Tales from the Roadside

Between 1997 and 1998, I was managing editor of a national business trade journal in McLean, Va. – moonlighting as a part‑time driver for Takeout Taxi’s Arlington, Va., franchise for fun and profit (but not necessarily in that order). I never got around to publishing my roadside misadventures – reflected in the following vignettes – until now. Hope you enjoy these recollections from years past!
Lest we forget the Friday Massacre
There’s this dowdy, middle‑aged woman named Eva bearing down with all her might on a musty couch in a cluttered, smelly tenement in the center of Arlington with two scrawny Asian boys by her side. She’s about to pay for a grilled chicken Caesar salad with extra dressing and three bacon cheeseburgers with fries. What a juxtaposition. Only thing missing is a glass of cold milk to wash down the chocolate crunch cake she nabbed for dessert. It says on the faxed order that the motley threesome were victims of the infamous Friday Massacre of Nov. 4, 1995, when a string of late or botched deliveries resulted in a $10 credit to her account. That was long before I started working for T.O.T., as it’s known on log sheets at high‑rises and restaurants. Not surprisingly, she checks the Styrofoam containers real carefully to make sure everything’s there. The pressure is killing me. I’m not so sure I can stomach much more second‑guessing. They implore us to check every food item before leaving the restaurant. What does she expect, anyway? I’m a writer, for God’s sake!
A knucklehead and a gentleman
Before T.O.T. actually turned me loose on the rough‑and‑tumble roads of Arlington, they made me run around town with two other drivers for 48 hours. Standard procedure, they say. Which is probably a good idea knowing how some of the drivers can barely speak English (how are they ever gonna read a map? I wonder). Amazingly, they do their jobs quite well – even better than the life‑long resident drivers.
What a contrast in style between the two deliverymen with whom I "trained." My first day out, I shared a ride with the guy who does most of the training for the Arlington Takeout Taxi franchise. He’s an affable, middle-aged gent who looks like a cross between Jim Brown and Johnnie Cochran but with none of the attitude. He’s put several kids through college, has a respectable computer procurement job with the federal government and just let his wife take a cruise with one of their daughters. Is this guy for real? I’m wondering if he’ll adopt me. My parents would understand.
On the next day, they pair me up with a sort of gruff, swaggering fiftysomething union fat cat who slips into the first half hour of conversation how he earns $84,000 a year at his Day Job but has been doing T.O.T. for really one reason: alimony. Turns out that old lover boy (who looks and sounds like John Goodman doing Babe Ruth) is on his third wife. When the conversation turns to who tips well and who doesn’t, he tells me about some guy named Dr. Rosenthal who falls into the latter category. Oh no, I think to myself. I can see it coming a mile away. "Figures," he sneers. "The guy’s Jewish." Little does he know that I’m, ahem, also Jewish. Should I speak up? I do. And it sounds something like this: "Well, you know it can also work the other way. Jews can be pretty good tippers. I should know," I gulp. "I’m ... Jewish." His face turns three shades of red as he tells me how his best friend is Jewish (oh that’s a new one) and he didn’t mean it in a prejudicial sense (what other sense is there, pal?!). He was just raising that harmless little old Stereotype. Didn’t mean anything by it. Just like Shakespeare’s Shylock (that actually wasn’t in the conversation. I just threw it in. I’m not sure he even knows about the Bard of Avon).
The birth of "Pinky"
For financial reasons only, I decide to use my wife’s pink Ford Aspire for deliveries (yes you heard right, the car’s pink). That’s because I don’t want the wear and tear on my 1988 Honda Accord (which, for the record, is a rather handsome Montreal blue). Be careful, my insurance agent warns pitching me extra coverage for my Honda while we’re on the subject. "Wow, your wife’s car really is pink! " says the guy who hired me at T.O.T. "Well, technically it’s Wild Iris," I respond rather sheepishly. "From now on," he muses, pondering that one great radio handle, "you’ll be known as ... Pinky." For the next week, I’ve got the song "Pinky" by Elton John and Bernie Taupin from the "Caribou" album dancing around my brain with its catchy, mid‑tempo melody but insipid lyrics. Here’s a sample: "Pinky’s as perfect as the Fourth of July/Quilted and timeless, seldom denied." What the heck does that mean? And who is this cat named Pinky, anyway? Well, for about six months in ‘96, it was me. And there simply was no getting that song out of my head.
