Tales From the Road III: Disenchantment

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Nearly two months after I started, and after a 30-day-straight run of work, I’m not delivering food much these days. Too many expenses, too little pay, too much unpredictability, too much wear-and-tear on an expensive vehicle made for off-roading, not excessive city driving. My poor Ruby has gained over 6,000 miles since I kicked off this gig. Too much, too soon. At this point, I’m just begging for some expensive repairs.

On the nights I do work, the experience is not what it used to be.

For starters, the Arizona heat has set in. Tonight, as I head out to work, it’s a little after 5PM, and the temperature is 111°F when I get in the car - that’s just a hair shy of 44°C for you non-Americans out there. But my Jeep is charcoal gray with a black soft-top, so inside it’s a refreshing 125°F - nearly 52°C. I know this because I brought my meat thermometer with me and let it sit on the passenger seat, its digital readout creeping up by several decimal places at a time before coming to a rest around the temperature of a steak cooked medium rare. It’s so hot that my sunglasses, having spent time inside my air conditioned house, begin fogging up around the edges. I fire up the engine and start the AC. Twenty minutes later, driving south down Tatum Blvd, it’s only cooled off to 102°.

I try to stay both hydrated and awake. I start with an electrolyte drink before leaving home, but while driving I switch to an iced americano. The cream in my coffee tastes good, but makes me thirstier. I finish that and switch to my large insulated tumbler of water. It’s going to be a non-stop intake of liquids tonight.

First pick up is a pizza run. As I make my way to the drop-off, the delicious smell of a hot pie wafting from my insulated bag, a young woman driving a black hatchback in the oncoming lane fails to calculate the time needed to make her left-hand turn in front of me. She stutter stops, then halfheartedly glares at me like having to wait for me to pass so she can make her turn is somehow my fault. 

Sorry lady, I think, that’s on you. You’re gonna have to figure out how to drive.

The sun is inching slowly towards the horizon and with it, the digital mercury slowly creeps down as well. 15 minutes into my shift the outside temp is at 109°. The Jeep is still a pizza-scented sauna. The air conditioner can’t keep up.

At this point in the year, I live for the dark.

Not for the first time, I think about how I need a small, white, fuel efficient vehicle. One with a killer cooling system. But the cash I would have to outlay to buy another vehicle would seemingly negate the tiny financial advantage doing this kind of gig work offers in the first place. I only made 90 bucks last night for five hours of work, and I don’t expect tonight’s haul to be much better. 

A thought comes, unbidden: