I have been shot at.
According to a February 2014 Pizza Today article, pizza delivery does not rank in the top ten most dangerous jobs one can have. Still, I’ve known delivery drivers whose cars were stolen, who have been robbed, and shot in the head. I’ve delivered in a lot of towns, and probably the most memorable has been Muncie, Indiana. I’ve come back from deliveries to my car where I’ve seen five men sitting on my hood, stupid drunk, asking for a ride, and I’ve been asked for sex, and I’ve been shot at. All in Muncie.
My manager used to say, “Light up your car-topper–be the beacon of hope for the huddled hungry masses of the night.” He made us feel like superheroes.
The person who shot at me, I never saw their face. I don’t know if they were black, white, hispanic, and in the moment, when I ducked down underneath my car, race-color of skin–was the furthest from my mind. It was a person shooting at me–for what? Thirty bucks and a pepperoni pizza?
I pissed myself, crawled into my car and sped away home. Changed my pants, went back to work, and was asked what took me so long. I told them, was told I needed to be safer, and took another delivery. There were kids at the next house. Tons of them, all clamoring at the door, their father holding them back as he pulled out his wallet with a grin. “Pizza! Pizza!” they shouted like a mantra.