Special Delivery

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Last week, it was colder here in Chicago than it was in Siberia.  (You know it’s cold when Lincoln Park Zoo keeps their polar bear, Anana, inside.)  And as the temperature plummeted to a nippy eight below zero, my thoughts naturally turned to that saving grace of all city dwellers- the restaurant delivery guy.

I, along with countless others, started rummaging my “menu drawer’ and rifling through my menu apps on the iPad and iPhone.  Pizano’s, Pat’s, Lou Malnatti’s, Wing Hoe, The Chicken Hut, (terrible name. terrific slaw) these were just some of my go-to options if Old Jack Frost and Mean Mother Nature decided to freeze up my dinner dates.

I took warm comfort in knowing that somehow, someway, my egg roll messenger would always get through.

Like the postman.

And, if, in fact, I called in an order during the O’Hare Ice Age, I promised myself to make it worth his frost-bitten while.  My sympathies were with the poor guy all the frigid way.

Here’s why…

Our very first full-time winter in Snowmass, Colorado found my son, Nick- then sixteen- at a very loose end.  Too young to teach snowboarding and too old for video games, he was bored.

And worst of all, he was broke.

My finances weren’t in the best of shape either, and I couldn’t do too much to alleviate his financial crisis.  Besides, Nick liked the idea of some extra non-parental coin in his pocket.  So he set off to look for a job.

He found one.

Delivery boy for Moondog’s.

For those of you not familiar with this epicurean dining mecca, Moondog’s was an old cable car that used to be moored on Daly Lane below Snowmass mall.  Gone now, alas.

Their menu featured hamburgers, chili dogs, and wraps.  All cooked up at the one-man stove by Jeff, the owner/operator.

Nick had been a very good customer.  And as a regular denizen of the bistro, he was au fait with its menu and on excellent terms with the chef de cuisine.

His transition from patron to peon was swift.

And terrible.

No sooner than Nick had sworn to uphold his sacred duty to promptly deliver dinner when the weather turned uncooperative.

Snow Report Sidebar:  Aspen and Chicago have two different takes on blizzards.  A big winter storm is justifiably dreaded in the city.  Snarls up the traffic, keeps whiny kids home from school and generally makes everything a mess.

But in Aspen it’s called “dumping” and the word is said with an anticipatory glee.  It means fresh powder and first tracks.  A “snow day” here is code for “fun.”

Unless you’re a delivery boy.

Or his mother.

As the skies darkened, and the snow flew, and the visibility closed in to about a foot, Nick’s Moondog pager would go crazy.  There were people all over Snowmass who suddenly craved chili dogs.

Funny, all day long they’d play happily in the snow.  But as night fell, the nesting urge would take over and common sense would prevail. No one in their right mind would venture out just for the sake of junk food. Much easier to pick up the phone and place an order.

Nick rose to this demand like a Mountie.

Each wintry inclement night, he would sally forth in my Toyota Forerunner.  First to Moondog’s up Brush Creek Road when he got a page.  And then out onto the icy, unplowed roads to deliver succor- and cheese fries- to the hungry horde.

In those antediluvian pre-cell phone, pre-GPS days, he was fearless.  Snowmass was, after all, pretty small and Nick knew it- and the mountain- like the back of his Polar Tecked hand.

And of course, the worse the weather, the higher the volume of pages.  Night after snowy night, he’s come home from one order only to be beeped again.  Back he’d go to Moondog’s.

Naturally, he didn’t have to worry about the mileage or wear and tear on my SUV. Or the fact that the gas he was using was probably costing me more than he was earning.  He didn’t even mind cleaning out the stray nacho I would find in the car after two or three nights of hard duty.

He was a working man now and proud of it.  And he liked the camaraderie with the other delivery boys, too.

But there was one fly in the ointment that he didn’t like.

The non-tippers.

Hard to believe, but there were some.

Hard to believe because:  1. Snowmass real estate is pricey.  You have to have money somewhere in your family tree to live there.  2. It’s a small town.  Everybody pretty much knows or will know everyone else sooner or later.  3. Who on earth would be so thoughtless (or so cheap) that they wouldn’t give the kid who just brought them their cheeseburger in a whiteout a few measly bucks for the effort?

