In the summer of 1998, after my freshman year of college, I returned home to discover my spot as first mate on my father's fishing boat had been filled—by my younger, fitter brother with the stronger work ethic, Kenny. No unions for eldest sons of fishermen, so I accepted it graciously. Never mind, I told myself. He’s the one waking at 4 a.m., not a dignified scholar like me.
Donning my floppy bucket hat, I set out for my next career move.
Southern Maryland's fast-food boom was in full swing. A McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, and Subway had opened nearby—chains we kids once only dreamed of. Our local options? A fleeting Burger King and C&D Carry-Out, run by a gruff owner quick to accuse children of theft.
I headed straight for the brightest lights: a new Domino’s. A delivery driver friend pulled strings, landing me the job. The manager handed me an oversized blue-and-red striped shirt. “Wash this first,” he advised. Back in my white Ford Escort, I felt like a pro. No formal training, but within minutes, I learned rule one: When no deliveries, fold pizza boxes.
“I need batteries,” the manager barked. “Busy night ahead.” Dutifully, I folded: Flip the flat cardboard inside out, crease the top down, tuck corners, secure the flap. Pure fulfillment.
Soon, he yelled, “Mike! You’re up!” PJ, a stocky early-20s manager, barked orders like a quarterback. “Bensville Road! Got it?” I shrugged. “Main road, man. You grew up here?” “Yeah, but college...” “Made you stupid?” He jabbed the wall map—torn county pages pieced like a puzzle covering western Charles and southern Prince George’s counties, 30 minutes south of D.C. along the Potomac. Roads twisted around coves and creeks in this overlooked D.C. metro corner.
“Here’s Bensville,” PJ traced, pinpointing the house. He loaded two pizzas and a Coke six-pack into the hot bag. “Go!”
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JOHN TOMAC
A few years back, #FirstSevenJobs trended on Facebook. Babysitting topped the list; pizza delivery ranked #18. Domino’s was my third gig. I’d helped on Dad’s boat since my early teens—under-the-table pay, often just lunch. My first W-2 job? High school movie theater at $4.25/hour: tickets, popcorn, reeling film.
In 1996, 9 million 16-19-year-olds worked, 6% of the labor force. By 2016, it fell to 5 million, 3%. Kids these days!
We romanticize first jobs to craft life narratives: From this to that. Beyoncé swept salon floors; Madonna slung Dunkin’ Donuts; Michael Dell washed dishes; Warren Buffett delivered papers. Adversity fuels success stories.
Recently, I read Pizza Tiger, Domino’s founder Tom Monaghan’s biography. Classic rags-to-riches: Early scam losses, $500 DomiNick’s purchase with debt, World Series pizza stunt derailed by traffic, drunken tree-trashing mishap (he quit drinking), ending chauffeur-driven sans license. He paid me under $3/hour plus tips for two summers. Worth it—one delivery reshaped my worldview.
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Growing up rural, my schools were 50/50 white and Black. Nobody wealthy. Mom taught freshmen; Dad fished. We fared better than most. College in North Carolina exposed class gaps: High school lots had battered Tercels; campus brimmed with BMWs. Mom’s quip? “Pardon, Michael.” Gratitude reminder still echoes at 38.
Pizza was weekly ritual. Too remote for delivery, we’d fetch from a library-near pizzeria: pepperoni, peppers, onions while watching Daddy’s Girls. Green peppers evoke Betty White. Star Pizza’s thick pies warranted knife-and-fork (judge not); arcade Frogger drained quarters. Ledo’s rectangular “no corners cut” pies meant hour-long treks. Pizza bonded us amid changes.
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JOHN TOMAC
Deliveries unveiled variety: Naval base buzzcuts, shouting elders, dove hunters’ fields, motels, gun plant night shifts. Post-run, we’d debrief folding boxes. Crew: Wayne, Reed, Keith, Kara, Darren, Billys, Big Kirk (RIP, funniest). Tales blurred true/false: Kirk’s flights (despite size), dog attacks, cat hisses, stoned ex-teachers, towel-clad flirt (Wayne’s yarn). Best bud Joey (Pizza Hut rival) raced me; we’d chill with beers. (Note: Peers became heroes, rescuing elderly customers in OR/TN.)
Solo drives with maps, no GPS: Springsteen, Biggie, Sublime, Barenaked Ladies, Petty. Mastered curves like Billingsley’s deadly bends.
Dreaded: Closure—dish duty. Semisonic’s “Closing Time” soundtracked sudsy sinks on DC101.
One Friday closing, naval base run: 7-mile gate, 25 mph, 30-min roundtrip, meager tips. Hit a beagle near townhouses. Panicked, delivered first. MP later: “It happens. Go.” Woman cried with kids, pointing. If reading, I’m sorry—30 years on.
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Today, 1 in 8 Americans eats pizza (USDA). Wife Laura (babysitter-turned-PR pro, dirt-under-nails) and I weekly indulge in Charlotte. Walkable options abound; favorites evoke moods. Nostalgic pick: Luisa’s, her childhood Friday spot. 15-min drive for brick-oven pepperoni-mushroom-onion-green pepper. Counter: 1,335,072 pies since ’90s.
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JOHN TOMAC
“The delivery I’ll never forget started like any other.” PJ dispatched to Bertha Circle, Woodland Village—our “dangerous” hood. Prior robbery made news; tall tales abounded (likely exaggerated).
First time there. En route, spotted missing Coke six-pack. Dilemma: Return late to risky spot or improvise? Bought 20-oz bottles at Dash-In.
Theory: Less fortunate tip better. Gilded community? Redskins receiver stiffed. Woodland: Short brick homes, porches, colorful laundry. Dad-like man—glasses, mustache—two kids inside. Fessed up; he shrugged, thanked, shut door.
Back, PJ: “Call him.” Man insisted I return for soda reimbursement. Later, amid darkness, he paid plus $5, thanked me. “Hope to see you again.”
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JOHN TOMAC
Never redelivered there, but Woodland orders evoked him. Now in Charlotte community work, a panel unlearned biases. He taught: Don’t prejudge; value individuals. Minimum $5 tips ever since.
Heading back, crew eyed me. “Woodland guy?” “Just a bigger tip.” “No way.”
This article originally appeared in the March 2018 issue of SUCCESS magazine.
