One of the hazards of delivering things to strangers’ houses is that they’re strangers.
My third order for today was for a man by the name of Al who lives at 1147 Ratel Lane over in Todd Ranch. A fellow delivery guy warned me about this man’s lack of cleanliness (not to mention lack of generosity in tipping). But hey, it couldn’t be that bad, could it?
Fast forward to about 15 minutes later. The instructions on the order are to go through the back gate and knock on the back door. So I arrive there, open the back gate, notice the pile of trash in the backyard, turn right, and wham – there he is. Not only is he not wearing a shirt, his shorts are sagging far beyond the generally accepted threshold. And there’s the plainly visible ass cr-… wait, no. It wasn’t a crack. It was a friggin’ trench. A full six inches of vertical smile.
PART OF ME WILL NEVER RETURN. PART OF ME IS GONE FOREVER.
And he hasn’t even turned around yet. When he does, I realize that his front isn’t much more presentable than his back: his belly hangs over his shorts (mind you, shorts that are already being worn about eight inches too low), and he’s quite ample in the chest region. I look through the sliding glass door as he goes inside to get his money: the place looks like an indoor landfill. Piles of trash heaped generously all over the living room.
And what do I get for this permanent scar on my psyche? A one dollar tip.
I’ve got half a mind to report him to the owner of the complex. As I drove in, I noticed the big conspicuous sign calling this a homeowners association with “strict rules”. I’m sure one of those strict rules is “throw out your damn trash and put on a damn shirt if you’re going to be out in public.”