Flour power

Pizza men see the world one block at a time

by Chris Kanaracus

The shabby three-decker on a narrow, grimy Esther Street, just off the southern end of Providence Street, looked like many I'd seen before. Under the gun, and with many food orders to go, I hustled up to the front door. A woman in her mid-20s answered, her face sour, her mouth a repugnant little twist. She didn't hand over any money. She just jerked her thumb to the left, down a hallway, and grunted, "In theah."

In theah, it turned out, was the apartment's kitchen. Nothing unusual. I'd seen many like it. Almost. The woman's boyfriend and a few of his buddies were sitting around the table. But there were no cards. No beer. Just a mountain of crack, a double boiler on the stove, and a triple-beam in the middle of the table.

The boyfriend looked up -- stunned -- when I walked in the room. For a long moment, he just sat there, gaze fixed, forearms tensed. His friends remained still as well, save for occasional stolen glances at Boyfriend, as if waiting for instruction.

Finally he spat, "How much?"

"Twenty-nine dollars," I said, trying NOT to survey the room or to make eye contact. I grabbed a wad of wrinkled bills Boyfriend produced and hauled ass out of there. A two-dollar tip, I later found out in the safety of my car.

Exciting encounters like this aren't an everyday occurrence for pizza-delivery drivers. But they do happen. And they're just one piece of the vast puzzle that makes up the Job, a job that few, besides those who perform it, understand or even notice. Face it, you wouldn't take time to chat with a pizza guy any more than you would, say, the mailman.

So, what about the pizza man? The pizza guy, the pizza jock, the pizza dude? You've seen him countless times. You've drunkenly wondered "Where the hell is he?" on any number of late, late nights.

If you were to ask that jumpy fellow in the green knit shirt, neon red hat, and stiff black Lee jeans his name, you'd find -- chances are -- a person there, one with a job far more interesting, difficult, and often insane than you can imagine. It's not really a job, actually. It's a visit to an entry-level netherworld, where residential streets and the foyers of a thousand houses and apartments become the hallways and classrooms of an unlikely school of human behavior.

It's not a vocation without its dangers, though.

Casualties have been surprisingly few, but they do exist. Customer Hoyt Franklin Ray, 44, upset over a cold pizza, is accused of emptying two rounds into Richard Rodden, a 22-year-old Imo's Pizza driver in Alton, Illinois, on February 6. On April 19, 1997, a pair of Newton, New Jersey, teens lured a pair of pizza drivers to an abandoned house and shot them, in a case dubbed "The Pizza Thrill Kill." And in Worcester, back in the mid-1980s, a Domino's driver delivering to a Main South location was stabbed and robbed by two masked men.

Of course, auto accidents are a constant threat. Thankfully, no more will you find a 30-minute guarantee, such as the one touted in the 1980s by then-upstart Domino's Pizza. A rash of accidents caused by speeding Domino's drivers led to the practice's banning. Now, pizza companies insist, "Speed on Your Feet, Not on the Street."

It's got to be said, though, since corporate goodwill can go so far, pizza drivers look out for one another. The casual, knowing nods exchanged between drivers from different restaurants at the call boxes of local college dormitories only hints at the camaraderie between them, one that extends worldwide.

The hefty organization apparent within the driver community isn't as surprising when one realizes just how staggeringly huge the pizza industry is; between the pies churned out at an estimated 61,000 restaurants and the sale of frozen products in supermarkets, the pizza biz brings in an average of $20 billion per year. Such figures have grown each year since 1905, when North America's first pizzeria opened in New York City.

Worcester has a considerable stake in that legacy. In fact, Frank A. Fiorello produced the first commercial pizza mix in 1948 here. Most of Worcester's pizza is sold from the 71 pizza outlets within city limits; and most of them are independent, "mom-and-pop" operations, many with Greek-American, not Italian owners. A majority of the restaurants even use the same suppliers and, hence, the same ingredients in their pizzas.

On the national front, pizza has evolved into a recreation form. Witness Madera, California's "Pizza Farm," a round, half-acre of land divided into eight sections, upon which owners, the Schmall family, grow the crops and livestock that make up various pizza ingredients. According to Farm Bureau News, more than 25,000 kids and adults toured the facility last year.

America's love affair with the hot-and-rounds goes beyond those happy tourists, however. One industry survey revealed that more than 96 percent of Americans order out for pizza, an average of 26 pounds of pizza per person per year. That many hungry mouths require ample manpower. And pizza drivers are its able providers.

