Delivering pizzas, with all due respect, was a cruisy gig that fit in with my uni commitments. It was 1998, for Pizza Hut at Como, a well-established suburb 15 minutes from Perth’s city centre. I blasted hip-hop through my car stereo and brought home cash tips and – if I was rostered until close – any pizzas that were unclaimed or undelivered that night. Between deliveries, drivers sat in the alley behind the shop and shot the breeze while folding pizza boxes.
The job’s biggest downside was that it didn’t pay much, especially once you factored in the costs of fuel and vehicle maintenance. So I applied for a job as a “sandwich artist” at Subway in Northbridge, Perth’s nightlife district. I figured that switching to a job where I was on my feet instead of on the road would significantly extend the life expectancy of my hand-me-down Mitsubishi Magna.
