Huggy Bear

A Filipino restaurant I frequented in latter days has reopened its doors in shopping center.  It now resides in what formerly was a mexican market, and before that a tomb stone shop.  As I was picking up a dish of curry to go the owner, a 5'5 filipino woman with dark, exotic skin, a thick accent, and fake bosoms, asked to give me a hug.  I agreed.  It was a very matter of fact action.  She asked, I consented, we embraced, I left with curry in tow.  I have since asked around and have come to the realization that this behavior is commonplace.  She hugs her guests as they leave.  I immediately wondered if this behavior would translate in the world of pizza delivering.  I'm eager to try in out this evening.  "Here's your pie, your total is 14.43, owe a two dollar tip, thank you, may I have a hug?"  I'll have to include my fellow drivers on the matter, though their filthy minds will surely take it somewhere I intend it not to go (read Patrick Dempsey in "Loverboy" http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097790/.  stay tuned...

The hijacking of "keep the change"

"Keep the change," that much sought after phrasing all drivers long for has been hijacked by a grouping of people laboring under the traditional social decorum long held by the driver and patron. I had a young man hand me a wad of cash with a shiny dime on top today. His total reached $18.09, he said with pious confidence, and the non-verbal that often accompanies an action in which one person feels as though he is bestowing graciousness upon another person who is in need--squinted eyes, pretentious head nodding, no eye contact, soft voice decibal-- all very bless his heart-esque, "keep the change." I got to my ride to count the booty only to discover the change I was so graciously keeping was not change in the correct etymological sense, but rather was an actual cent. He would have been correct to say "keep the cent." However, how could he say "keep the cent" and feel the self-importance that goes along with saying "keep the change." I've noticed that this gadfly is not alone in his miss usage of the long steadied traditional phraseology. Many like him toss "keep the change" around as if they too belong in the same tipping category as those who use it properly. It has long been a generational tradition in the field of pizza delivering, and any other service oriented career, that "keep the change" most assuredly refers to nothing less than .95 cents, and usually equals a dollar or more. The prideful look on the faces of the thieves as they steal and abuse this ancient phrase sickens me. They should not reap the same benefits (sleeping well at night, sticking your nose in the air with confidence, bossing the driver to bring you parmasean cheese from their vehicle) of those who are properly keeping with correct social dynamics. They should have to site the specific amount they are giving, "keep the nickel" or if that is too degrading perhaps they could subscribe to the idom "keep the rest" or "have the leftovers." We must take a stand against those who are set on running our time tested traditions through the mud or before you know it these cowards will hijack "don't write a check your butt can't cash" or "git er done," and then where will we all be, what kind of socially confusing situations will our grandchildren find themselves in, not to mention immigrants trying to learn our colloquial language systems.

Angry Customers pt.1

Nothing tickles me more than sincere anger. Showing up at a patrons home an hour late is always a treat. Sometimes I am disappointed to find a laid back, tip-wielding mother of four, grateful to have the food, understanding of what I must have gone through to deliver her goods. However, more often I find the disgruntled, mumbler type who spouts his/her grievances. These cowardly types are all the same. "How much of a discount do I get for it being an hour late"--"I'm never ordering from here again"--"Took Long enough"-- I can't help but to have a blatant smile spread wide across my face at the flustered tones and dim witted criticisms. I have developed a standard reply to such encounters. I begin by letting the patron spew what they may. Then I begin staring at their eyeballs. (in my estimation the expected social decorum for the driver at this point is to apologize for the inconvenience and, perhaps, blame it on some scapegoat back at pizza headquarters, i choose neither of these options)-- I, in earnest response, ask them if I can take the pizzas back to the store, and report to my manager that you were dissatisfied with your service. Of course they will never choose this option, they've been waiting for their pizzas for an hour, they're starving. I, however, care not whether they opt for it or not: A) i'm not getting a tip, so I'm in this encounter for the jollies B) if they send it back i get to eat it, and we'll be greeted as a hero by my fellow workers for providing a snack for all. This approach usually throws the patron off his spiel. The balls in my court now. Now he/she is like, "No, please don't take it back, I'm starving."
The other method I exercise is the detailed excuse. In this method I methodically, and with intentionally painstaking, and unnecessary detail, account to the patron detail by detail as to what I have been busying my self with for the past hour. It goes something like this: Ma'am/Sir, It all started when Turk, he's a delivery driver like me--I call him Turk on account of the show Scrubs-- locked up the computer back at the store. So, you see, I had to wait 5 minutes to log out your order. Then, well, since we're shorthanded tonight because of this girl Brandy--she's a delivery driver like me-- called in at the last minute-- apparently, she had a falling out with her boyfriend over him watching her kids while she was at Beauty school during the day. Anyway, so In front of your pizza's I had two others, on opposite ends of town. The first delivery went to some migrant workers at the Royal Inn. It took longer than usual there because we had to get someone from two rooms down who spoke a garbled mixture of Spanglish to come translate the total to them--that took 28 minutes. Then, my next delivery went to an apartment complex, only the girl back at the store Candy, she couldn't hear the lady well on the phone--when she was ordering (because our phones at the store are so archaic) so she entered down the wrong apartment number. So, after knocking on the wrong door, I had to call the cell phone number on the ticket and talk to the lady, find out the right number, then deliver her the pie-- that took 25 minutes. So, you see ma'am/sir, all this, plus driving time, led me to your door later than you expected. By then they'll do anything to get me to leave.