Caught red‑handed
Me and my Big Mouth. I’m unpacking $72.90 worth of grub for a fellow scribe at Inside Washington, a political mag in Crystal City, when I overhear a conversation about how the clean‑cut kid from Jersey who single‑handedly won Game 2 of the Orioles‑Yankees series for the Bronx Bombers was supposed to do the talk‑show circuit the next morning. "They outta shoot that kid," I muttered under my breath, still pissed that the O’s were robbed of the momentum they sorely needed for their first World Series appearance since Cal began The Streak. "ExCUSE me?!" the writer barked. "You shouldn’t have said that before the gratuity." It wasn’t the reaction I expected. Feeling like a scolded child, my knees buckled but sprang to life just in time for me to high‑tail it on out of there. That’s the last time I try and act cynical and aloof in front of My Own Kind!
Life doesn’t always imitate art
In a near remake of the TV commercial from two Super Bowls ago where the Coke and Pepsi guys share a carbonated Kodak moment, I make a friendly overture to The Competition: some dude from Restaurants on the Run who’s parked in front of Red Hot & Blue barbecue by the Clarendon Metro. But he seems startled by my surprise greeting and salutation – almost put off by it. I suppose life doesn’t always imitate art.
"Takeout Taxi (Driver)," the movie
It probably was only a matter of time before I got lost on the I-395/George Washington Parkway/Route 110 quagmire between the Pentagon and Crystal City – not once but twice! Two wrong turns is all it took. What a traffic engineering monstrosity this stretch of road is. It features the absolute worst signage in the Free World. What were county planners thinking? That knuckleheads like me eventually would figure it out? The road rage is building inside. One more bum turn and I’m liable to start spraying bullets in either direction (Bobby DeNiro could reprise the role of Travis Bickle for a soon‑to‑be‑major‑motion‑picture‑titled "Takeout Taxi Driver"). Then again, I’m not having a very good day to begin with. A few hours earlier, an animal control officer for Fairfax County slaps me with a citation for walking my 10‑pound Chihuahua to the condominium trash bin without a leash and not being able to produce the little critter’s county dog license. True story. The best thing that’s happened so far is this woman with a lazy left eye living in a luxury high‑rise tipped me $8. This day is so bizarre. When’s it gonna end?!
Scalded by the pasta primavera
Richard Berendzen used to be president of The American University – until a bizarre and rather embarrassing telephone sex scandal brought his promising career as an academic administrator to a crashing halt. Nowadays, he can be found ordering pasta primavera from California Pizza Kitchen from a posh Crystal City high‑rise. I wanted so badly to make a good first impression but ended up inadvertently burning his hands on the plastic container that I forgot to bag. He was downright grumpy about the scalding (I take full blame for it). So much for confessing how I admired the unusual candor with which he publicly reflected on his sex‑offender recovery at Johns Hopkins.
This was no New York minute
Got bitched out on North Potomac Street by a customer (that’s what they call the people we deliver to) who didn’t want to hear how busy it got at Chevy’s Restaurant, located across from the Pentagon City Mall where parking is a nightmare for T.O.T. drivers because the only place you can really leave the car without getting a ticket is the Crystal City equivalent of a walk across the state of Rhode Island (it’s actually on 12th Street around the comer, where about half a dozen spaces are reserved for deliveries only). Obviously, she doesn’t understand that you can’t just nuke fajita nachos (much less pronounce ‘em). Same goes for the quesadilla appetizer she ordered. The target time, that’s T.O.T. lingo for when the order is expected in the customer’s hands, reads 7:29 p.m. (why can’t they just round these things off?!). I’m not sure exactly when I got there. It seemed like a week after leaving the restaurant. They all seem that way the first few weeks on the job.
The would‑be credit‑card heist
Ran off with a woman’s American Express card – unintentionally, of course. AmEx is such a snooty credit card. If it only had been Visa Gold ... Now that’s a plastic‑coated heist worth pursuing! See, T.O.T. sells each driver an imprinter to run the cards through. Sometimes, it’s tough to hand over the food, operate the imprinter and smile broadly – all at the same time. Something had to give. I guess it was the credit card. Moments after dropping the order of BBQ ribs, loaded baked potato and dinner salad at the FDIC Training Center on North Monroe Street, I noticed the "customer" running out after me – arms flailing in the summer breeze, her rather large frame shimmying across the front lawn. "Oh, I’m so sorry!" I concede. "I’m just not thinking today."
