You would think I was destined to earn a living by driving.

First school buses. And then in college, I drove the campus van into town and back on weekends, carting the few students who didn’t have access to a car. The van was smaller than the school bus, but it had a hydraulic lift in place of the center door to enable the driver to move wheelchairs in and out of the conveyance.

St. Andrews Presbyterian College was renowned for being “barrier free.” Long before federal mandates, the college had installed ramps and electric doors, allowing wheelchair-bound students easy access to campus facilities. The van was just another gesture in the direction of accessibility.

On my weekend runs to the little town of Laurinburg, North Carolina, I would roll wheelchaired students one by one onto the hydraulic lift, elevate them into the van, and then secure them into place alongside the windows.

Some of the chairs were electric-powered and equipped with heavy battery-packs. If I was not able to bring the lift gate completely to the curb, I had to push the chair over the gap, which required considerable strength.

Not all the passengers were comfortable with my abilities.

My van-driving career did not last long.

It wasn’t the physical toll the job required, or the lack of confidence some of my passengers felt that cut into my weekend driving.

It was basketball season.

I was on the team—a certified bench-warmer—and I spent many of the weekends with the team traveling to away games.

When I graduated college in the summer of 1978, I returned to Raleigh and scrambled to find a job. I needed to raise as much money as possible.

I’d been admitted to the graduate school at Columbia University in New York City, starting in September. I had to cover the cost of housing there, tuition, and incidentals. I managed to secure a loan with the North Carolina College Foundation, but it wasn’t going to be enough.

I scoured the help wanted section of the News and Observer. And found the usual openings for waitresses and bartenders.

And then, this one caught my eye:

Drivers Needed for Pizza Delivery.

Do you have a valid driver’s license? ✓
Do you have a clean driving record? ✓
Are you 18 years or older? ✓

Domino’s wants to hire friendly, diligent, and responsible workers to fill delivery jobs at its Raleigh location. Drivers should have basic math and problem-solving skills.

This looks like something I can do (the basic math requirement, aside.)

I had a car. A Chevy Nova.

My parents, who were then living in Japan, bought the car the last time they were back in the States so they could travel from North Carolina up to Ohio for my older sister’s wedding. When they returned to Japan, they left the car with me. I planned to hand if off to my younger brother when I headed to New York at the end of the summer.

The timing was perfect.

I stopped by the Domino’s store on Oberlin Road, it was still fairly new.

The men running the franchise, Dave and the assistant manager, Kevin, were surprised to see me.

“We’re looking for drivers,” Dave explained, thinking I’d come for something else, a cooking job maybe.

I pulled out the help wanted page and pointed to the circled ad: “Drivers wanted.”

“How much driving experience have you had?”

At first they didn’t believe I had driven a school bus. Neither was from the South. They’d been sent down from Michigan to open the franchise.

Less than my driving though, or my shaky math, it was my gender that gave them pause.

“We’ve never hired a girl before.”

Dave explained that the work required difficult tasks like map reading.

And some of the runs might take me into questionable neighborhoods.

“I know my way around Raleigh,” I assured them. “I’m a good driver.”

When I explained that I needed to work to afford my studies in New York City they were visibly impressed.

No one expected a girl from the South with a Chevy Nova and questionable math skills to be heading to Columbia University.

I got the job.

And it was one of the best jobs I’d ever had.

Kevin found a small blue polo shirt for me, with the Domino’s logo. It was a man’s shirt, of course, but tucked into my jeans, fit reasonably well. I pulled my long ponytail through the back of my red baseball cap, and I was ready to run some pies!

We used our own cars, and each night before our shift we placed a large square aluminum warming unit in the front seat. As soon as the pies were pulled out of the oven, sliced, and boxed, we’d run them out to the car and slide them into the warming box before peeling out of the parking lot.

The box took up most of the front seat and emitted a lot of heat.

The Chevy Nova had no air conditioning.

It was hot most evenings and the breeze from the open windows as I flew down the local streets searching for addresses provided little relief.

We were expected to deliver the pizzas within 30 minutes of the order being placed. To do that, I had to search the address once the pizza was in the oven and chart my route. I carried a map with me, but never had time to consult it once I left the store. Forget about a GPS. It hadn’t even been dreamed of yet.

I confess, I took some liberties with the law on those runs, making illegal u-turns and exceeding the speed limit. I don’t recall ever delivering a pizza late.

Or if I did, the customer didn’t complain.

We weren’t supposed to carry passengers on our runs, but one night Tim Silva showed up outside the store.

We’d known each other in high school. He was handsome and popular, a bit of a class clown. I was surprised and flattered when he asked me out once he learned I was back in town that summer.

We’d been dating for over a month. I was thrilled to see him outside the store that night but couldn’t linger there holding the hot pizzas so had him slide in the back seat of my car.

“Duck down until we’re out of the parking lot,” I told him.

I darted out onto Oberlin Road and turned left on Hillsborough, gunning it to make the light.

Tim’s head popped up from the back seat and he flailed about for a second trying to find something to grab onto.

“Holy shit! Slow down.”

“Can’t.”

I was laughing, but Tim looked terrified.

After I delivered the pizza—on time, of course—I drove more slowly on the way back so we could talk. I let Tim out in front of the Players Retreat, before heading back into the Domino’s parking lot.

He’d come to tell me he didn’t want to see me anymore.

It wasn’t on account of my driving.

And, it wasn’t because he didn’t like me.

He did. And that was the problem.
I wasn’t like the other local girls he dated. I had a destiny, and it didn’t include Raleigh, North Carolina, and maybe not even him.

“I just don’t want to be in a long-distance relationship,” he explained.

“Well, you could come with me,” I suggested.

“That’s just it. I don’t want to leave,” he said. “Becky, you’ve got a plan. You’ve got ambition. I don’t. I just want to get high on the weekend and hang out here.”

Tim was smart. And he came from privilege—his father was in the medical profession. I was surprised he was so easily satisfied.

And disappointed.

But he was right.

After that summer, I never again lived in Raleigh.

I don’t know what happened to Tim. I never saw Dave and Kevin again, either.

I rarely order delivery pizza these days, but when I do, I always wonder about the driver. Do they have “plans”?

Whatever their plans may be, I’m always sure to give them a good tip.

Author at the wheel of her Chevy Nova.