So my last post about tipping delivery drivers resurrected some memories from my “Get Your Pizza in 30 Minutes or Less” college employment that I apparently had blocked out of my mind for the sake of mental well-being. And because these memories are so fucked and funny… I will share them with you now.

Part 1: The Bird Lady

I can’t believe that I forgot about The Bird Lady. Legends should be made about this woman, and passed down generation-to-generation to scare children into behaving- in the way of the Boogy-man and Babayaga. “If you don’t eat your vegetables, we’ll take you to see the Bird Lady”. She was truly horrific, and tragically sad.

My second day on the job was a Wednesday 4pm to midnight shift. I remember this clearly because after this day, I immediately requested a schedule availability change to only having these shifts on Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday/Sunday because of The Bird Lady. My request was denied because all the other delivery drivers with seniority had already request those shifts because of the Bird Lady.

So I’m standing there with one of the other drivers, and at 4:30 he looks at the clock and says to me “The next call, you’re going to take”… and he smiled this evil and knowing smile. And a couple minutes later- the phone rang, and the counter girl yelled “BIRD LADY!!”. I had a bad feeling about this. But I was the “new guy”, so what could I do? They made the food, gave me the address, and off I went.

I drove out to what used to be the edge of town in Lawrence, KS where all this new housing development was popping up. Clean and lovely identical new houses in various shades of beige with perfectly manicured lawns. I couldn’t figure out what could be so menacing about the customer in this bland milk-toast neighborhood. I found the house (tan with small bushes and tulips all along the front garden), and went up to ring the doorbell- and before the door even opened, the smell hit me. This weird smell of rot and death and decay. I immediately got scared, and knew that I wasn’t getting paid enough to endure what was about to open that door.

The door opened. And every one of my senses was hit with an assault so hostile that I think I might have actually died that day, and my zombie body has been walking around living my life ever since. The woman that was standing in the open door smiling must have been in her early 80’s, with wild white hair that stuck out in every direction, she had food smeared on her face, and she was wearing a sheer cotton little nighty that was paper thin and covered in food stains- AND NOTHING ON UNDERNEATH (which is something that NOONE should ever have to see). The odor that I smelled on the other side of that closed door hit like a tidal wave when that door was opened, and it took everything I had not to visibly gag.

I was able to mumble out the total for the food, and she says “Oh, I have to write a check… come inside!”. I shake my head “no”… but she insists. So I step into the house.

Holy fuck… the house….. let me see if I can do this justice. It was bright and airy looking, and filled with what WOULD have been expensive new carefully-color-coordinated furniture. But the carpets were covered with mystery stains from what looked like various forms of food and ones that looked a little too much like blood for my comfort levels. There was garbage stacked high all throughout the living room, dining room, and what I could see of the kitchen, and plates of rotting food on all the furniture and all over the floors… and there were flies in SWARMS. The TV and radio were both on and blasting- but they were on static channels, so there was nothing but loud white noise. And everywhere were birdcages… there must have been at least 30 of them in the livingroom and dining room alone. Hanging from the ceiling, sitting on top of 4 foot high stacks of newspapers and on tables and countertops. But all the birdcages looked empty. I stood in the livingroom while she shuffled into the kitchen to write her check, and I leaned over to look in one of the birdcages- and was shocked to find a dead rotting parakeet at the bottom. Then I quickly looked into the bottom of another birdcage close to me- and there were 2 rotting finches at the bottom. I looked into a third cage- and yes, another dead bird. But all the cages were piled with bird food… so she was apparently still feeding and watering them. She shuffles back out to the livingroom to hand me a check, and I notice that her hands and arms have little cuts and are smeared with dried blood, as well as dried food. She smiles and says “It’s nice of you kids to bring me my food, because they took my car away” and I just nod and exit the house as quickly as possible. And no, there was no tip involved in that check total.

The smell didn’t leave my hair and clothing until I took a shower that night. I had to drive around for the next 7 hours smelling literally like death.

Upon getting back to the pizza shop, I learned that the Bird Lady orders the same thing at the same time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For the following 2 months until a new driver was hired and became “the new guy”- it was my job to deliver food to the Bird Lady. Each time trying to come up with a new excuse to not enter her house of cheery horrors- and each time getting denied and having to step over that doorstep into the abyss. I was about 19, and didn’t have the awareness to report her living conditions because she obviously wasn’t able to care for herself and an needed assisted living situation. But my boss (who was in his 40’s and married with kids) was well aware of the Bird Lady’s situation and should have known to contact someone- but he was the world’s biggest douchebag and didn’t give a shit. Some family member of hers obviously set her up in a house with new furniture and someone to care for the lawn- and just left her there to rot like one of those little birds in her cages. It was a tragedy on every level.

So that is the first story from the Delivery Driver Diaries.

Tip your fucking driver… because they have to deal with far worse than you can ever imagine.