The road less cycled

My final delivery of the night – probably # 11 or 12. The order is taken late, about 5 minutes before closing time. A ham, beef, pineapple medium pizza with a couple of cheesy breads, a 2L of Coke, and a few ranch dips. My manager, who took the order, says something about loving those guys, and that they’re in a basement suite with a glass sliding door. I see what she means when I arrive at the address. I’m still fishtailing wildly on these little sidestreets – the rain hasn’t overcome the snow just yet and I enjoy the sensation so I don’t bother slowing down. The kid is waiting for me on the front lawn. I’m a little late, as I have the wrong address on my ticket and missed a turn because my mind was elsewhere. The name on the ticket is Parker, and the kid definitely resembles a Parker. Baseball cap pulled sideways, and a bit of a defiant, yet downcast look in his eyes.

I follow him to the back of the house, where I step through the open glass door. I wonder, do these kids live on their own here? But no; in the back corner of the room some pillows are arranged into the form of a bed, and a middle-age man is huddled there. I assume he’s the father. He observes me, but doesn’t say anything. In the other corner, in front of a small television screen is a woman with curly black hair. The mother. Or perhaps one of them is a step-parent.  Whatever the case, neither of them respond to my polite question about how their evening is going.

I give the boys their total – roughly $30.00. The woman mutters something about $30.00 for a pizza. Parker replies that there’s 2 cheesy breads too, and besides, what does it matter since he’s paying for it. He gives me $40.00, and I give them their change, which the boys quickly split. Money is precious to them.

The man hasn’t spoken, but continues to observe me as I make ready to leave. The woman nods goodbye to me – it’s a furtive, hesitant glance. She’s uncomfortable; embarrassed; disapproving. Says (the boys) must have a bigger bank account than she does. I grab my heatwave bag, and leave the family to their food, wishing with all my heart that they enjoy it to the fullest. The boys tipped $3.00 – an extravagance they can ill afford. On the drive back, I’m ashamed to have taken it. I’m angry, too. I make record time back to the store, going close to if not over 100km/h on Maclure as I reflect on the scene. I’m angry at how the boys are growing up, having to confront the hard economic realities at such a young age. Angry that the parents must live in poverty, still, with little hope to improve their lot in life. Angry at myself for taking the tip. Angry at my culture for accepting this. Where were the neighbours when the family moved in? Did anybody say, “hi, so we’re neighbours now, eh? My name’s so and so – want to come over for dinner one night?”

I’m glad I’m a delivery driver. I’ve lived a privileged life; a comfortable middle-class existence. Always food on the table and dependable family. I don’t want to live in ignorance of the poverty, the homelessness, the addictions, the struggles so many are going through. As I drive, I vow to do what I can to help. I may be only one person, but a community is composed of many individuals all doing their part. I have an elderly friend from the local naturalist’s club who brings big pots of soup to the youth shelter. I don’t have any youthful friends who do the same, unfortunately. All this reminds me of a poignant saying I saw on the fridge at a friend’s grandparent’s place a few years back.

Paraphrased, it goes: “Observing all the street people in poverty, I asked God, ‘How can you accept this? Why don’t you do something about it?’ God replied, ‘I did do something: I made you.’”

I’m not religious; I have some vague and undefined spiritual notions, but I do reject the argument that some of my friends offer that they’re not Christian because Christians are so hypocritical. One pointed out that if Jesus were here today, he’d be downtown at Five Corners helping the hookers. Fair enough – seems to be a pretty damn good reason to be a Christian to me. Don’t judge Christianity by Christians; judge it by Christ.

One lonely, contemplative, reserved, broke, confused pizza delivering environmentalist student cyclist signing out and hitting the sack.