Descartes around the watercooler

As deliveries became scarce last night, discussions heated around the watercooler (metaphorically, actually around the dishwasher). The question was posed as to whether or not unicorn's exist. I sided on the assertion laid forth by Descartes, he of "I think, therefore I am fame." I asked Gene, an older gentlemen known for limping and calling Turk's mistress a hoochie to her face, if he has seen wings--"yes"-- what about a horse--"yes"--how about a horn--"yes"--well then what's to say all these don't exist somewhere in the form of a majestical flying horse known affectionately as a unicorn. I also employed the "They didn't know there were red men in a Brazilian rainforest until last week" defense--which seemed to get raised eyebrows. Gene was sold. Marquise, a cook whom Turk calls Usher on account of their likeness, wasn't. His argument rested on the widespread belief on such creatures, basically, he hasn't seen one, so they must not exist. Turk was optimistic, "If unicorns come out, I'm going to get me one of those joints. People will say, hey man, you got one of those unicorns, and i'll say, yeah, I got a white and brown one, picked him up bootleg before they hit the streets."

Strategery pt.2

In the last tip strategizing post I focused primarily on tips in regards to cash orders. Since that time, I have developed a strategy for shaming tips out of patrons who have used debit/credit cards to pay over the telephone. On a receipt for such orders, which I carry to the patrons door to be signed, there is a total listed--followed by a blank dash for a tip and another blank dash for the complete total. There are three ways, I have found in my limited experience, for a patron to approach said receipt: 1) put a tip in the first blank and an adjusted total in the next--needless to say, I fancy this as the most appropriate approach. 2) put a zero in the first blank (cheap wanker) and the total in the second. 3) Just sign the ticket, leaving both dashes blank. This third approach is the subject for the stategizing session. I opine that leaving both dashes blank, and merely signing the ticket, is the patron's way of feigning ignorance to the proper tip- to- driver decorum. I, for weeks, let the patron get away with this disgusting behavior, but nevermore. Now, I say to the patron, "Would you mind putting in the total in the dashes. This way I don't have to the write the total in my own handwriting--giving an heir of dishonesty" (The dishonesty speil is for my own kicks, I'm trying to paint myself out to be a boyscout trying to get a merit badge, but in reality I'm giving the patron a look like a chessplayer gives his foe, I'm making my move and tapping the timer).I say all this to put the patron in an obvious social quandry. Now, the patron can either put the zero there, and thus win the standoff (which I must say I applaud, it takes gumption to put the zero there while i'm staring a hole through you), or put the tip in the blank. So far it's worked 3 out of 4 times (some punk, pimpled face, teenager got the best of me).

