle aged dude who doesn't give a shit that my seeing his paunch jiggle does not make my day.
Then...sometimes...it's 5'10" with skin the color of creamy coffee, raven hair and a frame barely contained by the skimpy hotel towel.
Those make you forget things like the drinks which were also part of the order. That of course requires a return trip. Which isn't really that unpleasant.
Cosmic Tumblers
How do you upset your cosmic tumblers?
Place an order two minutes before close. Give an incomplete address which causes the delivery driver to park a half a mile away. Make the already past shift delivery driver wait in the receptionist office for an additional ten minute.
How do you perform a cosmic re-alignment?
Overtip. Big time.
Smart move.
Place an order two minutes before close. Give an incomplete address which causes the delivery driver to park a half a mile away. Make the already past shift delivery driver wait in the receptionist office for an additional ten minute.
How do you perform a cosmic re-alignment?
Overtip. Big time.
Smart move.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
High Rise
I frequently visit a certain luxury condo tower. It's the type of place where you only access the living areas by first passing through security. The guards range from professional politeness to utter disdain. Considering they probably make less than most delivery drivers, their arrogance is irritatingly amusing.
Today, after passing the gatekeeper, I entered the elevator and was nearly overwhelmed by the odor of ganja.
I snickered at the thought of the rent-a-cops so diligently protecting their charges from dangerous food slingers but unable to prevent rich teenagers from sparking up in the elevators.
And those teenagers have some gank-ass shit.
Today, after passing the gatekeeper, I entered the elevator and was nearly overwhelmed by the odor of ganja.
I snickered at the thought of the rent-a-cops so diligently protecting their charges from dangerous food slingers but unable to prevent rich teenagers from sparking up in the elevators.
And those teenagers have some gank-ass shit.
Atlanta Delivery Driver
I am Atlanta Delivery Driver.
I deliver your food and witness your madness.
Names are changed to protect my job.
I deliver your food and witness your madness.
Names are changed to protect my job.
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