Driver needed

Posted on August 13, 2011 by Scott

As you may recall, I recently mentioned how another driver called into work last week on the day it was raining to say he wouldn’t be in. Not surprisingly, he’s no longer employed there. Fired. Whether or not he was let go because of his failure to come in on that rainy day, I can’t say. I’m not the boss. But good riddance. He was so weird. And negative. And like someone else who works there said, he didn’t seem to quite fit with “the family.”

So, La Sandwicherie is looking for a new delivery driver. If you know of anyone looking for work, here is a job. It’s easy work. Really. Easy. Work.

I went in a little while ago to cover a shift today. Not needed right now so I’m back at home. (Since we’re shorthanded, the other driver and I are having to cover all the shifts, and then whoever else can cover). While I was there, I was talking to the owner about the job and about how simple it is. Really, a trained monkey could do it. And if they could get licenses, they might be the perfect employees for this. Because I can’t see them calling in with excuses on rainy days.

Seriously, though… anytime soon would be awesome. I’d like a full day off again. And I have plans next week and don’t want to screw up the schedule for the rest of the staff. It’s a great environment. And if you fit, it’s very much like a little family. With some mild dysfunction. I can say that, I think. If any of them ask, I’ll say I wasn’t talking about them. But I totally was.

Seriously, it’s an easy job. A good job. A nice environment. And a great business that isn’t going anywhere. Take a look at them on Yelp. They have more 5-star ratings than any other restaurant on the beach, have the highest overall rating (tying with restaurants with significantly fewer ratings) and are the second most reviewed restaurant in Miami Beach. The reviews pretty much say it all. You’ll even see some of the staff mentioned repeatedly. It’s a good place, La Sandwicherie.

But don’t just take my word for it. Take Kourtney Kardashian’s word! Because she’s really the hottest of the sisters (which allows me to forgive her for her horrible choice in men). Yes, I have spent some time keeping up with the Kardashians.

Back to the job, though. What else can I say? Driving. Food prep. Washing dishes. Derp. Not difficult. But rewarding, relaxing, and a job. The turnover rate for employees isn’t very high. It’s strange to realize that I’ve been doing this for nearly a year now.

So go by and apply. Quickly.

The rain, my phone, social media, and a whole lot of rambling with a title that won’t stop!

Posted on August 8, 2011 by Scott

Not too long ago here on ipanemic, I wrote a bit about delivering in the rain. I’m in the middle of a three-hour break from work right now. It’s a Monday. And it’s rainy. And one of the other drivers called in with some excuse about not being able to make it in today, though we all know it’s the rain. Guess what I’m going to write about.

I’m going to write about my new phone, actually. The photo up there was taken with it earlier today. It was taken on the first delivery I went out on after the rain started. I had actually pulled off Washington Avenue onto 12th to look for cover and saw a large tree with an empty parking space beneath it. The rain wasn’t overly heavy at the time. But heavy enough that it was dangerous and blinding. I left the shop wearing only my bright yellow poncho and a baseball cap for protection. It was slightly drizzling then. Two blocks later and it’s coming down.

It lightened up a bit after a few minutes. I chanced it and got back on the scooter. I chanced it incorrectly. But then I pretty much instantly hit that point of, “Oh yeah. Rain. I’m going to get soaked no matter what. Might as well start making the most of this.”

By the time I reached the south end of South Beach, the wind was blowing rain sideways in sheets. I was wearing puddles of water for shoes, my shorts and shirt were nearly entirely soaked. I was dripping from every inch of visible flesh when I opened the door to the shop. The door behind which all of it’s customers stood, looking out at the monsoon, and this bright wet yellow fellow coming to them. I think I smiled, but I was pretty soaked, so it may have come out as a smirk with the shadows from the bubbles of water on my face twisting my expression. A twenty percent tip. I think he felt by giving me the tip he gave me, he was really expressing his gratitude. So I accepted that very happily. I would have anyway, but it seemed heartfelt and that meant something to me. Especially in the rain.

Not so much the woman at the real estate company who I deliver to often. Today, I would be delivering a number of sandwiches to her office. Enough so that I would have to enclose their entire order with a large black trash bag and hold it with one hand while I scootered over in the downpour to her office. Once I was under an awning wrapping around the front of the building, safely out of the rain, I wiped my soaked hands on my very damp shirt to try to dry them off, unpacked her multiple sandwich bags and delivered them to her office. A speedy delivery, whether there had been rain or not.

Zero tip. For a meal that cost three times as much as the one I had just delivered to the small business owner. I sincerely hope she doesn’t stiff all of her delivery drivers. Seriously. That shit will come back to bite her in the ass. Not from me. I’ve told you my stance on tips. Sometimes, it IS very tempting to say something and not simply smile and say thanks.

Case in point: one night at work, it was absurdly dead. Right up until it started raining. And then the phone started ringing. Heavily. En route to the first stop, I was working up the nerve to say, “Thanks for waiting for the thunder and lightning to start before placing your order,” when the customer would open the door. Ha! That would make them feel badly. And then I would definitely feel better! Muuuuahahahahahaha!

But when the door opened and that short little Jewish lady stood there in her bathrobe, I thought, “Awww. She’s just hungry. And she’d probably wash away in this rain if she went outside! Awwww!” It’s really hard to be mad at little old Jewish ladies, I’ve found.

No lie, the rain is a test of character for the delivery driver. Seriously. Yesterday, one of the other drivers told me he was THIS close to quitting (squeeze your index finger and thumb very close together for the visual). Because of the rain. And then today, this clown of a delivery driver called in with his excuse. It’s miserable. It truly is.

In any event, it rained heavily and steadily during the first part of my shift today. Normally, I phone people outside of their apartment buildings to gain access if necessary. Today, I had an impossible time trying to find cover, trying to keep my phone from getting drenched by the rain. I kept thinking, “Super. Now I’m going to ruin my phone.” I already made one stop today to buy new shoes (to replace the ones ruined by the early downpour.) I’ve gone through four or five pairs of shoes since starting this job. After about a month, I realized I needed to factor in clothing as a regular expense for work.

