Rules of the Road

By Janelle Brandon
Staff Writer

A few weeks ago, I went on my first ride-along with a local pizza delivery driver at 1 a.m. to see what late night Fargo-Moorhead really looks like.

At 11:30 p.m. on that clear November night, my husband said, “You look really tired. Are you going to be able to stay up?”

I took his recommendation of setting an alarm and sleeping for an hour. My body protested consciousness when my alarm reminded me of my late night initiation into the streets of pizza journalism.

It was chilly, late, I was tired, and my enthusiasm was seriously waning. And then I thought, “Wow, these late night workers must feel like I do right now quite often.”

I arrived at the pizza shop shortly after 1 a.m. to find a tow truck blocking part of the parking lot. Lucky me! Action right away!

The guy working the counter told me a lady picking up a carryout order had locked her keys in her car with it running. He went on to say that the delivery driver was currently delivering said lady’s pizza to her house where her guests were waiting for her to bring them back the
cheesy goodness. Hey! Score one for the delivery driver for being the hero of the night!

“How are you?” asked the counter guy.

“Tired!” I said. “How do you do this day after day?”

“Energy drinks will go a long way in this line of work,” he replied.

Just then the delivery driver returned and asked if I was ready to join him on a few runs. Absolutely! This is what I’ve been waiting for.

An order came in and we loaded into the car to take the pie to its rightful owner. The delivery car is nothing special, mind you. It is a tremendously practical car, complete with a few dings. The kind of car your parents insist you drive while you’re still under their roof.

As he turned the key in the ignition, music blared out of the speakers. I smiled to myself as I was reminded about how it is when you fly solo without a passenger. You listen to your music at top volume, you sing, you talk to yourself, you work things out. Pizza delivery all of a sudden seemed like a great job for someone who enjoyed taking brief and frequent escapes with solitude.

The aroma of mouth-watering pizza enveloped me (I wasn’t hungry before I stepped into this vehicle!) as we took off toward Fargo.

“So,” I say. “I have questions! Let’s start by dispelling any inaccuracies for the readers.”

“OK,” he said as he glided through an “amber-colored” light, we’ll say. “What’ve you got?”

“Tipping,” I replied. “Are there any rules?”

“Well…” he began. “We usually find that our customers that have worked in the service industry are decent tippers. We just want to make sure people are getting great pizza in a reasonable amount of time and that they’ll order again. So, no strict rules for tipping, I guess.”

“What about the delivery fee?”

“At our shop, the drivers keep the fee,” he said. “That differs from place to place. If you’re not sure where the delivery fee goes, just ask.”

With that, we pull up to an apartment building in Fargo and the driver bolted out of the car. Bolted. I’m not kidding you. It startled me. He took the bag with the pizza in it from the backseat and ran to the door. When he came back, I couldn’t help but ask him what was up with his darting behavior.

“When I used to work in an office, I was stiff and sore a lot,” he admitted. “My muscles don’t ache anymore. I move a lot with this job. I especially love to run up flights of stairs in apartment buildings.”

Guess what? He’s a trim, fit guy. Probably not a shocker.

We head back to the shop to pick up another round of pizzas for delivery. The order was a “double,” meaning multiple stops with multiple orders. We load up again and head out the door.

After dropping off the first delivery, he told me about some of the neat people he’s delivered to and his dismay toward coupons. He actually pronounced “coupons” with the same annoyed inflection that most say the words “taxes” or “car repair.”

When we arrived back at the shop, he bolted from the car to pick up the next order. He stopped abruptly and returned to the car.

“Sh*t!”

“What?”

“I forgot to drop off the second order!” he said. “It’s one of the downsides of having a passenger when delivering.”

Uh oh. I apologized and he assured me that it added only five minutes to the delivery. As it neared 2 a.m., I let him know that I would depart as his orders for delivery began to increase.

I didn’t have many expectations going into the night. I contemplated whether I would witness crime, drunkenness, or late night shenanigans during my ride-along. Nope. Just friendly, hungry people.

There certainly wasn’t a seedy underbelly of Fargo-Moorhead exposed for my journalistic pleasure. THAT particular night. The delivery driver actually laughed when I told him I was secretly seeking to observe mischief.

“Nope, sorry,” he said. “It’s pretty quiet on these streets. There are moments, though. I’ll tell you more stories later…”

Check the ‘Pizza Perspective’ column next month when we’ll decode pizza jargon!

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