"Stiffed" on Wilson Boulevard
Forty‑five cent tip on $14.55 worth of grub. It’s the closest I’ve come to getting "stiffed." That’s what we in the industry call a tipless delivery. It happens about 1 % of the time – at least that’s what the guys who hired and trained me claim. It’s not a pleasant feeling. This took place about 7 p.m. on the Friday before Labor Day right outside the customer’s workplace on Wilson Boulevard, no less. She probably likes to cross picket lines. Apparently, we were supposed to meet at the building’s back entrance but my dispatcher never mentioned this. So while she waited in her beat‑up car, I hung out in the lobby – until she finally spotted me and motioned me over. When I showed up without a receipt and had trouble making change in five seconds flat, she got snippy and peeled out of the parking lot. I cussed and fumed my way back to the Pinkymobile. Ain’t love a bitch?!
Risking life and limb over a $2.24 tip
It’s just after 10 p.m. and I’m about to leave the Black Eyed Pea in Bailey’s Crossroads with a broccoli‑cheese stuffed potato, salad with bleu cheese dressing on the side, wheat rolls and vegetable plate headed for the tony Lenox Club on 12th Street in Crystal City. Target time reads 10: 19 p.m. I’m told by the radio dispatcher to hustle my butt on this one. Trouble is, the address is cross town. And believe me, it ain’t worth risking life and limb over a $17.18 order with a lousy $2.24 tip ($3 is considered average). But I floor it anyway, hell bent on not screwing up my marching orders so early into this gig. I need the money too badly. So I arrive just in time – only to find that the customer doesn’t answer the door until after five minutes of enthusiastic knocking on my part. Woke the guy up, after all that! I’m not sure if it was the lateness of the hour or what, he was a complete dead ringer for Eddie Murphy. Wow. Never delivered to a celebrity before – or at least some dude who looks like one.
If looks could kill
They said there’d be no scary neighborhoods on the Arlington delivery route, but the stretch of Whitfield Commons on North Thomas Street where I ventured one night certainly qualified as one. A motorist who was backing up from a parking lot I was headed into burned a hole right through me with the dirtiest of looks (can’t say as I blame him, considering my car nearly scraped his on the way in).
How to make a grown man cry
Got ticketed by the cops for the first time. The offense: parking illegally on the comer of 9th and Randolph streets for what I figured would be about five minutes while I ran in a $16.61 order of chips and salsa to the Four Seasons Tanning Salon. Only trouble was I couldn’t find the place (it’s nestled away on the ground floor of a Ballston high‑rise). The damage was $40, which pretty much wiped out my tips for the night. I cried like a baby. Twice. For about 15 minutes in my car while others drove on by. How pathetic. I can’t even handle a parking ticket!
Thank God for talk radio
I sure end up listening to a lot of talk radio between deliveries. It helps drain the boredom that wells up inside. On one drop‑dead gorgeous Saturday afternoon the day after Hurricane Fran pounded the region, causing some of the worst power outages in Virginia history, I stumble upon this 24‑year‑old female caller to Dr. Laura Schlessinger’s pop‑psychology show whose dad doesn’t think she should remarry (her first trek to the altar at age 16 produced three children with a cop who later ran off with a fellow officer’s wife). Apparently, daddy has a boatload of money. But Hubby No. 2 doesn’t mind. He’s willing to sign a pre‑nup. "Just marry the guy, already!" I shout at the radio. "Tell your father to take a hike. Who’s life is it, anyway?"
Nothing but the mole story
Here’s a strange thought: It occurred to me one night when I had way too much time on my hands that there are not one, not two but three women with really conspicuous facial moles working at TGIF on the Arlington-Alexandria line. These are people who deal with the public. One of them is a hostess, for crying out loud. Is it just me or do patrons lose their appetites over stuff like this?
Naked men are pretty good tippers
There’s a naked man standing behind the door in a rundown apartment complex on South 28th Street across from a ballfield. I must have been running about 20 minutes behind because the addresses are literally falling off these buildings. You need a psychic to make a delivery there! When I finally arrive, he takes about two minutes to respond. By the second set of knocks, he’s ranting about needing to slip into some clothes. When the door swings open, it’s as though I’m face‑to‑face with a sort of demented version of Truman Capote (which some might argue is redundant). He fumbles for a pen to sign the credit card slip (would Truman have been that clumsy?), then asks for change of a $10. Why bother mixing cash and credit? You chose one or the other. It’s simply not done! But I oblige anyway, then discover the filthy lucre is meant for my pocket – with an extra $2 tip. He too, the man confesses, once delivered food (pizza, I think it was). He feels my pain and wants to brighten my night. Good thing he wasn’t a trench coat flasher. That could have gotten ugly.