The **%^$#@#!!! non-tippers, that’s who.

I’d watch with a combination of amusement and a tiny twinge of angst as my son would head out into the unfriendly night on his appointed rounds.  I was always relieved to hear the Forerunner back in the garage and the door swing open.

Followed by profanity.

“***&^%$#@#!!!! I just drove two hot dogs and a burger up to some guy in Horse Ranch and he didn’t have change for a hundred.  He told me he’d catch me ‘next time.’  There’s not going to be ‘a next time.’  He’s going on the black list!”

“Moondog’s has a black list, Nick?” I queried.  I was impressed.

“You bet, Dude.  Anyone who doesn’t tip goes on it and we never deliver to them again.”

Hmm. Swift Western Justice.  One strike and you were out.

Bad storm after bad storm Nick hung in there.  Then one night, just as Mike and I were debating about our own dinner plans, he flew in.  In a rage.

“That’s it!  Some jerk up in Wildcat just stiffed me!  And it blows out there.  I’m not going out in this crap again.  You can’t see a thing.”

And he stalked off into his room.

I looked at Mike.  He looked at me.  I grinned.  He nodded.

And I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello, Moondog’s?  I’d like to place an order please…”

We could hear Nick’s pager go off inside his bedroom.

Followed immediately thereafter by a blue streak of swearing.

His door flung open and there he stood in all his delivery boy finery- parka, hat, snowboard gloves.

“God damn it.  Someone just ordered three cheeseburgers and fries.  Now I have to go pick it up and bring it to them.  The driving sucks, too.  I hate this.”

And he left.

We were still laughing when he showed up at the door with the dinner I had ordered for the three of us.

Nick was pretty annoyed but he got over it quickly.

I’m a big tipper.

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6 Responses to Special Delivery

  1. Michael Shindler says:

    There is a special place in hell for the parent who can wreak non-specific vengeance on a teenaged son in such a malevolent way. I will be pleased to join you there. All of my revenge has been unintentional, not clever and sophisticated like yours.

    What a great story!

    By the way, with all your tales of Nick and Natasha, your readers like me who are late-comers to the Ross Family Chronicles — and whose children are rough contemporaries of yours, can only wonder whether they have demanded royalties from you for telling their life stories in blog.

    • Ellen Ross says:

      Thanks for the thumbs up, Michael. Glad you liked the prank. It still makes me smile all these years later.

      As far as royalties go, here’s the skinny. I’ve been doing this all their lives. I think Nick was about eight when I started. Nick never reads me so he doesn’t know- or care- that I mine his life. (I had dinner with him last night and told him that today’s post was about him. He was less than moved to read it. He keeps saying, “I’ll read it when it’s a book. Or movie.”) Natasha always threatens to sue me for using her likeness without her permission. I ignore her.

  2. jimmy feld says:

    As it has been said – never let a good crisis go to waste. A win-win opportunity present itself for Nick and you. Start a drone delivery service in Snowmass/Aspen, etc. No more issues with undriveable roads. It is safer, quicker, no more issues with tipping, novel, and most important the money is there to support it. The drone could even take a video of how the snow conditions look on the mountains as it zeros in on your condo with your food still hot. And you probably could control the whole operation from some app on your I-phone.

  3. Jackie Rosenbloom says:

    Kudos to you Ellen for raising a son who wanted a job. My children, Matt and Abby at the age of 15 asked me to sign a work permit allowing them to work at age 15. Matt worked serving yogurt and mopping floors at the end of his day. Abby worked in a bakery. I am convinced that children who learn how hard it is to earn a “buck” have been given a life lesson that passes by children who aren’t employed.
    You may think of your “order” as a prank but I prefer to look at it as a mother’s love. You put a smile as well as a “reward” into Nicholas’s frustration. High fives to high tippers. A big tip may not make a difference in our lives but a big tip can make a difference for others!!!

    • Ellen Ross says:

      My kids have always worked. But I can’t take the bows. Their father, to his credit, insisted on it. But I didn’t want spoiled brats and he had my heartfelt endorsement. Thanks for noticing that love comes in all forms. I tease Nick because he’s a good sport-and a good guy.

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