The Delivering of Food
912 Finlayson Street
I pull up and park. Got steaming hot pizza here. It's a remodeled older house on a busy street. There are a couple foreign imports in the driveway. I imagine a young couple with a child ordering out after some evening renovations. The lawn is elevated by nice stonework. The eccentrically large door opens after numerous locks are unhinged. I'm greeted by a giant painting of a hairy vagina. Two women appear. Both have short hair, glasses, and wear overstretched denim. They hated me before I arrived. They both say, “about time.” I glance at the bill. It’s taken me twenty minutes to get here. I am, of course, in error when I correct their credit card receipt – they’ve tipped me a hundred dollars. My honesty is rewarded with a one-dollar tip. No one says thank you or good night. I kick over a flowerpot on the way back to my car.
23 Shady Willows Lane
If you're going to complain about your food being cold when it arrives, don't order souvlaki from thirty kilometers away. It’s simple mathematics, right? It takes me an hour to find this place. It's in farm country, down a private road, down an even more private driveway. There are three houses with no address. The last one I knock on is the right one. I'm berated with a story about another restaurant that is inexplicably closed on Monday night, their usual Greek place. And then I'm berated about the food “feeling” cold through the brown paper bag. I honestly don't care. I listen, smile, take the cash and, as I leave, run over a garden gnome, it’s crushed torso and etched grin left gazing at the evening sky.
I just graduated from University with a degree in Anthropology and got a job as a dishwasher/delivery driver at a Greek restaurant. My girlfriend works there, too. In September, she will defend her master’s thesis. Then we will go to Greece and get married at the restaurant owner’s villa. Beyond that, plans are vague.
Most evenings after work, we drink our tips away with the restaurant manager at the pub next door. He tells fantastic stories, like sleeping with a Conservative MP in Ontario and doing cocaine with her off marble tables. He drinks gin and sodas quickly out of short glasses. His stories have you leaning forward on the table with your elbows, hands supporting your face. I believe every word he says.
#1-1434 Mt. Pleasant Ave.
This place is just around the corner from the restaurant, a basement suite. I walk up and knock. There is some commotion, and it takes a second before the door opens. I assume I was too quick. A short man appears. He stands there like a wounded sparrow. Through the crack of the door, I see another man putting on his socks. They will be sharing one small pizza, cheese only. The man asks me if I've seen Dangerous Liaisons before. I say I have. He invites me into to watch it. I tell him I'm working but thanks for the offer. He tips me forty-five percent. I remember this house for the cash bonus.
9765 Birch Park Terrace
You've got to be kidding me. Who orders ten pizzas to Broadmead? It's half an hour away with no traffic. But there is a lot of traffic, and it takes forever to get there. On the way, I pass the asylum where my parents met as psychiatrists. I remember a story they told me about a lunatic who stole the asylum truck. He drove the truck into a tree at the bottom of the driveway. I wonder what tree it might have been. A child opens the door and hands me a stack of small bills and coins. I count the money and she is three dollars short. I try to convey this to the child, but she is only interested in the tower of pizzas. The child takes the pizzas and closes the door. It's a cheap ploy by the parents and surprising, as it's a well-off suburb. I could ring the bell and settle this, but instead I urinate the words “Fuck Ass” to the best of my ability on the manicured front lawn. It's late summer shortly after dusk.
Most people in the restaurant’s kitchen don’t speak English very well in normal conversation. But it’s perfectly legible when it revolves around kitchen lingo: “table two order up”, “three order calamari, one Caesar salad”, “pour me a ginger ale, lady”. The front-end girls are all smoking hot, young, and for the most part, ridiculously flirty. I often sit with Danny, the head cook, on breaks or during slow periods and have a pint of German beer. He started, like I did, as a dishwasher and delivery driver, but seventeen years ago. He worked his way up the ranks: driver, prep cook, pizza cook, head cook. To some degree, this frightens me. He told me of his life back in China as an engineer and architect. He built and designed some of the most impressive buildings in Shanghai. I asked him why he left. “For a better life,” he said. He works a second job on his day off. This, too, frightens me.
1246 Bay Street
I knew this one was trouble as soon as I found it. Right on the corner of two busy streets. A battered rancher with broken lawn chairs and empty beer cans in a yard protected by a moldy fence. A couple of university kids answer. I give them the pizza. They say, “Listen, dude, we don't have any money, we'll get you next time.” As if that would be okay with me, like it’s my pizza shop, like it wouldn't come out of my pocket. That sort of reasoning won't get you a university degree. There is not much I can do but slash the back tires of what is likely someone's parent’s vehicle.
582 Forest Rover Place
Houses in rich neighborhoods can go one of two ways: really good tip or no tip. At this one, I get no tip but an offer to come inside and watch the returns of the 2004 United States election. As someone interested in politics, and only having a few weeks left on the job before I leave, I accept. I sit on the couch and eat humus and pita with a retired couple. They like my knowledge of the election, and tell me they are glad the youth today is aware of these things. I like that they support the Democrats, especially since they are in a rich neighborhood and didn't tip me. Still, I can't help myself. On the way out, I stomp a spectacular looking floral display.
Sarah and I spend most days sleeping-in and watching television, because we’re out all night guzzling the money that should probably feed us and pay our rent. We watch Days of Our Lives with real passion. Sometimes we record it if we actually have to leave the house and do things, like laundry. We’re really into Magnum P.I., too. It’s on every afternoon at two on channel six. Usually, at three, we watch a show that documents horrific murders in American towns no one wishes to hear of. Then we go to work, and before our shifts begin we both have a cigarette out back with a teacup of wine.
We think we are smart by keeping the same schedules. If one of us gets off early, the other sits around and has a drink with Ned, the manager, or the other staff. We are extremely negative about how ordinary people live their lives and rant and rave about how this depresses us, and swear that we will never be like that.
No. 12-8763 Bolton Apartments, Bridge St.
I go to an apartment in the seedy part of town. It's one of those apartments that has a walkway to the front door, like a motel. These are always bad news. The curtains are drawn. A faded Canadian flag lists from a side window. A Folgers coffee tin bulges with rain-soaked cigarette butts near the door. A heavyset woman answers. Right away, she starts into me about how she ordered Pepsi. I tell her we only have Coke. She says Sid knows this and always brings her a Pepsi. I tell her I'm not Sid. This doesn't change anything. I offer to go get a Pepsi. She's okay with this. I go to a corner store and ask the owner if I can trade a Coke for a Pepsi. After some negotiations, he agrees. For some reason, I have to pay the deposit. On the way back, I park on a side street next to the building. I lick every piece of pizza in the box and sprinkle my belly button lint over top. It looks like oregano. I then light a smoke and ash in the side of tomato sauce. This provides the illusion of freshly ground pepper. To top it off, I rub the can of Pepsi into my right armpit for thirty seconds. I give the woman her Pepsi, pizza, and side sauce. She acts like nothing has happened between us. She gives me a one-dollar tip and then a fiver to give to Sid. I say thanks, leave, put the cash in my pocket, and tell Sid about it when I get back. I keep the fiver.
A few months later, Sarah and I get married; a couple of years after that we get divorced. Throughout, we tell ourselves that our lives will change, and that we’ll get real jobs, host dinner parties, buy expensive cheese, be ordinary people. I’m convinced that we will pay off our student loans and credit card debts, and that we’ll take another fabulous trip, this time to Russia, or Hungary. Instead, we pay off nothing and take camping trips to nearby lakes, visit her family in Vancouver, or housesit for my parents when they take airplanes to interesting places.
* * * *
These days, I become nervous when I see garden gnomes. I avoid nurseries and stare straight ahead when I drive by them in front yards. It doesn’t matter if the gnomes are alone or in family clusters. They stare accusingly at me like some sort of karma police, reminding me what I did, and who I was.
– William Farrant is a writer from Victoria, BC. He was folding laundry shortly before writing this bio.