Rosh Hashanah and the munchies
One thing I gleaned from this job is not to spend much time analyzing tipping patterns. Case in point: There’s a twentysomething guy with an amazing view of the monuments living in a luxury high‑rise near the Key Bridge who consumes mass quantities of food every time he and his pals get the munchies. When I delivered $51.35 worth of Indian and Lebanese food one night (a rare dual delivery), the bong hits literally blew past me as I knelt to ink up the credit‑card slip. He tips me $6. Now I’m not complaining, but remember that this is from a guy who clearly has more money than he knows what to do with. That same night, I show up with two bowls of sweet onion bisque soup, a seared fresh tuna, salmon dinner, white chocolate ‑raspberry shortcake, some peanut butter "thing" – in short, The Works. The tip is generous, perhaps because the couple ordering from the ever‑snooty Bistro Bistro remembered how I’d wished them a happy Jewish New Year a few weeks before and figured from the looks of my shnozolla (in this case, a badge of honor) that 1, too, hailed from the Tribe of David. Who ‘sez we’re all tightwads?!
Another one‑armed Republican
Election Day eve at the tony Buchanan House in Crystal City. The man who answers the door at the 10th‑floor apartment lets me in for some light political banter as I write‑up the $34.45 order for a Santa Fe chicken pizza, Portobello‑mixed mushroom pie and chopped salad with spinach and dressing on the side. This is his ninth order with T.O.T. "Looks like Clinton tonight," laments the customer who has use of only one arm, seated below a wall of framed 8x10 of him and Jack Kemp and just about every other blue‑blood Republican out there. Better not mention that I voted for The Enemy earlier in the day. Just might get stiffed.
Two nights of tips down the drain
Got my second ticket: failure to obey a traffic sign posted on North Stafford Street between Wilson Boulevard and Fairfax Drive (again in Ballston). What a bone‑headed move on my part. I saw the cop just sitting there in his cruiser waiting to nab me. I didn’t even bother contesting this one (nor did I shed a tear). The next day, I mailed a check for $85 to the Arlington Treasurer. That’s two nights of tips! Jeeeeeeeeeeze. I’m such a bum.
This cop had heart
Yet another encounter with a man in blue. We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, I’m thinking, as he pulls me over for running a red light at 10th Street and Fairfax Drive (you guessed it, the Ballston area). I’m literally quaking in my boots, figuring that three strikes in as many months on the job and I’ve got to quit this gig. Thinking on my feet, I figure the best defense may as well be a solid offense. So I start disputing the call before he even slams the cruiser door, which pisses him off to no end (who the hell am I? Dennis Rodman?). Now I’m afraid he’s about to draw his revolver and shoot me silly. After a harsh tongue‑lashing, the Cop With A Heart decides to give me a warning. "Everyone deserves a second chance," he says before letting me drive off into the dark of night. I breathe such a heavy sigh of relief that gale warnings could be felt across the Eastern Seaboard that night.
Call security!
I’ll never forget order No. 1473 from Chevy’s Restaurant one sunny afternoon on the 16th anniversary of John Lennon’s murder. What started out as a routine delivery involving roughly $20 worth of Mexican food nearly turned into a brawl between a burly, bushy‑haired man and a female security guard who insisted that the customer pay for his meal in the lobby of the building where he was getting caught up on some work. The man refused, verbally strong‑arming the guard into letting him bring me up the elevator several floors above the commotion where, lo’ and behold, he left his credit card. "How can I get any work done if I have to go down for the food each time it’s delivered," he spewed, nearly foaming at the mouth in the process. When I returned to the lobby, the security guard was already calling for back‑up to eject him from the premises. Talk about heartburn!
I often wonder about that close encounter with off‑road rage. But within weeks of the incident, it no longer seemed to matter. My credit‑card debts were now paid off, and my wife was about to re‑enter the work force. The roadside anecdotes also were about to end. Soon, I was back home on the couch with the clicker, surfing the local 120‑channel cultural cesspool instead of running chips and salsa cross town for $3‑a‑pop of pocket change. Far removed from all the near‑fisticuffs and delivery gripes.
Oh how I miss the road!