A correction: In last week’s story I said Jerry rode for W.A.R. He corrected me, saying he rides for R.A.D. while the others with associations at work ride for W.A.R. I flip-flopped them in my mind. I apologize to my readers and vow to avoid such grave lapses in reporting henceforth.

Ehem.

This article’s project has been in the works for almost as long as this blog. I spent a month in February and March recording all kinds of details about every delivery I made, 268 of them all told. Skip to the next section to see my results.

I wanted to know what went into a customer’s tipping decision: how long they wait, how much they buy, their sex, race, income, or just habit? I was especially intrigued with the paradox of chipper customers who tipped poorly, and of sullen customers who nevertheless tipped me generously.

I paused at front desks, driveways and elevators to scribble observations in a tiny pocket journal. With each entry, I would draw a triangle and rate my customer’s mood on a scale from 1 to 4.

I love the kind of writing and research done by authors like Malcolm Gladwell and the authors of Freakonomics. They use data to understand why people do what they do. This pet research project of mine is one nerdy attempt to teach myself to do the same thing.

I’m not a mathematician. I’m learning as I go; I’m not yet proficient with the nuances of standard deviation, statistical significance or adjustment for multiple factors. These findings are fairly preliminary and don’t stack up to accepted standards of blah, blah, blah… I do think there are a few clear and immediate insights, and I plan to dig deeper. I’d welcome any expert help.

A Typical Delivery
Sometimes people in elevators and office buildings are surprised to learn I’ll deliver for one sandwich. That’s actually the standard. Here’s a snapshot of the average delivery. The average delivery costs $8.88 (although real prices come out to multiples of $.25), contains one sandwich and takes 16.5 minutes to deliver. It earns its driver a tip of $2.71. My average shift, at least during the study, lasted between 3 and 4 hours, during which I ran 13 deliveries.

Here’s what I found about tipping in my job:

Men tip an average of 15% more than women.
The average tip from a male is $2.91, while his female counterpart tips $2.53. Again, this describes the tiny subset of men and women living and working Uptown, and specifically those who order sandwiches for delivery.

Interestingly, men also usually spend about a dollar more per order than women. That equals a can of coke. The exception here is with large orders, where women seem to coordinate more of the lunch meeting catering orders. Women also order almost two sandwiches per delivery, whereas men order fewer than 1.5. Neither sex seems to be any more prone to sandwich cravings than the other. The breakup is almost exactly 50 / 50.

Variance by Race
A FEW DISCLAIMERS: I have been cringing to write this section for fear of accusations of racism, but despite the limitations I think there may be something of value here. While I described several groups by race in my research, blacks and whites were the only groups to show up in large enough numbers to show reliable trends. I’ll include Asians as well, but as there were only 9 in my data set any conclusions should be taken with a grain of salt. I made race determinations visually. Sometimes I wouldn’t see the person at all. I suspect that I tended to describe some mixed-race and latino customers as white. I consider race, along with economic class, to be the least reliable dimensions of my research since they are both incredibly hard to measure with confidence.

Let’s take a look at the data.

Whites averaged $3.10 per tip, Asians, $3 per tip, and blacks averaged $2 per tip.

Again, here it’s important to note that blacks were overrepresented in jobs that appeared to be blue-collar (which I defined as hourly-waged rather than salaried). Blacks were equally likely to be blue- or white-collar workers. Whites, meanwhile, were three times more likely to be white-collar than blue-collar. This brings us to our next point.

White-collar workers tipped 14% more than blue-collar workers. Blue-collar workers tipped an average $2.39. White-collar workers tipped $2.72. Perhaps this isn’t surprising. Maybe what is surprising about this figure is that it isn’t larger, given the huge income disparity amongst our customers.

Interestingly, a large third group of individuals that I labeled “N/A” for class were the most generous tippers, giving $3.01, a full 26% more than blue-collar workers. I have no clue how to explain this. Perhaps these people were too busy to accept their own lunch and had someone else sign for it. In that case, maybe they played executive roles and thus had higher incomes.

This is what’s so fun and so dangerous about statistics: you can read any story you want onto a figure. It’s human nature to seek stories that explain the world, but sometimes we’re overeager and get into trouble. It would be wise, then, to investigate this “executive” hypothesis with further research before propagating any “common sense” narrative for it. Oops, too late.

Wait Time
Our company brands itself for its fast delivery. It turns out that yes, in fact, tips drop off with longer wait times. Deliveries made in under 20 minutes earned tips of 26% of their subtotal price, while longer waits pushed tips down to 22% of subtotals. That’s a 15% drop in tip income between fast and slow deliveries. I’d better get my tushy moving!