And it’s a serious pain in the butt to try to key in phone numbers while the rain is pouring down around you. And trying to read phone numbers off of tickets where numbers have been smeared by a drop of water. Numbers which were sloppily written down in the first place. Seriously, the handwriting of some of my coworkers is awful. It’s okay to say this. They know how I feel. But it’s so bad that one day, I wrote the following on one of the whiteboards at work:

Scott’s letters of the day:
Aa Bb Cc Dd Ee

Like the handwriting books you work through when you’re in first grade. Or kindergarten. Or whenever it is. With the two enclosing lines running horizontally, with a dashed line in the middle. I stopped at “E” because I ran out of space. I had hoped to cover all of the alphabet over time, but I had no assurance they were taking my lessons seriously or at all, so I abandoned my project. Now I just make doodles from time to time when there’s an empty space I feel needs filling. Or make reference to my awesomeness at making vinaigrette. (Sometimes, I get bored at work.)

Back to my phone, though. It held up in the rain. And no matter the amount of rain gear you have, you’re still going to get wet. And you’re still going to have to punch phone numbers. And you’re still going to have to get to and from your scooter. And you’re still going to get splashed by some inconsiderate jerk who drives full-speed by a puddle in the lane next to you. I need to look and see if there are any phone cases that will protect a phone entirely from the elements while still being able to use it. Somehow, I just don’t see that.

But this phone? I’m like a regular member of society now. Perhaps even an advanced one! I have a real phone. I mean, it’s not the latest and greatest, but it’s adequately awesome. I’m no longer being killed in conversation by constantly battling it out with T9 texting. When I was using my old phone, I would have people text me back asking me if I was drunk and to “seriously, re-read that last message you sent me.” Now I’m swyping my way to victory! Seriously. I frickin’ LOVE the swype technology!

And social media? Puh-lease. I didn’t realize how simple this game was that you people are playing!!! Why, I’m already a Mayor in your little world and everything!

Ugh. I feel like I’m playing Farmville on Facebook. By the way, will I get social media credit if I play that? That wasn’t nice. Sorry. It’s the rain talking.

Looking out my window, it appears as though the rain has stopped. It’s still wet and gray outside. But it’s drying out. Perhaps my attitude will as well. No, I kid. I just wanted to get some quick one-two jabs in at social media and the absolute… ugh, there’s a whole long piece I want to write about social media, but I need to let my opinions simmer a little while longer before I voice them. Right now, they’re WAY too snarky and likely to make me many enemies. And that wouldn’t be good for me in a social media kinda way. Plus, with the new phone, I’m in a sort of “toy and experiment” stage, playing around with various options that weren’t previously logical to me.

I do see some benefits. I like Yelp and will probably be active on that no matter where I end up. And with my phone, I’m actually finding a use for Twitter in posting some photos with my phone which wouldn’t be possible for me to take in a lot of scenarios. And I am posting more often there now. You could follow me, if you like. I would encourage it if you like me but aren’t a friend of mine. Because maybe we could eventually be friends.

Talking too much about social media. Save it, Scott. And it’s getting late. I’ve gotta go back to work. And oh, wow, the sun. Would you look at that? I might not have to go through any more personal character trials today. Yay!!

End of an era

Posted on July 26, 2011 by Scott

I am now, suddenly, the most senior delivery driver at La Sandwicherie. Over the weekend, my two co-workers were replaced. I can’t say I’m sad to see the younger fellow go. He was… well, he was a nice guy but well… I wish him the best of luck. But the other guy to leave?

Carlos.

When I went into work on Sunday, I looked at the schedule and Carlos’ name was no where to be found. Another person’s name was where his should’ve been. And it hit me, Carlos didn’t work there anymore. Carlos, who had been there nearly ten years, working as a “delivery boy” (as the owner calls us), gone.

My mentor, my colleague, my hero, my friend. When I first started working at the shop, I was certain Carlos hated me. But he was just stand-offish and brash, I quickly learned. And most definitely, he had more than a few run-ins with customers, but he was and is really a nice man. I had a lot of respect for him and thoroughly enjoyed working with Carlos.

When it hit me that I would likely never see him again, that I had never even exchanged phone numbers with this seventy-year-old Chilean man whose life was so vastly different from mine… when it hit me, I was so completely bummed. If I was lucky, he would stop by the shop.

It had only been in recent weeks that Carlos began more frequently relating stories of his daily life, permitting me to glimpse in for a moment. Not fantastic stories of great adventures, but simple stories like how he took his car somewhere. Or how he watches a particular show on Spanish television in the mornings. Or how he spent a day off at home, relaxing. Not epic, no. But they were personal stories and it meant so much to me that he would tell me these things.

In any event, when I pulled into the shop yesterday, there was Carlos. He greeted me with a shrug of the shoulders, hands in the air, as if to ask, “Eh, what are you gonna do?” We stood outside in the shade and talked about what happened, what his plans were now. It was pleasant. Kind of sad. And before he left, he wanted my phone number. I was flattered; I’ve never imagined his contact list to be very long.

And then it was time for me to go into work. On the days that Carlos and I worked together, we would always shake hands at the end of his workday before he left for home. “See you Friday, my friend,” or “See you Monday, my friend” he would say. Yesterday, we shook hands again. But it was more than the usual handshake. It was more firm, as if to say, “it has been a pleasure, sir.”

It certainly has been. I’ll miss Carlos.

Rainy days and whatnot

Posted on July 14, 2011 by Scott

Last week, after a long day of driving around in the rain, I was going to write some thoughts on the subject. Thoughts about rain from the perspective of the delivery driver. But then I sat down and watched Buster Keaton followed by a martial arts flick. Or maybe that was two nights ago? I can’t recall. I watch a lot of movies lately. A lot.

Anyway, it’s been about a week since then and since the draft version of this hadn’t gotten buried too deep, I thought I would finish what I started to say. This now concludes the introduction.

The Rain

For the delivery driver (at least the ones delivering via scooter) there are only two choices in dealing with the rain: hate it or try to pretend not to hate it. The third choice of simply existing within it, neither fighting it nor reveling in it, is the most difficult choice. So difficult that I don’t even like acknowledging it exists because I foolishly wrestle with it rather than… simply exist.

