#19 Lots Of Issues
It was my first time delivering to a huge mansion that was renowned for big tips. You had to go around the back to a gate leading to the pool patio. The guy who answered the gate doorbell had been disfigured in some horrible accident. He had me wait while he got his wallet, so I got a good dose of the backyard where a raging party was going on. There was craziness in the pool, bottles everywhere, and it was like, midday on a Wednesday.
The guy finally came back, addressed me by name and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?” I realized he must have known me from before he got hurt. I stammered out a weak, “No, I don’t.” His response blew me away—he recalled being in first grade with me at a local Catholic school I attended for a year.
Then, he went on in detail about everything he remembered what happened in that class that year: the people, teachers, activities, etc. Apparently, his accident happened the following summer when he went through a windshield in a head-on with a semi. I delivered there a few more times, and hung out chatting with him as long as I could.
It slowly became clear that the party crowd was just using him for his money. That was messed up enough, but what I also eventually realized was that he was mentally stuck in that last normal year he had lived and, 20 years later, had moved back as soon as he was old enough to access the accident settlement. I had no idea how to help him.
Eventually, I started letting other drivers take that run. I never saw him again, even though it’s a small town. Eventually, he stopped ordering pizza and then I left for a job elsewhere. I would pass by his house occasionally when visiting while my parents still lived there. Fewer and fewer cars were parked out front every time I went by, and the house slowly became overgrown with ivy.
Credit: BrianNotBrad