Mood matters a little.
The difference in tipping between a low-energy, minimally engaged 2 rating to a personable and positive 3 rating goes along with only a 12% increase in tipping, from $2.54 to $2.84. Tipping actually goes down with the jump to extreme chipperness, with 4’s tipping an average $2.80.

I had only two instances of 1 moods, which I defined as demonstrably angry. Of these, one person gave me a dollar. So one could make the (irrelevant and ridiculous) statement that moving from a 1 to a 2 will increase tipping fivefold.

I broke my wrist halfway through this study. I had a cast on my left hand starting at the beginning of March, and I wondered whether this garnered me any sympathy tips. As it turns out, though, my tips actually dropped about 9%. Go figure.

The real takeaway here is that most of what goes into a tip has little to do with a person’s individual sandwich experience. A tip can be predicted more by factors that were established at birth than anything else. A person’s race, gender, and economic class have a huge effect on their likely tipping practices.

These kinds of findings make me want to work towards a world with better opportunities for the less fortunate. I think poor tipping speaks to poor life opportunities. Tipping is certainly cultural, and so is poverty.

I think it’s particularly important to tackle root causes of problems like generational poverty. That’s why I’m motivated to start asking questions like how we can better equip parents of underprivileged children. Using data can help us get there.

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punk-floor

Jerry has always surprised me with his nuggets of practical wisdom. One day I was admiring the giant industrial can opener we use at the store. “You know there’s a way to open a can without a can opener,” he chimed in. “Oh really? How?” I wondered. He explained that traveling kids open cans by scraping them upside down against a sidewalk. The concrete wears away the lip until the lid separates from the container, allowing it to lift off. On another occasion, Jerry recommended using zip ties to temporarily fix a gear that was falling off my bike. I was amazed that the fix not only worked, but held flawlessly for 3 hours, long enough to finish my shift and go to a bike shop.

These but a few examples of Jerry’s “punk wisdom.” His intelligence, curiosity and resourcefulness have given him an understanding of the world that never ceases to amaze me. He amazes me, in part, because I realize he could pursue more in life if he wanted to. Jerry has invested several thousand dollars in his own pedicab enterprise, hauling passengers during weekends and events and employing friends who use his rig while he works at the shop. “Working for someone else is kind of like renting out your life,” he said, explaining his entrepreneurial bent, “they make way more money off your time than you do.” But most of Jerry’s entrepreneurial projects are just that – side projects.

I’ve tried asking Jerry about ideas like the “highest good” and “moral imperatives.” “If someone wrote a book about your life, what would be the common theme?” I asked. Jerry paused for a long time. We sat under a car port at his place, and a storm had rolled in. I heard a thunder clap in the distance. Rain beat on the roof as half a minute passed. “I dunno…” he said finally, and paused to consider again. “Probably like, I have actually no idea what it would be about,” he said. He admitted he was still figuring it out. He said he was only 30, that he was trying to do better than generations that came before, but in his own way, with his own priorities. He lamented having to work multiple jobs, but said he appreciated the ability to do “fun stuff,” playing music, traveling and riding bikes. I suggested that his lifestyle could be described as bum life. “I guess someone on the outside could call it that,” he said, “but it’s hard to get a good look at it.”

The fact of the matter is that Jerry doesn’t think about life in terms of the highest good or any moral imperative. The closest thing Jerry has to a life goal is collecting experience. “I’m not into having shit. I’m into doing shit,” he told me. Money and things, for Jerry, are just tools for collecting experience. He said life is a work of art, and we shape life with our experiences. “You’d be wasting it if you’re not getting after it,” he said. “Live and let live. That’s kind of the unifying theme for me.”

One night after work, Jerry and I found ourselves sitting on a bench outside Common Market. We got to talking about his favorite places: half a dozen dumpster diving spots and the best times to visit them, a rooftop from which to watch baseball games for free, and three or four hole-in-the-wall joints to get food. He told me the Shell station on South Boulevard has great fried chicken, and that the best time to go is at night, when the Asian lady who makes it best is there. I asked him where he would take his girlfriend on a date. He described his typical “punk date.” He said he’d grab an inexpensive bottle of wine and some smokes from Common Market, ride bikes Uptown and climb a parking deck or a water tower. “That’s the classy version,” he clarified. The less classy version? 1. Buy cheap alcohol. 2 Ride somewhere. 3. Consume cheap alcohol.