The cost of a recession

My favorite neighborhood panhandler "J-Rock" was out in full force yesterday. He holds down fort consistently at a gas station I frequent. As I was filling up the tank, in full pizza delivery boy attire--magnetic sign visible on top of my car-- J-Rock sauntered over for the inevitable question. J-Rock has been asking me if he can borrow a dollar for the past ten years. Always a dollar, nothing more, nothing less. I never oblige. He usually has nicer stuff than mine. As he approached, I readied my usual barrage of comebacks (I never politely say no, I find it much more enjoyable to go on a spiel about some random reason for not giving him anything, it always ends with me reminding him that I have never and will never give me anything). Today though, J-Rock hit me with the unexpected: "Hey, can I ask you a question," (He always starts out this way, it's completely rhetorical, but it must be the opener that works best)--I always just stare back, not saying a word-- "Can I get 6 dollars." Six Bucks, who, in asks for Six Bucks. I garbled out a "Whaaaa." He just stood there, like it was totally normal, like he hadn't just upped his usual price 500%. Six bucks. wow. inflation, the recession, the war in Iraq, all of it, has officially trickled down to J-Rock's gas station. He got nothing, but I can't help but to wonder how many 6 dollar bills he got that day. I told him no in my usual fashion; he flipped me off, and we called it a draw.

The worst male cheerleader

No group of people are under scrutiny more than the male cheerleader. Say what you may, male cheerleaders are, generally speaking, more athletic than the average bear. That isn't the case for my fellow driver Joseph. The one thing Joseph loves doing more than gluing his eyes to a seemingly endless barrage of text messages, is absolutely nothing. The man has garnered the reputation around the washing machine as being the laziest human ever encountered. His lackadaisical demeanor matches his physique: big face, unexplained gape, waddled gait, girth.

His laziness has yet to affect me; therefore, I treat him not as the lazy periah that my workmates do, but rather as an intriguing subspecies of worthless male cheerleaders. Joseph, who inexplicably comes to work on his days off, always does so donning a cutoff version of a male cheerleader t-shirt. You would think that Joseph would be full of vigor and pep?
Joseph, has only initiated two conversations with me so far. First conversation starter was: "My uncle got a crotch rocket the other day, it gets 50 miles to the gallon and the insurance is only 15 bucks a month." The second went like this: "My uncle and I went to the tough man contest at the fairground this week, it was bad."

I'm itching to go see him in action in the fall. If his comrades are of the same stature then this dilapidated cheer squad is one to be viewed.

Stategery

The way I punish the non-tippers or the change-only-tippers is to methodically, and with obnoxious lethargy, peruse the money in my change purse.  I begin by merely staring at the money, as if to give them a chance to just say, "keep it, have a nice night."  After that fails, I begin thumbing through the bills and jingling the coins.  Next, when it's obvious they are not tipping, i begin the slow count of their change. Bill by bill-- coin by coin-- I slowly recite it back to them.  I'd be remiss to not mention my playing ignorant of their total (I do this by staring at the receipt blankly once more, or asking them the total, again, if they're holding it).  Lastly, I pretend to not know the most simple arithmetic.  I count aloud back to them, slowly and loudly.  "Your total was 15.25, out of 20, so that's--let's see-- (thumbing bills, jingling coins)--what's the total again, sir, 15.25, okay, so, that's one, two, threeee, fooour, and (commence slowly counting back the seventy five cents."  I figure if they're not going to tip, then they're going to earn that right.  Remarkably, I have admitted this philosophy/strategy to fellow drivers and found that it is commonplace.  

Titty Meat

My daytime manager was busy discussing the benefits of her 'mommy and me' swim class, today. Apparently, she has never learned how to swim, and is taking this time to learn with her two year old boy. When discussing the topic of buoyancy she quipped, "I had my natural flotation removed three year ago, eight pounds of titty meat." My flabbergasted look must have struck a chord, so she topped the moment off by saying, "They were size F, boy."

If it quacks like a duck?

Rod is a fellow delivery driver. He has been boasting to me in the past few days about an affair he is having with a white woman named Tiffany. Rod looks like the character Turk on the tv show Scrubs--I told him as much. He called me a JackA$$. He says his Mexican girlfriend , with whom he has two children--and is cohabiting, is going to get her giant Mexican family to, "Beat his black a$$," when /if he gets caught.
I, respectfully, asked him if she was born in Mexico? He replied earnestly, "No, she was born here, her Dad's from Guam, her mom's from here, I just call her Mexican cause she looks like one." He was unmoved when I produced a map showing him that Guam was nearer Japan than South America. "If it quacks like a duck," he said. Apparently if you live in this small southern town and have olive skin and black hair you are Mexican, regardless if your ancestors called Tuscany, Guam, or Persia home.
I love Rod for many reasons: He walks like a penguin, he's balding at the age of 20, the Turk thing, but his "quacks like a duck" mentality may just be my new mantra.

Link

Are delivered pizzas the great link between the social classes?