Delivery story 193 Kaltros writes: I've delivered for more than a few companies in Austin, TX. Most of them aren't too bad to work for, but the pay versus the hassle is just too much of a differential. Take deliveries into dangerous areas as an example. It's a real crap-shoot, and when you lose, you can lose your life over a job that pays below minimum wage, wears out your car and doesn't offer benefits. When I was working at DoubleDave's on South Lamar, we got a call for an order out in a place called "Meadowbrook." Predominately a crack neighborhood at the time, it was one of those places that was listed as being "out of our area" because no drivers would risk going there after one of our people was robbed and shot. (He lived, but he quit the job for some strange reason.) Anyway, I'm working one night and it's slow. I take the call and listen to some guy describe how much he and his boys want a pizza that is "Hooked UP!" (he was practically screaming the "up.") I'm listening and thinking I can manage it. We get to the address part of the transaction and he says "We're in Meadowbrook." Ugh. I decide to risk it. I say, "Let me see if we've got a driver who will go out there." The guy challenges me, saying that they're right in the neighborhood (more or less true) and I tell him that ever since we had a driver get shot and robbed, our other drivers haven't been real anxious to go out. He backs off in a hurry, apologizes and says, "But if they have any trouble, they can honk and we'll come out gunnin'." How comforting. I put him on hold and go talk to my manager. He tells me it's really not worth it, but if I want to I can take the order. I figure why not. I get back on the phone and explain that we have one driver who is willing to go out there, but only one so it might be a while. The guy agrees, saying they'd be glad to come get the pizza but that they're all too high to drive. I'm seriously reconsidering when the guy says, "Tell him to hook us UP, and we'll make him happy." The guy (who is really friendly, if a bit excitable) goes on to say they want toppings an inch deep, listing the whole order again. I agree in all the right spots and tell him the manager is going to make me charge for all that stuff, and he says, "So what? Charge it up. I ~GOT~ money, baby." I'm thinking I'll either be shot or get a great tip. Not thinking myself at all mortal (most 19-year-olds have this problem) I build a pizza that takes a trip and a half through the oven to cook. I jump into my car and cruise over to Meadowbrook, taking just enough money to make change for a 50 dollar bill. The neighborhood was like most drug-hoods. Broken glass and out of order streetlights, and that one guy who is sitting outside and smoking. I find the address, and I'm driving as normally as I can (it doesn't do to drive too slowly, as it makes people nervous.) I find the address and park, taking my keys with me. Drivers don't always do this, but nobody in their right mind would leave their car running around here. I walk up to the door and I realize that the knots in the wood are actually bullet holes. I counted 19 before I gave up and just knocked. The door opens about two inches and there's this eye looking back at me from just above the chain, and I hear this "Yeah?" It's not a greeting, it's a threat, and you feel it when you're out there by yourself. I hold up the food and say "Pizza." "Pizza?" "Yeah, pizza." I remembered the guy on the phone and said, "Hooked UP!" There's this excited scream from inside the apartment and I hear this, "Put that thing down, man, it's da FOOD!" The door opens and this guy wants to see the pizza. I take it out of the bag and he takes the box, opens it up. There is his pizza, hooked up with toppings, cooked and it must have made him happy because he did this little running-in-place dance. Then he looks at me and he says, "Thanks for comin' out, brother. Hold on." He goes in and closes the door. I'm standing there wondering if I should run for it or stay, because he might just come back with a gun. I stay, figuring it's a good pizza and he wouldn't want to shoot me before he eats it. (No, it doesn't make a lot of sense, but that's what I was thinking.) The door opens and the guy is holding money in his hand. He wasn't kidding, he had MONEY. (Anyone who says crime doesn't pay obviously hasn't tried it.) He asks me how much it is and I tell him, "30 bucks." Yes, for one extra large pizza with over a dozen toppings. "S#!t," he says and tears off one bill. "Here you go, man. And next time we call, we'll ask for you." He closes the door and I hear it lock about a dozen times. I look down and I've got a hundred dollar bill in my hands. Needless to say, every time they called I would go out. My manager let me make the pizzas, and I assured him my safety depended on them being made right. I never got less than a $50 tip from those guys, and on my last night at work they dropped $200 on me and insisted I hang out with them and drink for a while. Yes, they were drug dealers. Yes, they were dangerous people and I never forgot that. But they were great customers, and they tipped better than anyone else ever did. return to top