Delivery story 80 Ebd10 writes: I used to deliver for a local Detroit joint called Dominic's BelCassino. One night, he sent me on a delivery to a house in one of the rougher parts of our area. (At that time, the 5th Precinct in Detroit was labeled by no less than Time Magazine as the most violent precinct in the country. Dominic delivered to the whole precinct.) I pulled up to the house. It was the right house, right address, and the right street, except the house was a burned out shell. I was thinking "SET UP!" and I got back in my car and headed back to the store. I told Dominic what the deal was and he told me they called back and want their pies. Sooo, I go back to the house, this time triple checking everything, and turn right back around and tell Dominic the same thing. By this time the orders were backed up and he needed me to take other stuff, so he grabbed the order and headed out to take it himself. When I got back from the other orders, I found out the people that ordered were indeed in that house. It seems they had a house fire the previous Friday and had to wait until Monday for the insurance company to get them other lodgings. A few years later, I worked at another local joint named Little Italy's on Detroit's East Side. The crew that delivered for Little Italy's were a bunch of lunatics that lived on pizza, marijuana, and exhaust fumes. One delivery that was popular for obvious reasons was a topless bar (can't remember the name but it was on Outer Drive near 7 Mile Rd.) I walked in with an order when this shapely young thing walked up wearing a g-string and a smile. She reached into the crotch of said g-string and pulled out and handed me a soggy $20. (The bill was $14.75.) I gingerly took the bill by one corner and carefully deposited it in my jacket pocket, to be disposed of at the earliest opportunity. The woman must have seen the disgust on my face because she coped an attitude and snaped, "You don't have to be a dick! I'm clean!" I looked at her and replied, "How about next time I stuff your food in my underwear? I'm clean, too!" Needless to say, I got no tip. However, from then on when they ordered food, the cashier at the bar paid for it. A few memories from Detroit's east side: The House by 7 mile and Hoover that had a live mountain lion in the basement. The woman that came to the door in the see-through negligee. (Don't think she was over 70 and probably didn't weigh more than 350 pounds.) All of the idiots that thought we'd actually show up when they told us, "The porch light is burned out. Come around the back and bring change for a $100." Orca's, a gay bar on E. McNichols that was the least popular delivery. They tipped well, but they used to like to tease us "breeders." (That's gay slang for heterosexuals.) Detroit cops, the best that money (or free food) can buy. Winter driving. In Detroit, you don't steer. You accelerate and let the ruts point you in the right direction. return to top