I fucked up big tonight at work.

If you were to ask me, “Snay, what makes a driver fast?” I wouldn’t say “His or her ability to lay on the gas” (although, certainly a willingess to reasonably exceed the speed limit in a safe manner helps.) Rather, I would say, “An intimate knowledge of the delivery area and of the exact locations of our repeat customers’ homes, coupled with an understanding of the rush-hour traffic flow, and an ability to route oneself in one’s head, making adjustments based on unforseen traffic events.”

So tonight was actually fairly busy, a welcome change from the rest of the week. Even with seven drivers working, it was very much in-and-out-again, which is much preferable to in-and-sit-around-for-forty-minutes-waiting-for-another-delivery.

Anyhoo, around 6:30 or so, Greg assigned me a double: Ravenhurst and Windy Manor. Here was my first mistake: I didn’t double check the map to be certain I knew where the streets were. I know exactly where Ravenhurst is, I’ve been there often enough, but none of the three streets that start with ‘Windy’ are often visited by pizza guys. And, while they’re all in a relatively localized area, the key word is “localized.”

Here’s my second mistake: I don’t carry a map of the delivery area in my car (actually, I would need two as we deliver to parts of both Baltimore and Harford Counties.)

Do you need to know where this is going? Yep. First I went to Windy Hill. Nope! I didn’t even pay attention to the street sign, the guy who answered the door with a “We didn’t order pizza … did we?” tipped me off that I was on the wrong street. I paid more attention when I got to Windy Farms, and started cursing as I pulled a hard youie and called the store from my cell phone to get a location on the street.

I wound up being out of the store for forty-five minutes on a double that should’ve taken twenty-five. Thankfully, Windy Manor still tipped generously, but instead of ending the night with ten deliveries, I probably could’ve had twelve if I hadn’t taken twice as long as I did.

So endeth the lesson: check the map, because, like most men, I do hate asking for directions (even when there’s a tip on the line.)