Last Thursday, my shift started at 11 in the morning. At 10:55am, I take one last look at the wall clock that rests on the top shelf before letting the door to my studio apartment close behind me. As I make my way down the stairs, I note the wet footprints of others. It has been raining outside all morning, not drizzling. It is a steady rain, with drops spattering in puddles forming in all possible pockets on the sidewalk and the road and the grass between.

As I walk to my scooter, my mind is singularly focused on whether or not I will have trouble starting it. The scooter has been in need of a new spark plug, and for mechanical reasons that I won’t pretend to know -mechanics aren’t my specialty; anything beyond a Rube Goldberg machine and I’m at a loss – the rain always makes starting it more difficult. After propping the scooter on the kickstand and attempting numerous times to get the engine started, I grow anxious, knowing that I am going to be late for work. I watch the minutes pass by on the digital display beneath the odometer.

Kickstart. Listen, release. Wait.
Kickstart. Listen, release. Wait.

The sky is gray. The white noise of rain drowns out all other sound, save the tires on cars as they pass and the constant and sporadic drops pelting the hood of my poncho.

I call work to tell them I will be late. “No, it’s okay, don’t worry about it,” he says. I DO worry about it. Standing beside my stalled scooter, my shoes are already soggy. My socks squish between my toes as I try to kickstart the engine once more. It was closer that time, I could feel it. After fifteen minutes, I am able to get the scooter started and I drive to work.

The delivery driver station is still boarded up, waiting on my arrival. I remove the cover, raise the window, go inside and greet my coworkers. Immediately, we’re playing the conversational game of “Looks like somebody’s getting wet in the rain today, you poor bastard. Haha.” “Yes, it sucks to be me.”

I get settled at work. The phones begin to ring. Deliveries, naturally. No pickup orders; it’s raining.

My first delivery is at a bar at the other end of the alley. A waste of everything to drive there, so I walk. I walk through the alley, in my rain pants, and my cheap $4.99 poncho from Walgreens or CVS. And in my baseball cap that I bought the previous day when I drove around in the rain to scout locations for a shoot this Saturday.

Rain everywhere. Gathered in the middle of the street. In all of the potholes. Pouring down like a fountain from the gutters above. As I near the end of the alley, getting closer to my destination, the alley is like a sewer, reeking of urine. Wet garbage strewn about.

“I can’t get out in this,” he says to me as he hands me the cash.
Really, you can’t? I put the money into my pocket. The cash is wet from my hands, though the bag I hand him is dry.

I make numerous deliveries that day. More than usual for a rainy day. It has been my experience over the past few months that rainy days are typically not much busier than others. The tips are not better. When I first started, I believed a myth that rainy days were catch-22s: that they were awful to work, but that the pay was better. Rainy days aren’t catch-22s; they are simply awful days to work.

You will get an occasional person that will tip better, perhaps feeling grateful toward the driver’s effort, but everyday, there exists that occasional person; they don’t increase in numbers when it rains. There is the person that says to you,

“Try to stay dry!”

And they mean it with the best of intentions as they close the door, sandwich in hand. And you notice their dry hair, their dry apartment, their dry wit, their dry everything. The only thing that’s wet is everything on the side of the doorway where you stand. Dripping, soggy wet. Damp.

“Some weather we’re having, huh,” another casually remarks.
Yes, some weather indeed. Outside, where it’s raining.
“Take care,” I say smiling.

The rain hits like pinpricks against my face as I make my way back and forth to the shop. A phone number is written down wrong. Back to the address to attempt delivery again. Two more waiting. Where is the other driver?

“He’s coming late today. I’ll take this one,” he offers.
Four more. Double-bag everything to keep it dry.
“Take the coat in the back, it has a hood. Maybe pull it over the hat.”

Shoes. Socks. Shorts. Belt. T-shirt.
Rain pants. Coat from the back. Hat. Poncho.

The long sleeves of the coat come out from underneath the poncho. The banded cuffs at the wrist are holding water after the first delivery. Rolling them up, more of my arms are wet. All of the money in my pocket is damp. The credit card receipts… they will need to lay flat and dry.

I hate the rain.

“Don’t you love the rain,” he asks. Two dollar tip.
Is my honesty worth two dollars?
“And we needed it,” he continues.
“Rain brings prosperity,” he then tells me with big eyes.

I should have delivered to the rain and not to you then, you cheap son of a bitch. No, I wouldn’t say that. You’re a nice fellow. And a regular. You’re just cheap. And it’s raining.

I thank him, leave with a smile.

Tips

Delivery drivers don’t forget the tips. Nor do they forget the tippers. And why not? Tips are a large part of the money they make. Delivery drivers are paid like wait staff; a very minimal base plus tips. Like the wait staff, drivers count on tips to make their earnings. The other drivers and I see a familiar address and we know what to expect in tips. There is one woman who, no matter the ticket, counts out the change to make the tip exactly $1 even. There is a man who consistently tips about $20 for a a ticket of roughly the same value. It all balances out. And while I don’t let the anticipated tip from a known customer affect the speed or quality of delivery, I can promise you that I am only speaking for myself. (That link is well worth a read if you want to get an insight into the minds of the people bringing you your food.)

I don’t harbor animosity toward customers about their tips. I would be a very angry person, if I did. Everyone has it figured out in their own head how to tip. I accept whatever that rationalization comes out to. It isn’t my job while I stand on their doorstep to educate them on best practices. I’m a delivery driver; I’m not on a lecture circuit. I will say that I DO find it reprehensible when I deliver to someone AT WORK in the service industry and they don’t tip. The ugliest of cases is when I deliver to someone working at a restaurant and they don’t tip. A restaurant which employs delivery drivers to deliver food… and they don’t tip.

But like I said, I’m not complaining. When I started delivering and after analyzing the schedule, I came to a rough figure on what I could expect to make a week, including tips. I took the job, satisfied with what I anticipated. Taking into account that some days would be slower than others, I have been pretty much exactly right in my estimations and am content with my earnings.