Wrong door, moron

Line 3 rings one Friday night at Tatnuck Papa Gino's. It's a delivery. The driver taking the call punches in the customer's phone number and watches as the address appears on the screen. Then he places his hand over the receiver and turns to his fellow drivers, eyes rolling, voice weary. "Here we go again."

Two years prior, this particular customer received the wrong pizza. And since, the staff here knows that a customary part of any visit to her house will include the ceremonial "checking of the pizza"; it's a methodical, exacting procedure, one often carried out as the customer's two saucer-eyed, towheaded children and ruddy-faced husband look on with mild disapproval.

These drivers know, word-for-word, her inevitable spiel. "Hi. Come in. Let me check these, the last time we called, you guys brought the wrong pizza! I just want to make sure."

Actually, the restaurant hasn't screwed up the customer's order since the original, offending incident -- and that was 42 deliveries ago. Her persistence implies, well, that the driver is an idiot.

Certainly, the job doesn't always tax the old melon. In a way, it's therapeutic. You often slip into a trance when folding boxes -- then you can tally up your bills, fantasize about a vacation in Aruba, or decide which TV dinner to eat later on. While sweeping floors and greasing breadstick pans, there's always the possibility of witty banter with other employees. Making survey calls gives you the chance to go one-on-one with the customers.

But anyone with a pulse can do those chores. It's on the road where the real fun begins. Those without moxie, need not apply.

You see, delivery drivers might work for tips, delivering consumables to patrons in a performance-based setting, just like bartenders and waitstaff. Those occupations, though, while stressful, take place in warm, well-lit environments, not in rush-hour traffic as you drive around in your jalopy. And it gets worse.

Errant house numbers, or even (and the far more common) "no house number." The complete absence of light within miles of the house in question. Rabid dogs. Some patrons aren't home when the driver arrives; they call from work with the confidence they'll "beat him there." In winter months, unshoveled walks and ice-covered stairs beckon. Broken doorbells. Customers have been known to "wait" in the shower, the back yard, or at their neighbor's house.

Pizza delivery is an overwhelmingly cash business. Some people, though, won't have it that way -- like that Holy Cross kid a few years back who, after I gave him his food, presented me with his credit card. "What do you want me to do? Swipe it across my ass?" Cowed, he retreated to his dorm to bum real money.

But these gripes aren't Worcester specific.

In fact, so common are the complaints that drivers nationwide share them every day -- some all day.

Ground zero is the newsgroup alt.pizza.delivery.drivers. With a little digging, you can also find a good many personal Web sites, containing everything from "The Ten Commandments of the Non-Tipper" (see sidebar, this page) to rants on subjects like "The Porch Light Wasn't On." There's even an independent film, Drivers Wanted (see sidebar, page 14)

"We just get on there and vent our spleens a little," says frequent alt.pizza poster Gene Yuh, a law-office manager and nighttime delivery driver for a Papa John's franchise in Tarzana, California. "Some people on the group take it [complaining] too far, and I've often asked them why they don't just quit."

Most posters, while prone to the occasional outburst, keep their remarks tempered. "It's a great outlet for us, since our job is very stressful," says Leah Hoffman, a Domino's driver from Waterloo, Iowa.

Even some non-drivers post their thoughts from time to time, most notably "Houghi," who not only isn't a delivery driver, but also isn't even from this country (he's from Belgium). Fine enough, but Houghi actually maintains a pizza-delivery Web site (www.pizzadrivers.com). Houghi's site, easily the Net's premier pizza-delivery depository, catalogues driver photos, a FAQ (frequently asked questions), and a news section containing up-to-date links to every pizza-related wire story Houghi can find. Recent fodder for his postings include Little Caesar's, a Detroit-based company, about to enter a new pizza frontier: 300 stores in Mexico and 400 in Japan. Then there was a mugger who escaped New York City cops by stripping a pizza delivery man of his uniform -- apron and all -- and casually walking out of the building. Not to be outdone, another New York man was bagged for passing false checks to pay for pizza, which he then traded for drugs.

Lurking in the back of every pizza guy, of course, is the number one fear: death or robbery.

Sometimes, the risk isn't merely assumed, but insisted upon by the employer. A driver is often required to place a "window wing" somewhere on his or her vehicle, a measure that ensures advertisement of his presence not only to potential customers, but also to would-be thieves. Brian Hoffman, who recently "retired" from duty after seven years on the job, says that the wing "essentially paints a bull's-eye on your ass."

Many drivers confide that they remove the offending device when possible. "It's dangerous," says one. "Not to mention you look like a dork."

Yet even non-customers and non-criminals have been known to assault pizza drivers. Matt Conrad, a former Domino's driver from Indiana, says a wrong turn down a private road soon had him racing for his life. Conrad saw he had the incorrect address and turned to leave. "Apparently, the people inside thought I was up to no good, so as I'm driving back up the street, here comes both the husband and wife, in separate cars, coming after me. They forced me to a stop." All was well, once he showed them the pizza.

Mere words can sting, too. There's one instance, much talked about in Worcester, involving a notoriously difficult family (one with ties to a major city government office) that lived near Worcester Airport. "These people never tipped to begin with," says the driver who declined to be named, though the family has been since banished to the DO NOT DELIVER file. "That's fine, but they were rude, to boot. Apparently, they wanted drivers to go to the side door. One day, I forgot and knocked on the front door. From inside the house, I heard the dad's voice yelling `over there' again and again. I looked, and he was sitting on his couch, jabbing his finger at the side door like I was a simpleton. When I got inside, he kept yelling, and his wife, who was half in the bag from her White Zinfandel, asked me if we were `all stupid down there.' Nice people."

Incidents like that don't surprise Robert Thompson, a Syracuse University professor and pop culture expert. "It's entry-level work. Unfortunately, there tends to be this sick human tendency to abuse people in the service industry."

Want a good tip? Wear a raincoat when it rains

I rang the doorbell with a long, firm press, and waited. No one appeared, but I heard the sounds of frantic activity and muffled, urgent voices from inside the house.

A minute passed, and the door opened. Or at least someone tried to open it. Tug, tug, yet another, and finally the heavy, oak panel swung open with a whoosh and a clatter. A four-year-old girl stood before me, her face a mask of timidity and confusion. She held a crisp $20 bill in her little fist, hugging it protectively against her chest like a favorite doll.

I opened the vinyl bag, and through the resulting haze of steam, told her the price. "One large cheese, one large pepperoni. It comes to $14.69."

She stopped. Stared. Said nothing. Her eyes widened and grew wet. The bill moved a little. "Ask him how much it is," said something shrill from the area of the couch. It was Mom, sitting just a few feet away, watching Rosie.

With trembling voice, the girl did as Mom said. I repeated the price. She handed me the $20, slowly.

I counted out the change. All of it. I wasn't so bold as to expect a tip. Then, the girl and I stood there for a moment, our eyes locked in a rigid, probing gaze, seeking out motives and inclinations.

"Give him a dollar!" She did so. I said goodnight. She said nothing, and shut the door.

Walking back to my car, I felt relieved. Not because I had scored a little dough, but because I now knew that while I might have to deliver pizzas on my days off, at least my parents never treated me like I was a remote-controlled car.

How do drivers endure scenes like that? It's the money. Drivers make an average of $12 per hour, a far cry from McDonalds or even from the back-breaking labor of UPS. It's not quite a princely sum, though, and it must be noted that a good chunk of the cash drivers earn goes right back into their cars -- for gas and repairs.

Therefore, say drivers, keep those tips coming. "I think tipping is a rule," says Gene Yuh. "I know people will say things like, well, you don't tip the Fed Ex guy, but those guys make well above minimum wage."

How much to tip, though, is a constant source of contention among drivers. Most view the distance from store to house as a good yardstick. "If I'm going to have to go way out somewhere, I better get a good tip, because the extra time I spend going to that one house is time I could use taking other deliveries -- ones closer to the store -- that are going to make me more money," says Jeff Senecal, a Worcester driver.

And the money can indeed be good, even obscenely so. "DrFrankenstein," another alt.pizza poster, says he almost had a heart attack when a customer tipped him nearly $20 on a single order.

There's a consensus among drivers when it comes to who tips, and how much. Those surveyed reveal that blue-collar folks, not the wealthy, consistently tip the best. At the other end of the spectrum lie young children, college students, upper-middle-class 30-somethings, and, obviously, the very poor.

Even in the most severe view, however, pizza guys do pretty well. One imagines, though, that if the money weren't so good, the problems would extend beyond the drivers themselves. "Look, if people don't tip, no one's going to want to ruin their cars by delivering. Then, no one will be able to order a pizza," says Senecal, with quiet conviction.

