Happy Labor Day!

Members of the Proletariat, today is your day to BBQ and drink American swill. I raise my can of Miller-something in salute. And even if you don't have a job, buck up. You'll probably get one soon. Things aren't so bad for too long, as long as you have love. Hopefully, you at least have a reasonable facsimile of that.

A-hem...

So I got a part-time gig delivering for the Joint downtown. If I tell you it's going to take more than an hour for your delivery on a lazy Sunday afternoon, it's because you've f*cked up.

Granted, my job pays almost minimum wage. But unlike a pizza joint where the creepy kids in the back put my orders together, I have to do everything except cook the orders. That means I am the one who makes sure you get your extra mayo, your drinks in a well-sealed to-go cup, utensils, and syrup for your pancakes. Then I have to make sure my little towers of foodstuffs don't shift around while I'm tearing a** crosstown in 5 o'clock traffic to bring you your food. I am basically a server on wheels without the post-gorging cleanup. In short, just like a server, I work for TIPS.

I am glad to have two jobs in this wintry economic climate. So don't get me wrong.

But here's the thing:
Conseco Fieldhouse guards, I hate you. I hate bothering to get your food together. You could send the dumpy, mentally challenged guy a few short city blocks over to get your food and then you wouldn't have to worry about tipping or the "delivery fee." (THAT is not my tip. My boss gets it because I drive his car and use his gas.) And Dumpy honestly needs the exercise.

Giving me a 70-cent tip is not generous. Yesterday's two-cent tip was an insult. 70-cent tips are passably OK if you come over and get your order yourself. I am not asking for a mint. Two dollars. That is standard for orders under $40. Otherwise you are wasting time: mine and yours. I'm going to go run every other single delivery in the restaurant BEFORE yours. So if you wonder why your food is lukewarm and soggy, it's because I ran out to Woodruff Place, Methodist Hospital, and that sweet old couple who live OUTSIDE our delivery area in Haughville before I even thought of bringing you your food that was actually made first. Or stop ordering from us all together. There are plenty of pizza places in town. Knock yourself out.

Maybe you all don't make anything guarding the Pacers and Fever from terrorist attacks. Take this Labor Day to rise up against your corporate overlords and demand a few more bucks an hour so the two-buck tip doesn't break your back.

I can hear some of you now: "But Gosh, if we do that they'll give all our jobs to the Mexicans."

And to that I say: Awesome. Maybe then I'll get a tip. At least the chick at the Mexican Consulate gives me two bucks even if all I bring her is a sandwich. And she has more personality than a wet, trigger-happy dishrag.