Dear "Falafel Lady"

I’m sorry I forgot your falafel balls. I’m sorry you cried. I’m sorry this interaction took place in public. You seemed like you were having a bad day, I didn’t mean to make it worse. I just want you to know that your falafel balls were unheard of, and I had no care whatsoever for what may or may not have been missing from your bag. I am a restaurant delivery driver, and I have no intention of ”bending over” for that $1.37 tip you added on GrubHub.

We live in a world that has outgrown human service jobs; and will one day be controlled by an army of semi-conscious artificial intelligence. Until that day, sad people like me will deliver your fish tacos to your doorstep for the spare change you find slipped inside your couch. GrubHub is the enemy of pride, and it will slowly degrade the morale of all restaurant delivery drivers until none of us are left. When you order a nine dollar meal online, and GrubHub gives you the option to tip nine cents, don’t tip nine cents.

My job really should be easy; however, it’s always unnaturally difficult to find the right house, or business, or doctor’s office, or homeless guy who ordered the next panini. And there are so many paninis; your panini is not special, no one’s panini is special to me. I practice a strict policy of panini equality. More importantly, I have no idea what you ordered. I was not involved in the ordering process, nor did I care to glance anymore carefully at your receipt; see $1.37 tip.

When you’ve been waiting for your fish tacos (i don’t know why I've chosen fish tacos) for a ridiculously long time, it’s rarely the fault of the delivery driver. The kitchen usually forgot about your food. Unfortunately, this little dilemma occurs bi-weekly and I often find myself absorbing complaints of dissatisfied under-tippers. I’ve never had a delivery that’s taken longer than 15 minutes; we’re dealing with a classic case of don’t kill the low-wage messenger.

I don’t work in the kitchen, I spend a total of 30 seconds a day in the restaurant, and yet somehow at the end of my shift, I’m covered in food. I don’t even pack your food, at four dollars an hour there’s not much they can make you do. I’m not saying my job is particularly difficult, maybe monotonous. I drive bags of food from, point A to point B, C, D, etc., I’m not claiming it’s rocket science. My claim is solely towards one of self-pity; people tip me because they know that other people will focus their complaints on me.

So the next time you’re on a Netflix and pizza binge, and it’s the sixth time the delivery driver has been to your house that week, throw him an extra few dollars; out of pity, of course.