So when I used to deliver pizza, I was good at where I should take deliveries to and where to avoid on a busy Saturday. The worst was the diaper house! Holy stinky shitty diapers! These people had an enclosed staircase to their apartment, and just outside their door were the trash cans. I am positive that they would have been better off if the cans had lids, but they didn't.
These people wold let their young kids, (3-6 at any given time) answer the door. Then I would have to stand there and wait until the kids got the attention of one of the parents. Then, one child would come with money. the father (or the male living there) would finally arrive and wait for exact change and take the food. The whole time the putrid collection of diapers in the trash cans, not even in bags, filled me with a desire to vomit. Of course, imagine that smell. Hot pizza, purifying baby shit, and vomit all at once. Finally, I could leave. And what was my tip for having to deal with this shit? Not one penny! Oh how I hated those ass holes.
Here's the thing... people in the industry who work for tips remember shit like this. Seriously, if someone told me to go to 96 south main street, I would cringe and the feeling of nausea would overcome me, and it's been over 15 years since I delivered pizza! And let me tell you, when you are a shitty tipper, don't you think for a second that on a busy Friday/Saturday night that you will get your food in any timely manner!
The creepiest delivery was the woman who would make us go into her house and take the food to the dining room table while she collected the money from the man in the recliner. Here's the thing about them. I would have to come in, she would instruct me to wait, and I would listen to her inquire about how much to give me. Thing was, I never heard the guy reply. I mean, her voice was loud and clear, but I never heard a word from him. When I would walk by the room that he was seated, always exactly in the same position and forever watching Wheel of blah blah blah... never moving. And I wasn't the only one. The other drivers claimed to never hear or see him move either. So we all devised a theory that he was dead and she was taking care of his corpse so as to never have to say goodbye.
It was another driver who did it first, but we all followed suit fast enough. When she would tell us to come in, we flatly refused and explained that it was an insurance thing. At first, she would say things like, "Oh, I trust you boys" and such, and I think I finally just stated that it didn't matter since we couldn't trust her. Then, I knocked on the door about two weeks after we boycotted stepping foot in their house. I about fell over when there before me was the man who we all thought was dead standing at the door. He seemed pretty irritated about the fact that we would no longer go into his house, but we all stuck by our story. Even Joe corroborated the story when she placed their order once.
I mean, really, if all I'm getting is one dollar, I see no reason to go all the way to delivering your food to your damned dinning room table!
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