While Jerry seems particularly at home in the pit at a punk show, he also finds amusement in other simple ways that I imagine most of our coworkers wouldn’t even consider. One of the times Jerry and I were both at Common Market (they’re all starting to blend together), I produced a counterfeit $20 I’d accepted on delivery. I complained that I didn’t know what to do with it. I wouldn’t feel right spending it, and I wasn’t ready to throw it away. “Does anybody have any string?” he asked. Jerry had an idea. In a couple minutes we were lying in ambush, fishing for suckers with the bill lying on the sidewalk, a piece of string taped to it and hidden in a crack in the pavement. “I can’t believe how many people walk over it without even noticing!” we mused. We had a few bites but mostly enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. I was delighted that Jerry had both thought up the idea and was as into it as I was.

Jerry doesn’t have what I would describe as a fully-formed ideology. In talking about his politics, he pointed out that talking about anarchy as a political system is akin to describing “not collecting stamps” as a hobby. But for all his prolonged adolescence, this much is true about Jerry. He lives his life on his own terms, and he has fun.

I remember one of my first conversations with Jerry Wayne. “How long have you been delivering?” I asked. “Well, I’ve been doing bike work of one kind or another for 7 years,” he told me. Then we both left with deliveries and I watched him ride up the left side of the street, between a line of parked cars and oncoming traffic. “How has he done this for 7 years without getting killed or arrested?” I wondered to myself.

A little context in talking about bike kids: A lot of my coworkers are bike punks. The bike kid scene in Charlotte is remarkably well-connected, and the community I’ve been privvy to centers around Common Market in Plaza Midwood. There are a handful of bike clubs, of which I have coworkers in two: RAD (Officially Ride and Destroy, although “Ride and Drink” is another apt moniker I’ve heard) and Jerry’s club, WAR (We All Ride). Jerry describes WAR as “a drinking club with a bike problem.”

So it was easy to understand Jerry as a bike punk. He resents authority. He drinks and smokes marijuana. Jerry could talk all day about the injustice of government and big commerce. And while he points out conspiracies and Illuminati symbolism in all sorts of cultural artifacts, when I asked if Jerry was an activist, he was emphatic that he was not. “I just bitch, you know,” he admitted.

One would be remiss to think of Jerry as merely a bike punk. Jerry and I have had countless chats on topics as varied as philosophy, local law and the traveling salesman problem in mathematics. He’s intelligent and curious. He explores Uptown while on delivery, trying to find accessible back rooms and rooftops. He knows much about such a variety of topics precisely because he’s curious.

Jerry’s primary source of curiosity is other people. He encourages the DIY approach. He pulls his friends together to put on events. Once, Jerry put together an alley cat race, on a whim, in two weeks. The messenger-themed bike race had almost a dozen volunteers, just as many participants and even a host of sponsors and prizes. The multi-stage race was a hysterical romp (I won a prize for finishing last.), and cyclists from as far as Indiana hung around kibitzing for hours afterwards.

Earlier this spring, Jerry also helped plan a regional all-day bike event. Park rangers corralled the bike kids to a suitable corner of Veteran’s Park, demanded that they put away their alcohol and ultimately gave up dealing with them. The event proceeded, complete with Jackass-inspired competitions like tall bike jousting (yes, this is even more dangerous than it sounds) and a bungee bike race. And then there was a scavenger hunt whose objectives included delivering cans of beer and hits of pot to Jerry Wayne, who had shown up already so intoxicated he hardly spoke.

I experienced Jerry’s sensitivity to people firsthand when he asked me to design a poster for his band. He had heard me talk about my dream of designing gig posters. He even had the consideration to ply me with beer, producing a PBR tallboy out of nowhere while we hung out at Common Market. And I have to admit, in the dumbest way possible, it actually made me feel seen and appreciated. Of all his contradictions, maybe this is the most surprising. Jerry Wayne is a bike punk people person.

Author’s note: This story is just the tip of the iceberg. I plan to post more about Jerry and his friends next week.

Two word story

“Yesterday’s bread.”

In our POS system it’s labeled “Day old bread.” In fact, that’s what we usually call it around the store, and that’s what it is in its simplest terms. But I saw the sign in our store advertising “yesterday’s bread” and had to marvel at the marketing wisdom behind it. Day old bread is damaged goods. Yesterday’s bread is a story. It implies the whole series of events that starts with laying out dough, takes one through a day of interactions and ends with saving and reusing what would otherwise be waste. It’s a tiny picture of disappointment and redemption.

That’s such a clear case study for what a story does. It pulls you along on a journey and leaves you with a gift, some bigger idea about life. The best stories give us hope to deal with difficulty. Whether they tie up neatly or examine suffering and uncertainty, stories do their best work by showing us that there is beauty around us and that beauty is possible.