Pizza, a life of romance

Perhaps it's Houghi, an outsider, whose apparent fascination with the job bolsters the idea that pizza drivers aren't just your ordinary retail workers. They're icons, a part of Americana, albeit the butt of many jokes.

Every driver is aware that once they don the hat, they automatically tread mighty close to geekdom. Some drivers get more into the role than others, though. Take Keith Hutchison, from the Colorado ski town of Steamboat Springs. "I like the idea of being the pizza man. You sort of get into character . . . you're like a man of mystery, always on the run. Bang, you're at their door, and in 20 seconds you're gone."

Leah Hoffman, an Iowa Domino's driver, plays along with select customers. "Little kids just love the pizza lady. I get hugs all of the time. When I get to the house, I can always hear the joyful cries of `pizzzzaaaa!' I'm their hero."

Thompson, who also is president of the International Popular Culture Association, isn't surprised to hear that. "There's an affection for the pizza-delivery guy, because whenever they arrive at our door, like Santa Claus, they have good news."

And Thompson agrees with Hutchison's view of the job. "The whole idea of a pizza guy is a romantic notion, going from house to house, dropping in briefly on people's most intimate situations."

Indeed. Gene Yuh, for one, recalls the day he delivered lunch to a house full of nudists. "It was the whole family . . . mother, husband, and a couple of kids. I could see through the door to the pool area, where they were hanging out." Yet Yuh's racy experience notwithstanding, it must be said that sex, despite films like 1989's Loverboy (Patrick Dempsey captures the hearts of his middle-aged female delivery customers with the predictable complications) is rarely part of the job.

Not that some drivers don't look for a piece of action. Keith Quiles, another Worcester driver, laughingly relates what crosses his mind when a woman answers the door: "I'm hoping she'll invite me in so I can get some," he jokes. "I always flirt. Why not take advantage of an opportunity?"

Drivers like Quiles, says Thompson, feel comfortable crossing the customer-slash-employee divide because "they've got nothing to lose. How hard was it to get that job? It allows them to have an in-your-face sort of attitude."

Thompson continues: "[Pizza drivers] represent a fascinating paradox. . . . While they are at the lower end of the economic and cultural ladder, they also stand for absolute freedom from American institutions. No mortgage, no investment portfolio."

It's this last comment, and ones like it, that raise the ire of pizza-delivery men. Sure, they're happy to play the part. After all, they signed up for the job. But they've got lives and often another job outside the business.

Andy Krutov, a 38-year-old Russian immigrant, now a US citizen, has worked at the Tatnuck Square Papa Gino's restaurant for more than seven years. And delivering pizzas is a far cry from the prestigious position Krutov held in the Soviet Union as a top ultrasound engineer (a field in which he still holds three patents). If the job switch bothers him, he doesn't show it.

"Never the same routine, meet new people every day, and the pay is very good." Indeed. Krutov earned a mere $80 per month while serving as the lead technician in a Moscow lab.

Delivering has rarely been a principal source of income for Krutov, however. He's been a stockbroker, a financial advisor at a local investment firm, and plays the markets on his own time. Right now, he's nursing his wounds after a tumultuous run at day-trading last year, but he hopes to open his own small brokerage firm by the end of the summer. And, of course, he's delivering pizzas.

"We're still in a bull market, as we have been since 1995, but it's always wise to have some safe ground. I keep the job as a way to hedge my risk enterprises with something steady. You never keep all your eggs in one basket."

For some, pizza delivery isn't a safety net. It is the net. Take Jeff Senecal, 20, who logs an average of 50 hours behind the wheel a week.

His breakneck pace has a purpose. After some mediocre grades, he took a vacation from Worcester Polytechnic Institute. Right now, he's living cheap, laying low, and saving money like crazy while he "figures out what to do next."

The wear and tear on the gentle, soft-spoken Senecal's psyche is apparent. Not surprising, when you consider that although he spends much of his time on the job in a sitting position, driving does not equal relaxing.

But Senecal's pain is of an inward sort. You have to look past his impassive expression, whether behind the wheel, or while folding and coupon-topping a never-ending pile of delivery boxes. "Hey, I need the money," he shrugs.