There have been days lately when it’s been so absurdly and miserably hot that I’ve wished for the rain. Delerium, clearly. Because rainy days are, in case I haven’t made my point yet, the most trying days to deliver. Apart from the simple fact that you’re getting wet, you’re money is getting wet and you’re struggling to not look like a wet dog everywhere you go, it’s much more dangerous to deliver when it’s raining. The roads are slicker and you have to drive much more defensively because of other drivers. You can’t simply zip around town, making deliveries; every delivery is a risk.

Oh, shut the hell up, Buddha!

But there’s something else that’s much more challenging about the rain and I’ve alluded to and joked about it throughout. The challenge is to simply be, in the rain. To not let it affect my mood. I interact with a lot of people. I enjoy that fact. And I get to bring happiness. I don’t want to negatively impact the mood of another and set off a chain reaction. When it rains, it is work for me to do that. It should be easy to simply let the rain come down upon me. But I haven’t found the sweet spot in my mind yet. It is elusive.

I remember in the early days of this job one particularly wet day. I remember the rain starting on the way back to the shop. When I got there, the rain picked up drastically and I had a delivery just a few blocks away to a private residence in an apartment building. By the time I got to the building, it was like a monsoon. Pouring. The building had a security gate, so I had to call the resident to open the gate. No answer. Standing in a spot underneath a nearby tree where the rain is dripping through the least, I dial the number again, hoping my phone doesn’t get ruined. I can’t keep it dry.
No answer. After a few minutes of this, I leave.

As I leave, the rain stops.

When I get back to the shop, the fellow has called asking about his food. I get back on the scooter to make the delivery. And like magic, the rain returns in full force. Same routine, I call at the gate when I get to the building. The customer runs quickly from his apartment to the gate and urges me to follow him quickly to the covered landing.

“What, did you get lost,” he asks.
Oh. Hell. No. You didn’t just ask me that. Breathe deeply.
“I’ve already been here once. Nobody answered,” I inform him.
He signs the receipt. I don’t smile. I don’t say anything. I simply leave, my displeasure surely expressed on my face and in my tone.

That was my worst. Instantly, I hated that experience. And not at all for the customer’s callousness (although, jesus, what a dick) but because I could have potentially spread negativity with my reaction to him. Perhaps my attitude rubbed off on him and he ended up snapping at someone. I wasn’t at all pleased with myself. I’ve been careful to never let that happen again.

(Incidentally, it stopped raining the second time back to the shop as well.)

Perhaps if there was simply the opportunity to stop, close my eyes, and point my face to the sky, letting the rain come down upon me for even a moment. Just to sit there and meditate on that moment…

I need to find that spot.

Personal practices

As for my tipping practices, I used to tip 20% across the board. Now? I always overtip. I do so for two reasons: 1) I know that I’m guaranteeing good service in the future and 2) the driver is going to get shafted by someone that day; I want to be on the positive side of that scale and help balance it out.

And I never order when it rains. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I just leave it to others.

As a final note, I didn’t write this little piece to get people to tip me more. I’m content with the balance. And honestly, I doubt very seriously that anyone I deliver to reads ipanemic. Except for friends. (And it’s really awkward when you tip me; I really wish you wouldn’t.) But I do share this with the hopes that whoever reads this will consider your delivery drivers, the service they provide, and those rainy days when they’re working to make your life easier.

Interactions

Posted on May 21, 2011 by Scott

I have had some unusual interactions lately, including being threatened to be shot while conversing with a drunk on the street late in the evening and having an old man tell me a surprisingly dirty limerick for which I gave him $1. (The followup conversation with the same old man the next day, after I purposefully sought him out, was equally as strange but even more satisfying.) Tonight, though, I had an interaction that left me feeling very bad. It was one brief moment.

I had just finished making my second to last delivery of the night. I was on 16th on my way back to the shop. I sat at a stop sign and waited as three youths crossed the street. I looked at them, reflecting on my own sons. Two boys in dark shirts, dark haircuts. One in Abercrombie-wear, haircut by his mom’s stylist.

They walk in front of me, I think they are perhaps a year younger than my youngest son is now. I pull up images in my mind, of ill-fitting clothes on my oldest. I see my youngest in Abercrombie kid. I think they are lucky, these kids. They are laughing. Having a good time. I smile.

As I cross the intersection, I look back to watch the youth amble off into the night. And I see the clean-cut one walking in the street, lifting the handles on all the car doors as he passes by. Mental register of what’s going on. I pull over. I look at the traffic. I circle back and turn down the street.

I pull up beside the youth. I slow to his speed as he begins walking to the next car.

“Seriously. Stop doing it,” I say firmly.
“Alright,” he says. He looks down and away and quickly walks over to the sidewalk.

I drive on to the light at the end of the block.

I only wanted to prevent him from making a mistake he would regret. A forgettable petty crime for the victim. A not so forgettable moment for the youth.

Delivery, no. 489

Posted on May 10, 2011 by Scott

About once a day, I deliver to any one of a number of high-rises on the beach that play home to the wealthy. Not the people pretending to be wealthy. Not the middle-class wealthy. The wealthy. The procedure for these deliveries is the same at all of the buildings: I check in with security, they call up to the resident to alert them of my arrival, and in a couple of moments, I am in an elevator going to their floor (or their wing of the floor). When the elevator doors open, I am standing in the outer foyer of the resident’s home. It is designed/decorated in the tenant’s style. Some might have massively thick, dark wooden doors; others might have French doors with delicate panes of glass from wall to wall. Perhaps the walls are covered with Asian or African or Middle Eastern art, each piece with gallery lighting. Or maybe it’s a bright space with photos of friends and family, neatly and casually framed atop an oblong table, mirror above. Shoes that aren’t to be worn inside may sit in a small pile by the entrance. Whenever I go to these residences (as with all of the places I visit), I like to take in the environment, try to gather some insight into the inhabitant inside, and then wait for the surprise of who it is. It’s a fun mental exercise for me.

