I leave the coffeehouse I’ve been at the last two, two and a half hours. I exit through the back way, down the alley. The alley is warm, run-down. It’s cooing at me. With each step my blood begins to move quicker. My brain has just been filled with gasoline. It’s working its way through the impurities of caffeine, nicotine and marijuana. I take in the world around me as I get into my car and turn the ignition switch.

It’s a lovely day. The sky is a gray opaque. It adds flavor to the lazy Sunday afternoon. It’s a good rain that’s falling today. It listlessly tumbles from the sky in silent, sparse intervals – yes, a pleasant, somber, self-reflecting shower; a rain people yearn to get out in. And I see them: working in the garden, gliding on bicycles, taking a stroll – swimming straight through the melancholy into a meditative joy. On every single face, whether its body is wearing a poncho, holding an umbrella, or welcomingly absorbing the drops into its skin, I see wry, complacent smiles. Their eyes become vacant and their bodies are light – inside they are floating.

Weather such as this has a unique quality. Its mixture, a balance point between ego shattering, depressing, dark day torrents and sultry stickiness; light beams that shatter your vision’s clarity and kill your skin cells. It’s this medium, this balance that shines on the faces of everyone. They don’t understand it – don’t see. They just feel the tickle as it slithers and slathers from the hairs on their toes to their damp bangs hanging in their faces.

Ideas and thoughts fly at me like slinky apparitions. Neurons are firing. There’s a continuous stream of visual stimuli. My driving has become mechanical, second nature. It’s only mid-September in the city and already I can smell the winter scent strolling through the air. Today everyone’s just breathing it in. Nature has given us all a taste – she’s such a tease. Despite today, all of the city’s inhabitants know that this will not be continuous until mid-November. At that time, the already mellow city will be slowed down to a rustle of fallen leaves. All of the popular swimming holes will be closed. Bikers will continue their commutes. The benches of the bus stops will not remain empty, but the heart rate of the city’s inhabitants will slow.

I pull into the grumpy bumpy gravel of my apartment’s parking lot. It’s a raggedy few buildings. Decayed as the surroundings may be, it’s still home. I enter my apartment. The dreariness of it brings me down a notch. My blood begins to slow. Jim is there in his chair. When I come home, he’s either lethargically sitting in his chair, flipping through the digital cable like one casually thumbs through a magazine, or cumbersomely placed before the computer in his room, morosely feeding his brain. He’s searching for something. Today, it’s the chair. His eyes spark open through the glasses on his chubby face. He sees that it’s just me and lets his eyelids soothingly loosen their consciousness. I walk past him and, with his eyes still closed, he speaks. “How’s it goin’?” We continue to chitchat for a few seconds. I say little. I know he wants to return to his light slumber.

Jim’s a good roommate. His ear’s always open. He allows me to drill my neurotic mind into his consciousness. In fact, I tell him often that he is my conscience. He allows me to ramble and grumble my thoughts to him so I can get them out of my head. He seldom gives advice because my babble is that of a woman – I need no response. But, when he does respond and gives me advice, I’m grateful that it is him that I’ve chosen for my conscience.

Fuck, it’s 4:45. I’ve got to get to work. I quickly do the routine: throw a filthy undershirt on and then a cheap company shirt that is rapidly going from a crisp cream white to a rank blotched manila. I snatch the twenty ones tucked away in my underwear drawer, the cell phone, seventy-five cents in quarters, pen, cigarettes, lighter already one in my car, put on the aged ankle high boots, no socks, wave bye to Jim (although half-asleep, being subconsciously entertained by the latest crap game show), then stall at the door, pat myself down like a rookie cop on his first day on the beat, run through the list in my head simultaneously – bolt out the door.

I make the short trek to work, again observing the day. The lazy haze, the damp ground – a catch 22 for a delivery driver. Business will be hectic, the money good, but the risk increased. As with everyone, my ending focal point: the money.

I walk through the door in a daze. Today my mood is up. I feel good, refreshed from my two day weekend. This is good news because the next five evenings will be folding boxes, whoring my car, wiping pans, washing dishes, collecting cash, absorbing the stench of mozzarella, marinara, and meat: pepperoni, ham, sausage, ground beef, and anchovies. It will be escape by cigarette, conversation cackles with jackals, swimming through the darkness in search of a number, roadway frustration, and lacking appropriate information: gate codes, building numbers, phone numbers. It will be slips of yellow paper, basic math, straining to find an itty-bitty line on a fine print map while on a head full of dope.