Senecal, with only about a year in the game, hasn't gained the sort of pragmatic detachment of veterans like Krutov. He can't blow off customers' slights as easily. He's still smarting from his troubles at school. And when you're a smart kid -- one who's made mistakes, but is certainly destined for greater things -- it's a little tough to put on a monkey suit every day and deliver dinner to some of the same college students with whom you went to class.

"It just takes one bad customer to throw my day off. Usually, people are nice."

Senecal, should he have a few bad days in a row, would be wise to turn to a former colleague, Brian Hoffman, for advice.

In mid-January, Hoffman, 25, delivered what may have been his last pizza; no small event, considering the seven-plus years he worked for the Tatnuck Square Papa Gino's restaurant.

What's more surprising, perhaps, is the fact that it took so long. Hoffman graduated from the University of Hartford in 1996 with a degree in illustration, and for the past year he's worked as a graphic designer for a large Needham advertising agency, a job that pays him well.

Yet every Saturday night, Hoffman unknotted his tie and slipped into his red nylon windbreaker for a three-hour shift. "What can I say? It gave me my tolls and going-out money for the week," Hoffman muses. "But I've had enough now."

Hoffman took some time recently to reflect upon his years in the game. "Boy, where do I begin? The move to a four-fold box was a big thing. The way the coupon deals got more expensive, one buck at a time. Seeing so many people [employees] come and go. We've had some real characters work here.

"Even the window wings have changed. They used to be flimsy, plastic pieces of shit. Now, they've got a light inside, and are real sturdy, like something you'd see on a New York taxi or something." And then there's the death of a short-lived company experiment: the presentation of the pizza. Upon arrival, drivers were required to state their name, read aloud the customer's order, and then present the order with a flourish.

"Hi, my name's Bob. Here are your small fry, nine-piece nugget, child dog with mustard, and your small, extra-cheese with sausage." With a flip, we'd rip open the steaming box of dinner. If that wasn't bad enough, on some occasions, the manager would tag along and stand next to the driver at the door -- just to make sure we perfected the script.

According to Hoffman, the very products drivers deliver have changed immensely. "You've got all kinds of new stuff since I started. Like, ever since Pizzeria Uno got big, all the chains hopped on the thick-crust bandwagon. Plus, now everybody has to have buffalo wings and chicken-Caesar-wrap sandwiches."

He speaks of the job with a perplexing mixture of affection and derision. It's an attitude that makes you think that no matter what Hoffman says, maybe, just maybe, he hasn't delivered his last House Special.

Pizza, it seems, has a pull. How so? Where do I start? Like Thompson says, you're out there with the wind in your hair, squiring hot little bundles of happiness all across the city. The Food Fairy, if you will.

You get paid every time you work, not just on Fridays. You get to listen to music and sneak slices into your car for a drive-time snack. There's the exhilarating head-rush from the constant stress/relief cycle that only city traffic can bring.

Sure, there are many more reasons. But perhaps it's the following, paraphrased from a bumper sticker advertised on the Web, that best sums it up: you get to see and hear the world, one dollar and one block at a time.

Chris Kanaracus's favorite pizza topping is cheese.

TEN COMMANDMENTS OF THE NON-TIPPER 1. Thou shalt not tip. 2. Thou shalt not have thine money ready when thine driver arrives. 3. Thou shalt not turn thine porch light on when it is dark. 4. Thou shalt try to pay with a $50 or $100 bill. 5. Thou shalt not have a number on thine house. 6. Thou shalt comment on how hot or cold the weather is. 7. Thou shalt not answer thine doorbell on the first ring. (Or thine doorbell shall not work.) 8. Thou shalt attempt to scam for a free pizza. 9. Thou shalt bitch about how long it took. 10. Thou shalt have thine unruly canine answer door prior to thyself. From the moderators of the alt pizza.delivery.drivers newsgroup. EIGHT COMMANDMENTS OF THE GOOD CUSTOMER 1. Thou shalt always tip. If thou canst, thou shalt acknowledge thine driver's fine efforts. 2. Thou shalt answer thine door promptly. 3. Thou shalt refrain from making patronizing statements towards thine driver, including calling him a "pizza dude." "Hello," will do fine. 4. Thou shalt not call for thine dinner less than five minutes before thy pizza restaurant closeth. 5. Thou shalt restrain thine unruly canine. 6. Thou, not thine children, shalt answer thine door and complete the exchange of monies and victuals. 7. Thou shalt understand if thine order is late when weather is at its worst. 8. Thou shalt shovel thine walk. From our own handbook of pizza etiquette. -- CK