I actually did a few shoots for other models/producers in one of these buildings. Shoots which can admittedly and solidly be called porn – calling what I photographed and filmed there art would be… No, it was straight-up porn. But the residence I shot in was absolutely stunning, spanning the width of the building. One balcony overlooking the beach, the other overlooking the bay with bedrooms, great room, kitchen and dining rooms between. The bayside balcony was particularly luxurious with comfortable seating placed around a queen-size bed. Lots of pillows and cushions. Miami in the backdrop over the crystal blue waters and yachts. Really, just a beautiful location to shoot. Porn or not. (And I have to admit, whenever I go to this building now and I see two girls together out front in the middle of the afternoon, clearly waiting on a taxi, disheveled and clad in something akin to stripperwear, I always do a double-take to see if it’s someone I know or have shot. I have yet to have an, “Oh hey, what are you up to these days” moment, though statistically speaking, it can’t be that far off.)

Offtrack. Not what I was going to write about.

So not that long ago, I am making a delivery to one the tenants of one of these homes. I check in with security, wait for the resident to approve my arrival, and take the elevator up to their floor. I am greeted by a generic door and nondescript art on the walls. (“There should be some art here” the resident said to himself.)

I knock. A young man in his mid-twenties comes to the door. He has a bewildered look on his face.

“You ordered food?”
“Oh, it must be so-and-so’s. Hold on.”

He turns and begins walking toward the back, shouting so-and-so’s name. Shouting without response. I wait.

I take in the decor. Modern furnishings. Not quite minimalist. Wall of glass, the city far below. Another shout from the back of the apartment. Nice wood on the end table, I notice. I expect to see a ring left behind from a glass not left on a coaster. I examine it end to end from where I stand. Why isn’t there a stain? Yawn. Where is this guy?

Shortly, the man returns. “He’s on the balcony. He’s drunk. Come on.” I follow the man through the residence to the dining room in the back. Music is blaring from the balcony outside. Ah, here he comes now. Here is my customer.

He is in a t-shirt and jeans. There is tomato sauce splattered all over the front of his shirt. At least, I hope it’s tomato sauce and not vomit. Yep. Definitely drunk. Not Wild Turkey stinking drunk. But adequately obliterated. It is 2:30 in the afternoon on a weekday. (No judgment on my part, simply amusement.)

“Do you have the credit card,” I ask after greeting him.
“Hold on, let me get it.

I wait.

After a couple more minutes, the fellow returns with the credit card. He has ordered $12 worth of food. I pull out the receipt for him to sign it. And then this:

“What’s a good tip,” he asks me. “I want you to write it in.”

I ponder for a second this drunken fellow in this lush apartment, I ponder the scenario. And I recognize this moment; this opportunity for one to act without scruples. Not me. But someone.

“Two dollars is appropriate,” I say.
And then… then he narrows his eyes, leans in slightly and says:

“Make it FOUR!”

He pulls back and nods his head up and down. A self-congratulatory grin on his face, pleased with his baller move. I smile inside and out at the absolute goofiness of this entire moment. I don’t mention to him that a girl in pajamas with two cats living in a space not much larger than his foyer already trumped him earlier in the day; nor that he will likely be out-balled many times throughout the day; he is drunk and pleased with himself.

I write in the tip and the total and he scrawls out a signature. “Have a good afternoon,” I say to him on the way out. I close the door behind me and wait for the elevator.

“Well, that was fun,” I say to myself and the security guard watching. Where to next?

Peppermint Candy

Posted on April 18, 2011 by Scott

I was in an accident yesterday on my scooter on the way to work. I’m still banged up pretty well. This morning, I’m sore all over as I imagined I would be.

Here’s what happened. And this is going to be long because, well… it was a long day.

The accident.

Every day that I drive my scooter around town, I leave my place about three to five minutes before my shift starts. Depending on how together I am. It’s three minutes in heavy traffic to drive the eight-block commute to work. So I’m a block away from work yesterday (with two minutes to spare!!), driving north on Washington and about to cross through the intersection of 13th. I’m going 35mph. I’m wearing clothes for work: shorts, sneakers, and a polo shirt. And my nice new expensive sunglasses.

A silver car heading south on Washington takes a speeding left on 13th in front of me as I am crossing the same intersection. There wasn’t enough time for her to make a left in front of me. Not even a speeding left.

I was in the right hand lane of the two going north. I slammed on my brakes and cut to the left to avoid hitting the side of her car. I went down. Missed her car. I don’t know how I went down. I don’t know how I missed her car. I don’t know what happened exactly. I thought I hit my head, but apparently, I didn’t. I just hit the asphalt hard with every other part of my body. Luckily, there were no cars behind me. I would realize this a few moments later, after being sprawled out underneath the scooter in the road and realizing I hadn’t been run over.

I screamed a litany of profanites. Mostly “motherfucker” over and over. I think out of pain mostly. Some out of frustration, I’m sure. I forced myself to get up to make sure I could do that. I could. My shoulder was hurting. My knee was hurting. My hands were hurting. My ankle. My elbow. I don’t think my head was hurting. I remember the sunglasses coming off my head. I remember picking them up and tossing them at the curb where I was walking to sit down.

I remember looking over and seeing the silver car stopped in the street on 13th. Some people (two, three, four?) came to my aid before I made it to the curb. They rush to get me seated in the shade. I say something about needing to call work and tell them I’ll be late. I think briefly about who will cover deliveries. That thought is less important than calling for help, the people tell me. Someone calls either the police or the paramedics while I’m sitting there dealing with this pain. I’m scraped to hell and back but I think I’m okay. Probably. Everything hurts. Blood on my leg. My shorts. My ankle. My elbow. How did I avoid hitting my head? I keep thinking I did.

People are stopping, talking. I look up and see scooter with front wheel pointing south, opposite the direction I was traveling. The seat had been knocked open and my raincoat which was in the underseat compartment, sits partially on the street. I’m unaware at the moment that oil and gas from the scooter is leaking out onto the jacket and pavement. I’m just looking at scooter. Down.