“What’s up with you? You’re grinnin’ like a fool.”

“Perhaps I am a fool?”

“Well, we all know that.”

“Yeah, but at least I’m not a complete dumb-ass.” I walk off into the stifling heat of the backroom. Evan – an interesting guy. I get along better with him than any other driver, although I’m not sure exactly why. He has a cocky Southern boy charm, that spark which makes guys like him hate him, makes guys unlike him find him agreeable, and makes the ladies desire a roll in the hay with such a good old Southern boy.

I practically collide with Jessica down the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. She flashes a smile. “Aren’t you in a good mood? I never see you in a good mood. Come on spill it.”

“It’s just a beautiful day, Jess, just a beautiful day.” She gives me a queer look as I shuffle past her. She’s a sweet girl – young, only 18, which is probably why she’s still so sweet. You can see the unobstructed value system she created in her early teen years still glimmering in her loving brown eyes. Adulthood has yet to flip her world.

Let the routine begin. Any deliveries? No. Top some boxes, fold the boxes: ten, twenty, fifty – wash the dishes, wipe the pans, get a soda.

I’m lucky. My job, it’s a shitty one, but the money’s good and the environment is the best there is for my particular vocation. Everyone I work with, whether I really like them or not, is cool and laid back, fairly honest and open. They’re people that make you feel comfortable. Oh yeah, and it’s a local pizza place. Here, I’m really not just a number run through the machine of capitalism. I don’t even clock in, don’t have a driver number or anything of the sort, and there are no computers. It’s all done by hand: taking the orders, routing out the deliveries, all the math at the end of the night. If I don’t show to work people feel it. They need me here, need me to do my job, a job I do well. At previous corporate office jobs, if I didn’t show it didn’t matter, the pace, the flow of the day was not interrupted. Even so, although displayed passive aggressively, it was always a huge ordeal.

One time, as a map analyst, my boss, Mr. Jack, and my boss’ boss, Mr. Mack, pulled me aside into an empty boardroom. The room stank of indifference – that odorless office smell.

Mr. Jack: Jarrod, we think you’re doing a great job.

Mr. Mack: But there are still a few kinks that need to be worked out.

Mr. Jack: Your average certification production is a good number, but

Thursday, well Thursday it dipped a bit.

Mr. Mack: You’ve got great potential.

Me: Thank you.

Mr. Jack: But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.

Mr. Mack: You’ve been absent four times in the last three months.

Mr. Jack: The average is once in three months.

Mr. Mack: Now, we don’t want to get on your back. We know you’ve been ill.

Mr. Jack: But we need to see improvement in your attendance.

Mr. Mack: We just hate to see you sick.

Me: Thank you.

Mr. Mack: Alright, I think that about does it. Jack, anything else?

Mr. Jack: No, I think that about does it.

I walked out of the room dumbfounded, frightened, not about my job security, but by them. The only thing ill was the way they completed one another’s sentences, like perfect little brainwashed peons. The way they full-heartedly gave false emotion, as if they each believed it was real blood coursing through their clogged arteries. I’m surprised they knew my fucking name, but I’m sure they glanced at my file, familiarized themselves with the number they were about to sit down with face to face.

“Yeah, I spent some time in L.A., moved there when I was 18. You know,” sarcasm filling her voice, “I was going to be a famous actress.”

“I’m going to be in San Diego, actually just north of it, and hopefully a small visit to San Francisco for Halloween.”

“Oh, San Francisco is great! Halloween, that’s a good time to go.”

“So I’ve been told. I hear all the Haight-Ashbury freaks wear button down shirts and comb their hair, like they’re normal.”

“Yeah right,” she laughs, “Hey, how much was it again?”

“Oh yeah, sixteen twenty-three.”

“Here’s twenty. Just keep it.”

“Well, it was good talking to you. Have a pleasant evening.” That’s what I tell everybody I deliver to. It’s my phrase. Some like “take it easy,” “have a good night” or “see ya later,” but I like the elegance of “have a pleasant evening.”

