This is a rant-conducive subject and may belong in the pit, but I’m going to be pretty low-key about it.
I used to drive for a pizza place. I have many pit-worthy anecdotes, but I think I can make this an MPSIMS thing. It’s just my experiences of driving pie.
My ideal customer was a male, 22-28, no shirt, tattoos, bare feet, who brought his beer to the door. Those guys always tipped well and consistently. The cataclysmically stoned were also good. If I couldn’t see the wall behind the customer due to the heavy blue smoke, I could expect some good coin.
If, on the other hand, I saw a Union sticker, a lawn ornament that only someone over the age of 65 would use, or any visible indication that the homeowner was a Christian, I expected to be stiffed and was rarely disappointed. I’m not claiming there’s anything to that, but it’s been my experience.
My drunkest customer ever category is a toss-up. There was one guy who should have won for consistency, having been wrecked every time he ordered (weekly), but despite my watching him pry his head off the kitchen table, take two steps towards the door and then stumble sideways into a hallway where he fell with a loud bang only to reappear about a minute and a half later and say only “Ungh” during the transaction I don’t think he was the “single episode” drunkest. That would probably go to the guy who went to bed and passed out three times while I was trying to give him the food and get my money. He’d just say he was sorry, turn around, and go to bed. I’d wake him up, get him back near the door so we could try to remember where he left his money, and he’d say he was sorry again and go back to bed.
Once illegal drugs get into the mix, I have a clear winner. The customer lived in a trailer park, and he had a long and storied history with our establishment. He would order food and then pass out. He’d try to order food again, be told he couldn’t, come in and pay for his last order, lather, rinse, repeat.
Eventually we worked out a deal with him where he would leave his door open and the money on the coffee table before he ordered. I thought that the cooks were messing with me when they explained that, since every time I’d been there he’d been pretty messed up but still coherent. Then, one night, I got to his trailer and knocked. No answer. I looked through the window, and there he was, sleeping on the couch. I knocked again, no movement. I took out my 4D Mag Lite (handy for finding your way and settling disputes) and did a “Cop Knock”. Nothin’. Tried the knob, and the door opened so I went in. There on the coffee table was some money, a pipe, about a gram of weed, and too many empty beer bottles to count. I made change, put his pizza in the fridge, and locked the door on my way out.
Some of my regulars got their own nicknames.
Mr. Chong ( 'cuz he looked and acted like Tommy Chong from the "Cheech and " movies) was another multiple substance abuser. He was a good order, though, because he tended to tip as heavily as he drank and smoked. One time I had to catch him when he fell out the door, another time he needed a hug to celebrate his food arriving, but when a man tips 85% of the bill you make allowances.
Dr. Lecter was scary. I don’t know why, he was always polite and nice and I didn’t count the fact that he didn’t tip against him because any time I got away from his place without being raped and/or eaten I was happy. x-Files fans may remember the death fetishist “Donny Pfaster”, and have a great comparison.
Sabretooth looked exactly like the X-Men movie version of Sabretooth. Same build, same hair, same face, his living room furniture consisted of an Olympic weight bench. I liked him, he tipped five bucks on anything.
There were a tribe of Neanderthals living in that town. Seven of them in a two bedroom apartment, all with the heavy jaw and brow structure. They would all come out and I would have to say “Hi” to each one of them while they watched the alpha female conduct the transaction. She and I were the only ones who could close our mouths entirely.
I don’t remember the humans at Dusty’s trailer. Dusty was a Neapolitan Mastiff who lived with a St. Bernard, a Rottweiler, a beagle, a couple of cats, a bird, and some people. When you knock on a door and it’s answered by a 160lb Neo, that’s all you remember. I don’t even know if they tipped, I was just glad not to be eaten. Very calm dog, not aggressive at all, but you wouldn’t walk into the yard by yourself.
Mrs. Oldlady was always fun. She just didn’t quite know how the whole “ordering food” thing worked. Those newfangled telephones, you know. I usually had to help her find her purse. She tipped a quarter. The conversation was worth the gas money and the time I spent getting the plyers out of the trunk to open her purse for her because they just don’t make things the way they used to.
One delivery I had was to a hotel that had been, as far as I could see, closed for several years. I had to go up a fire escape in an alley, hook my fingers into an interior hollow-core door that somebody had punched a hole through to get inside the buliding, and then use my flashlight to find the magic marker number on the door, because there was either no power or there were no lightbulbs.
This is a long long post. I have many more stories, and this was a very small city.
What did I miss out on?