The woman driving the silver car… she drove off. Left the accident. One of the good samaritans at the scene relayed this information to me. And then he went, on foot, and followed the car to where it parked (parking garage at 13th and Collins) and got the license plate. The woman had left the car by that point.

An older fellow stayed with me until the police arrived. He was wearing yellow. And sunglasses. He told me that it was things like this that made him stop driving his motorcycle down here. I picture his motorcycle being a well-worn Harley. I don’t know if I thanked him properly. He seemed to just disappear. Thank you, stranger, for your kindness. Thank you, deeply.

The police came, the paramedics arrived shortly thereafter. They checked that I could move everything. Checked my head. Asked me some basic questions to make sure I knew who and where I was. What’s your name? What city is this? What year is it? I was fine, it seemed. Just bloodied up. They applied something or other to my visible wounds. “This might sting.”

I remember it not stinging.

The policeman that initially arrived on the scene was called to my accident from another crime scene and so we were waiting for another officer to come and take over. I wasn’t really waiting so much as just sitting there, trying to sort out what just happened. Trying to conquer the pain I was feeling. Trying to sort out how this person just drove off.

I asked the officer if I should get my scooter out of the street. He seemed indifferent. I walk over and wrestle to lift it off the ground, everything hurting. That’s when I notice the gas. And the turn signal cap broken off. I’m not focusing much on damage. I’m just struggling to get the scooter to the curb.

The other officer soon arrives. The guy who tracked down the car, gave the license plate number to the officer. He’s using the NATO phonetic alphabet: “Alpha Echo Charlie…” The officer is repeating it back. Questions for the witness from the officer. The fellow begins to leave, and I thank him profusely for his kindness. (I’m more aware of my surroundings at this point).

The officer asks if I want to file a report. I say that it would probably be good if I did. He begins to take my information. He realizes that our automobiles didn’t make contact. There’s nothing to file a report on. He could write her a ticket if she were there, but she wasn’t. And there is no telling who was driving the car.

And that was that. He followed me over to the scooter to see if I could start it. After a few tries, I could. I think about the oil and gas. Raincoat ruined.

I get back on the scooter. Sore. Bloodied. And I’m just about to drive to work. And then a bright ray of sunshine comes pouring through. A mother, with her child maybe 4 or 5 years old shyly hiding behind her, says, “My son saw you get hurt and wanted to give you this.” She hands me a small plastic-wrapped peppermint candy. The ones that you get after a dinner at a TGIF’s or somewhere similar. The ones that sit in a bowl as you exit the restaurant. Or that come with the check. She handed it to me and it might as well have been a Fabergé egg. It was such a pure and innocent act. The decency of humanity. Albeit in a small child. But still. I nearly cried for joy.

I got on my scooter and drove the remaining block to work.

The workday

When I got to work, the girl who I had talked to on the phone to pass along that I had been in an accident and would be late came up to me, very concerned. Asked what happened. A moment later, Olivier, the owner, begins to walk toward me and he’s yelling:

“If you show up late once more, I’m going to fire you! I don’t care if you’ve been in an accident!”

Everyone, customers and employees, can hear him yell at me. He passes by me on the way to the back. I laugh. My chest hurts from laughing. Not from laughing hard. Just from laughing. I wonder if I fractured a rib. No, it doesn’t feel like that kind of pain. He then asks more seriously if I’m okay. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

A few minutes of decompressing at work, and someone up front yells for a delivery. Time to get back on scooter. I’m seriously aching, it’s difficult to move, but I can work so I’m going to. And if I didn’t, it would leave them in a tight spot.

I move at a slightly slower pace all day. At some point, I think I’m going to pass out. Should’ve eaten. I don’t stretch my left arm out for most of the day because everything on my left side hurts too much. Lifting anything is cumbersome and painful.

For the first couple of hours at work, I would think about the person driving that car. The thought of going to leave a note for them crossed my mind several times. I knew what she was driving. I had the plate number. And I knew where the car was parked.

“Just to let you know, I’m alright. I didn’t break any bones. I just got cut up pretty well.”

And what? Here is my card? No, leaving a note is a stupid idea. What would I even say? I wanted… what? There’s no point. She left the scene.

I’d rationalize in my head that she probably didn’t feel guilt, since she knowingly left me behind bloodied in the middle of an intersection, a victim of her reckless driving. She had stopped her car to look. And then she left. But I really wanted to believe that she did feel concern. That there was decency within her. But I realized that it’s possible she didn’t. But I still hoped that there was decency in her somewhere. I tossed this back and forth in my head for a bit.

I wanted to believe that she was in a tremendous rush because of something critical like a dying family member or something like a loved one returning by surprise from a war overseas. The more likely reality that she was driving so carelessly because she was running late to meet girlfriends who were waiting for her at the Clevelander… I tried to not think along those lines. That the reason for her reckless driving and my subsequent pain and crashed scooter wasn’t something so trivial.

Then for a brief period, my thinking ran along the lines of: The next time someone does this to me, I’m going to run right into them. They aren’t going to get hurt from a scooter hitting their relative tank, but I most certainly will. I’m going down and I’m going to get hurt either way. So they can pay for that through the damage to their automobile and their increased insurance premiums. I won’t be at fault. Plus, they won’t leave the scene of the accident so easily with me bleeding in the backseat of their car.

I abandoned that thought. Not because I worried about the pain involved in hitting a car, but because it’s obviously ethically wrong. It’s a really negative line of thought. Avoid the car at all costs. Unless there’s a woman with a stroller in the street. Or any other pedestrian. Then, avoid them and hit the car.

Later, as I was getting ready to make a delivery for a $10 sandwich to a fairly far-off residence (a delivery for which the tip would be minimal), the rain came. My raincoat was ruined from the accident so I had nothing to wear. Carlos, the older driver, loaned me his poncho before I left for the delivery. I hummed happy Frank Sinatra songs to myself as I sat at intersections, the rain soaking my head, stinging my scraped legs and ankle. I was drenched by the time I got there. I was friendly. I smiled. I thanked the woman for her tip and wished her a good day.

