I love being a delivery driver, buzzing around town in my little ol’ Nissan Leaf and dropping off boxes of happy; that’s how I think of the orders. The money’s great, and people are mostly always stoked to see me. But the best part is learning about all of my customers. Even though we take orders from the grub sites, my folks discovered that people tip bigger if they pay cash, so we still mostly do that. That means I do end up spending a tad more time at their door. Being a delivery driver is like getting a sneak peek into people’s lives. For a brief moment, they leave their doors open wide when they go to grab money or set the food down, and I get to see a snapshot of their world. I try not to be nosy, but I’m standing there, so what else do I do?
Over time, I’ve come up with a list of different types of delivery customers. Of course, there are lots of everyday people and families ordering food; while I love them too, they don’t fit into any of these fun categories. I have to say, I don’t want to anger the “judgmental about being judgmental” crowd, so yes, I realize that none of these people fit perfectly into my boxes—it’s just for fun.
The first group I call Wits’ End. Either a mom or dad answers the door while the other spouse is yelling at children in the background. The house is chaos, with paper and toys everywhere. Someone is crying in the background. The parents have a look in their eyes like I imagine you might see in a soldier after a long battle. It takes their brain a moment to register what I’m doing there and the process we’re supposed to follow from there. Sadly, they almost always apologize, which is totally unnecessary. It makes me feel bad for them. I always catch one of them looking past me to my car, and I think they’re considering making a mad dash for it to drive themselves away. Then reality hits them. They lower their heads, thank me and yell to the hostiles that the food is there.
The next is Weekend Superparent. They come to the door with a happy smile, calling back to the kids something that sounds like, “Hey, guys, guess what food I bought you that Mom or Dad would never buy you!” The kids barely look up from their video games and piles of bikes, gifts, and toys. These deliveries are often in an apartment complex where they are about twenty years older than most of my other customers in the building. Their tip grows depending on whether the kids are paying attention, so sometimes I wave behind them, so they think they’re watching. Hey, a girl’s gotta get paid.
If you do any delivery and you have a heart, you have to schedule in extra time for the 100 Years of Solidudes—you know, like the famous book One Hundred Years of Solitude. These folks come in all shapes and sizes. There’s the computer guy in a mostly empty house with his command center set up in the front room, so you know he’s not worried about guests. Then there’s the corporate lady, still wearing a suit late at night, who lives in an immaculate apartment with only two lights on because there’s no one else there. These people order delivery for two reasons: first, they don’t want to put the energy into making a meal for one, and second, I might be their only human interaction that day. Of course, they’re chatting with people online or at their office, but they’re always guarded in those conversations. When they see me, they see someone with no agenda or risk to their world. So they talk, and I let them.
I know I get paid for making quick deliveries and rushing to the next one, but I kinda feel like I’m getting paid in a different (maybe even better) way when I spend some time with them. Eventually, if they go too long, I can excuse myself for my next delivery, which they understand. I don’t think people are meant to be alone that much.
There are, of course, the Munchies. They answer the door with bloodshot eyes, giant grins, often inside-out shirts, and by far the most excitement of any group I visit. The smells of pot and nag champa, the incense, fill the air. Always seem to have a lot of people around, with the lights low and music playing. The tips are okay. I don’t think they have much, but it’s fun watching them sort through their money, trying to figure out what they have and what they can give me like they’re solving a Rubik’s Cube. I love being around those people because they’re always so happy to see me.
There’s a subgroup of the Munchies that I call the New Munchies. These are rich suburbanites who haven’t come to grips with legalization. It takes them forever to answer the door after I ring ’cause I suppose they’re running around hiding stuff. Then, when they finally open up, the first thing that hits me is the smell of air freshener, cologne, and weed. I don’t think they realize that the other two don’t cover anything and just make for three smells. These Munchies, unlike the other ones, try so hard to act like they’re totally normal, but their small giggles here and there always give them away.
There are tons of other groups, like Da Boys, Mid-argument Angry Couple, Study Buddies, Party Central, Creepers, Mr. Yucks, the Complainers, the Something for Nothings, and so many more. I love getting to know them, and every time I think of a new group, I try to put it down on paper because my memory isn’t so great. Maybe I’ll write a book one day.