“You too. Drive safe.”

“Sure thing.”

Back in the car. I’m so sick of the CD I’m listening to, but I’m sick of everything else I have. I flip on the radio – uhh, it’ll do. The streets are a curious maze especially when you’re blazing through residential neighborhoods at 45 miles per hour, zoned in on a mission at hand. There’s a calm direction. It’s an escape – from the bustling store, from the drab hole you live in, from your thoughts. You have a map with plot points marked off, your mind races: What’s the best way? Which is shortest, fastest, has the least traffic? Which one do you take first? What’s the best path? At the end of each destination, a glimpse at the life of a complete stranger. It’s not the same as waiting tables or other customer service because you go to their homes. You see them in their natural habitat and they don’t know when you’re going to arrive. You catch them when they’re fighting with their spouse or making up, when they just yelled at their dog or spanked their kid. Some of them invite you in, offer you alcohol, drugs, money – others give you anecdotes, life lessons, small talk. You always assume nothing unordinary when you leave the store, when you approach their door, but you can never truly know what to expect when you’re getting a taste, a peek at someone’s world.

Eventually, I turn full circle. There’s nowhere to park. It seems nearly every square inch is filled with a VW Beetle or an old VW hippie wagon. It’s Sunday, the weekly vintage Volkswagen meeting. I stick my car in the closest place to an entrance. I’m blocking in a sixties something van, Fuck’em. I walk into the store dejected, coarse, burning to return to the winding streets, to lose my thoughts, to escape the chaos inside the store. Ten deliveries await me on the stove. I find the latest. Already been almost a fucking hour, oh well. I grab another four, and I’m gone.

It’s weird losing your thoughts because you really don’t stop thinking. The driving is fairly mechanical, but always at the back and front of your mind. Your thinking process is restricted to the middle. So I need to go to the store tomorrow, wait how long has this delivery been, 45 minutes, I should be there soon, this is delivery 15? No, 16. I wonder if Gabrielle will be awake when I get home? Should I go over there, what’s the street number, I need a piece of gum, fuck no gum, I should stop and get, what’s that street address again, oh 1522, I wonder if it’ll be a good tip, maybe a bong hit, that would be good, I should stop home and take a rip, no I don’t have time, we’re really busy, Marion, hmmm… I wonder if she’s cute, there’s a sale on Marlboros and Camels at

7-Eleven, I really need to buy some more underwear, maybe I should go back to briefs, no fuck briefs, man Angela haven’t seen her in a while, oh shit just passed it up, okay what’s the price, 12.98, what soda, Mountain Dew. Shwaack, step, step, step – knock, knock, knock. Okay, okay, what’s taking so long? <Be right there.> Jesus, I need to get moving, cool off, no big deal, you’ve got plenty of time, should I really go back to briefs, no fuck that. “Hey, how you doin’?” <Good, good, and you?> “To be honest, I feel great, can’t complain.” <How much was that?> look at the box even though you already know “Twelve ninety-eight.” <Here ya go.> A wad of bills is passed to me. Is there a decent tip in here? “Thanks, I appreciate it. Have a pleasant evening.” <Thanks, you too.> Shwaack. Step, step, step. Fold through the bills. Ten, Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, sweet. That was cool of her.

I want to go back and thank her for her generous contribution towards financing my life. I want to thank her for tipping above the average. Two dollars is standard. Less than two dollars and I’m disappointed, yet grateful, grateful that it wasn’t zero. Two dollars and I’m satisfied, three happy, more than three touched by the generosity of strangers. I’m grateful, satisfied, and happy all rolled into one.
It’s nice tonight because they’re all so understanding. When they open the door, they’re all ecstatic that their food has made it, that they didn’t have to get out in the mess. They automatically like you because you did something that they wouldn’t. Yes, they pay for the service, but they’re still grateful and it can be seen in the wrinkles on a face, by the movement of a mouth.

A lot of drivers let the weather beat them on a night like tonight. It’s even worse when the rain pours. Tonight it’s just a drizzle. The important thing is to accept and embrace the driving conditions. Slow down, be more cautious, smoke less dope, and if you get frazzled and frustrated, always remember it’s just fucking pizza.