On the way back to the shop, the rain came down much stronger. I pulled off to the side of a quiet road and sat under the awning of a funeral home. My body ached. I was drenched. I knew at this point that my shoes, regardless of whether the rain continued or not, would remain damp and soggy for the remainder of my shift. I sat there, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Thought some more about the accident.

I realized I didn’t want anything from the driver. I didn’t want an apology. I didn’t want an “I’m soooo sorry!” I realized I was worrying over two things: I worried that she might feel concern for my well-being. And I worried that she might not feel anything at all. Both were equally troubling. But it couldn’t be my issue. She left the scene of the accident and would work it all out on her own. I could only hope for the best for her.

I was still there and I would be fine. Life experience. Had one. Eventually, the cuts and bruises would fade away.

I finished my cigarette, waited for the rain to lighten and drove back to work. And that was my day. The high point, of course, in the picture above.

Tuesday, 2:34pm

Posted on February 24, 2011 by Scott

Check the mirror on the ceiling. Windblown hair. Run my fingers through it. Better. Brush off the dirt that isn’t on my shirt.

11.
12.
14.

Soft bings at each floor. Never a 13th floor.

16.
17.

The doors open. Her unit is at the end of the hall. I have a vague memory of her as I approach. I knock on the door.

“Just a minute,” she says. A few seconds later, the door opens. A small box on the floor is keeping her from opening it fully. She bends over to move it. “Do you mind if I take this to the chute. It won’t take but a minute.”
“No problem. I’m in no rush.”

I follow her to the trash chute. Small talk about trash disposal in the building. She crushes the book-sized box and throws it in. We walk back to her place; she leads the way. She is wearing a long-enough black shirt and sandals.

“Come in and take a look at the view. It’s the least I can do.”
“Alright,” I say. “I can’t stay long. I have to get back, you know.”
“They’re not going to fire you.”

In my mind, I’m playing back 15 minutes of waiting a few days earlier:

“Where were you,” he asks when I get back.
“I got stuck in security. Then I had to wait in the lobby. The guy didn’t answer his phone.”
“When it’s like that, leave a message and just go. There are other deliveries.”
“Okay.”
He tells me this, and I know it. Deliveries are equations with an unknown number of unknown variables. Chaos theory at work. He’s not mad. He tells me because he should.

I begin talking about the security issue and the topic gets lost in conversation. I ponder the current scenario. I’m at ease being here. It feels appropriate that I’m here, in this place. In the home of a complete stranger. She’s very pleasant, this woman. I walk out to the balcony.

A blue sky, panoramic view of Miami directly outside on the horizon. Star Island sits below in the foreground. Monument to the right. Bridges. “Wow. This is a really amazing view.” I think about another woman I deliver to and her view at night of the city.

“Yeah, it is, right?”
“And your porch wraps around, too.”
Small talk about the skyline. Small talk about the boat show. She tells me how the boats filled the bay. I notice her binoculars as I walk back into her living room.

“Just give me five,” she says as she hands me a twenty.
“Oh, thanks,” I say. I hand her a five-dollar bill. I’m satisfied with my genuine expression of gratitude.

She is looking for something. More small talk while I look out her balcony window.

“Would you like a cigarette?”
“Sure, I’ve got time.”
I turn and she holds an open pack of cigarettes in front of me.
“Oh, that’s okay I’ve got some.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Do you want to sit in the shade or in the sun?”
“The shade, definitely.”
She agrees.
We walk out onto her patio and sit on her cushioned white wicker furniture. We light our cigarettes.

“I’m Scott, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Scott.”
“It’s a pleasure meeting you.”

A cat comes out through the window. Beautiful tan, silky smooth fur.
“Two pussies,” she notes.
“She has the most beautiful blue eyes! My god! I’ve never seen eyes like this on a cat!” They are brilliant. They are bright and light blue.
“He.”
“He,” I repeat. Her ‘pussies’ comment registers in my head.
Small talk about the cat. The cat sniffs me, lingers, then steps over me.

“Just ash right there,” she says. She points to a small metal container.

A large bird flies by and she tells me what she thinks it’s attracted to.
“Life of a bird,” I say.
“You don’t want to be a bird, Scott.”
“No, I don’t want to be a bird.” And I don’t. I just want the serenity, the tranquility, the simplicity.

After arcing in front of us, the large-winged creature swoops and glides before eventually disappearing below. We are still talking. She is telling me how she used to be homeless. I shake my head inside. Even here, homelessness, in this penthouse suite, you’re going to reach at me.
“So you worked,” I ask.
“I worked three jobs. The chefs would cook me dinner.” She tells me she later went into business for herself.

Ash.
Ponder.
She talks.
I listen. My mind and body are at rest.

“How are you,” she asks.
“I’m kind of in a strange place right now. My youngest son left yesterday after visiting for a long weekend. One week from today will be a year since my oldest son killed himself. So I’m in between those two things.”
Questions. Expressed sorrow.
“It’s life. It’s alright.”
“It’s not alright,” she tells me. I try to count in my mind how how many times I’ve heard that. I think that maybe I should stop saying that. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe I just shouldn’t say it.

I think about the surfboard. I think about the beautiful surfboard I bought for my youngest while he was here. First thing, Saturday morning. As soon as the shop opened. The one he really wanted. He was so happy. Couldn’t stop talking about it. Moments after getting it home, he started waxing it.

He loved it. He surfed. He said it was the best one he’s had. Better than the Lost, one of our first surfboards. On Saturday and Sunday, on waves that didn’t exist, he surfed his new board. Monday morning, before leaving for the airport, he took the board out one last time. The waves were there. He overheard other surfers in the break saying it would be picking up throughout the day. He seemed okay leaving when we did. I wish he could’ve surfed all day.

“Whatever happened to Costa Rica,” he asks. “You need to move to there,” he tells me. I picture a life in Costa Rica where he would come visit. We would surf together. He would be so happy. Costa Rica begins to fill my mind again.

“Was he bi-polar,” she asks.
“I’m fairly certain.”

“I have a brother…” She tells me a story of her brother. She doesn’t talk to him any longer. I remain in the quagmire of my mind while I watch her facial expressions relay her feelings for her brother, a raw emotional scar conveyed in her tone.

More questions. Simple, factual questions. Not the impossible ‘why.’ ‘Why’ is the question I avoid, I absorb, I ignore, I grasp at, I try not to think about, I think about, I cry over, I avoid altogether by using whatever mind-numbing tactics I can think of, and in my solitude, is the question I ask him. Why.

My cigarette has been finished for a few minutes now.

“I hate to say this, but I really need to go.” We get up and head toward the door. Small talk about work, food, goodbyes. I leave.

I take the elevator down, walk through the lobby, and exit through the front entrance. The valet still stands at his station. I walk to the scooter and reach in my pocket for another cigarette.

I light it.
Exhale.

“Eleventh to Meridian, that will be quickest,” I think. I start the scooter, look up at the blue sky, and put on my sunglasses.

The Delivery

Posted on February 15, 2011 by Scott

Not long ago, I published some observations gathered while driving around South Beach. Here are a few more.

About one out of every ten people I deliver to is really, really high when I deliver to them. People in penthouses. People in “shabby chic” apartments. People in stand-alone homes on the islands surrounding the beach. I can’t even count how many people have opened doors and a cloud of smoke looms hazily over a coffee table in the background, eventually drifting out to where I stand. I think it probably says something about the quality of the food where I work that when people get the munchies they think, “Oh my god! We MUST call La Sandwicherie. Right. Now!” I’d like to see some statistics on this trend.
I have regular customers. They come and go, though. People get fixated on a sandwich and order the same thing for two weeks and then they stop ordering for a while. Then start again. I have one guy that pays me in bags of coins. I never count the coins; I just take the bag. Later, I remember how much his ticket was and am always pleased with his generosity in tipping.
Tipping is extreme. On a cold, rainy day, I can drive in the rain to the first island off of the Venetian Causeway, show up drenched at the door, and get tipped nothing on a $40 ticket as the inhabitants sit cozily inside in dry sweaters. Conversely, I can scooter five blocks in shorts on a sunny day to a beachside hotel and get tipped $10 on a $20 ticket. Generally, though, people tip really well. I don’t want to say overtip. But people generally tip well. (The no-tip situation consistently happens at one building on the first island with high-rise condos. It’s like building management of that property sent a memo around to it’s residents.)
Almost everyone I deliver to is realllly friendly.
While Asians are really good at math, drunk Asian girls apparently aren’t. After an exchange of money the other day with a young lady wherein I tried desperately to correct her math and prevent her from seriously overtipping me, I ended up with a tip equivalent to 85% of the ticket.
Speaking of math, I now use my degree in math to run shortest path algorithms in my head. As I sip my latte and zip across town, I debate the quickest route from 2377 Collins to 90 Alton. Factor in traffic, time of day, any events taking place on the beach, weather conditions, construction areas for the day. I use my degree for that and scenarios like drunk Asian girl. (“Drunk Asian Girl” should bring me the audience I’m looking for from the search engines. Eh.) Yay, college education!
Dash, the clothing store of Kim Kardashian and sisters, is one of the biggest tourist photo-op locations on the beach with as many (if not more) people getting their photos taken in front of it as the Versace Mansion.
Security cameras are everywhere. Watching your every move. Stores. Restaurants. Bars. Hotels. Condos. Inside. Outside.
Ev. Er. Y. Where.
I deliver mostly to locals. Tourists comment about how they’ve eaten there before and how good the food is. I deliver to sports figures. I deliver to middle-class people. I deliver to the wealthy. I don’t deliver to people without money or at least the pretense of it.
There are some people in high-rises with insane views of the beach. There are also some people in high-rises with ridiculously high-powered binoculars by their windows. Pointed at the beach.
I’ve had a couple of people be really rude to me. That was a shame. I felt like maybe they should’ve snacked on something before the food got there. It might have stopped them from being rude to me. In one instance, I had a woman apologize the second time I delivered to her, blaming it (appropriately) on hunger. See? Snacks: keep them handy.
I have a weird thing that I’m mostly over now. When I first started delivering, I wouldn’t stand directly in front of the door to the home I was delivering to, but off to the side instead. That way, in case the person behind the door fired a shotgun through the door, I had a pretty good chance of not being hit. It always crosses my mind that maybe they anticipate that I will move out of the way and fire through the door frame instead. But at least I feel like I am improving my chances, giving me ample time to get away from whatever madness looms behind the door. I only do it on occasion now when I have a weird feeling. Mostly, I just stand there and think, “Eh, if this is how it ends, this is how it ends.”
Everyone that I deliver to that has dogs… they have really good dogs. Happy dogs. Friendly dogs. I’ve only encountered one poorly trained dog since I’ve started working and that wasn’t on a delivery; that was just a walk-up customer to the restaurant. That dog barked at everybody that walked by.
I deliver as far north as Mt. Sinai and as far west as Star Island. There are some insanely wealthy people between those two points.
I ordered delivery the other night and when the driver was leaving, I said to him, “Enjoy!” I then remembered that I was the customer.
Closing out the customer exchange with “Enjoy” sometimes throws people off. They say, “You too.” I picture them closing the door and saying to themselves, “Doh!” I should really just say, “Have a nice day.”
Michigan and 16th does not like scooters. If you’re heading north or south at that intersection, you will be waiting for a car to pull up behind you to trip the light. There are a few other intersections like this. All signal lights south of Lincoln Road for crossing Washington Ave are gold, though.
There are roads on South Beach apart from Ocean Drive, Collins Ave, Lincoln Road, Alton Road, Washington Ave, Bay Road, West Ave. Really. Like James Ave. Park Ave. Liberty Ave. Lincoln Terrace? Flamingo Way? Commerce St. Yeah, they exist.
People sometimes take showers before I arrive. Or they get ready to shower. I only request that if you must answer the door in barely anything, that you be a woman. And not a middle-aged man in gray underwear sporting middle-age belly. For the most part, you’re doing well. But sometimes, you open the door and well… there you are.

There are more notes. But I’m out of time for now.

(Picture unrelated.)

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