Delivery Driver Chronicles: 133 Perry

Delivery Driver Chronicles: 133 Perry

Stop givingThis is another chapter from the book I have written on my time as a delivery driver (Not titled Delivery Driver Chronicles)


It’s probably not a big surprise that you come across some truly disgusting people while delivering. For every super hot sorority girl who opens the door in her pj’s and a tank top you’re likely to get about 10 repugnant slobs that you wish you had never had the displeasure of seeing in your life. Many of them regrettably sans tank top.

The smell that some of these places can emit is unforgettable; often balancing between cat piss and just normal human piss, mixed with dashes of excrement and various other mystery fragrances unbeknownst to science.

There are few things worse than a customer insisting you come inside while they pay for food and realize that their entire carpet is just a layer of dog food bags and various other items of trash that carpets are not supposed to be made of. I probably could have abstained from going inside with something along the lines of “that’s ok, Sir” and stayed outside.

But like a horrific car accident where everyone slows down to analyze the carnage, part of me was always fascinated with what was inside. Could this particular trailer take the title for the official new grossest place I had ever seen? This question was always on my mind. I had to know.

I have no qualms with people who decide to reside in trailer parks (or mobile homes if you’re trying to class it up). Every once in awhile you could come across some damn nice trailers that made you question why you were coughing up the money you were for your non-moveable home, but all in all these places were consistently the breeding grounds for the absolute worst of conditions, and the absolute worst of people.

The most disgusting trailer park of all of them, the king of kings, was without a doubt 133 Perry. It looked like what I imagine a cross between hell and a trash dump would look like. The road leading in had long ago been forgotten by any city officials, falling into a state of disrepair that is hard to explain without witnessing.

Craters big enough to swallow an entire semi truck tire pocked the whole approach. But it wasn’t the road that made 133 Perry so awful, it was its inhabitants and the trailers they lived in.

Where there are “luxury” trailer parks that mimic normal home living, 133 Perry more closely resembled a bombed out refugee camp. Rent ranged somewhere between $100 to $200 a month, if that gives any indication of the socio-economic status of the locals. By far the worst trailer was trailer #5. I’m convinced that trailer #5 was the entrance to hell; or at least the Kansas sector of it.

I couldn’t find trailer #5 the first time I went there. Lost in the jungle of run down hell holes, I walked aimlessly around for an indeterminate amount of time trying to find the illusive #5.



Something told me that was probably what I was looking for. I made my way over to where the voice was coming from and finally found it. And it wasn’t very surprising that I hadn’t found it because it was an absolute trash hoarder’s paradise.

I shit you not when I tell you that they had an entire second trailer solely devoted to holding all of the various cardboard boxes, old televisions, and radiators they had decided were too dear to part with over the years. The porch entrance consisted of more trash items haphazardly stacked together to form a sort of wall to the outside world.

“Come on in, guy”


This was one time where I was very close to abstaining; but for the sake of a future book I had no idea I was going to write yet, I obliged. You know those movies where the cops go into an apartment where a murder scene had taken place and the new guy immediately starts puking his guts out in the corner? This was pretty much that. It was the embodiment of awful.    

As far as I could tell there were three occupants, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a gollum like creature lurking somewhere in the depths. The smell of old rotten food, urine, and habitually unwashed human beings was launched like a bullet at your senses and kept firing for long after you left. It was nearly a physical wall of smell that one had to scratch and claw through to survive.

Inside of the trailer looked like a scene directly out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The kitchen looked like they had cooked a huge feast then left all of the dirty pans, plates, and utensils around to be washed at a later time. Except that feast must have been ten years before, allowing every bit of food clinging to said pans and dishes to fester and rot.

I still don’t know if I managed to stand there the entire time with my mouth not gaped in both amazement and horror at what I was seeing, but I probably did in an effort to not taste the nearly solid smell of filth in the air.

The family of three sat at what I guess you could call the living room table, but was really just the only area in the trailer not completely inundated with junk. There was the man who had retrieved me and his wife, both in maybe their mid fifties. The third was a woman of similar age, but was of grotesque weight and donned a neck beard of epic proportions.

I’ll never forget how she sat there in giddy silence, bobbing back and forth clapping her hands all the while with the widest grin possible. Not a welcoming friendly grin mind you, but a grin that haunts your dreams. Never said a word, never took her eyes off of me. Just bobbing and clapping.


“Oh it’s finally here!” said the wife




“Oh just give him the money, Dale”


“I said SHUT UP”

All the while the bearded woman still sat there, bobbing away.

What the hell was going on here? They weren’t even arguing, that’s just how he talked to her. Putting the shut up in all caps doesn’t even begin to convey just how guttural and loud it was. I waited as Dale counted out dollar bills and various coinage, the money very likely being rife with all sorts of diseases contracted from this trailer from hell.

“Oh would you hurry up, Dale? The man’s waiting”

“I SAID SHUT UP. SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH, WOMAN. There you go, son. Have a nice day”

The literal instant that last penny touched my hand I was already out the door and booking it full speed to my car. The only thought reverberating through my head being “what the hell was I just a part of?”

Needless to say I abstained from ever going inside Trailer #5 again. I had enough of an experience there to last a lifetime.

I can only think of one other time that holds a candle to the weirdness of that fateful #5 incident; also coincidentally enough taking place at a trailer park, albeit not 133 Perry. This particular trailer park is long gone, likely demolished for not meeting the bare minimum of human living conditions. The parking lot was of similar quality, forever threatening to tear your axles to pieces.

Luckily in this case I didn’t have to walk around for 15 minutes to find the place, but the situation wasn’t that much better. As I parked my car there was a lone boy in the parking lot just kicking a rock around for fun. He looked up at me, made eye contact, and ran. Lovely.

He runs to the trailer I’m supposed to deliver to and slams the door behind him, so I guess I’ll follow him. As I walk up the ramp leading to the door he comes back out again, promptly slamming the door again behind him. The boy quite simply looked like a character taken straight out of the Hills Have Eyes.

There had been a definite one or more generations of intra family fornication going on to produce this kid. In a southern twang that I didn’t know existed west of the Mississippi, he looks at me and utters one single phrase.

“Careful. We got dogs”


He then takes the pizzas, stares at me, and in one swift motion turns the boxes from their correct upright position to sideways, undoubtedly causing everything to slop down to the other end of the box. Never breaking eye contact.

“No don’t do th…”

Before I could finish he had opened the door and slammed it in my face. When he opened it again to give me the money, I finally got a glimpse inside. Where I had seen sparsely furnished trailers before, this one literally had nothing. The walls didn’t even have wallpaper on them; it was just bare plywood.

The dogs he had warned me about were in fact not feral beasts waiting to rip my throat at all, but two mange infested chihuahuas. The Hills Have Eyes boy promptly gave me the check, not surprisingly written down for its exact amount (needless to say, trailer parks were stiffing havens), looked at me one last time, then shut the door behind him again.

Not quite as awful and deplorable as #5, but just weird as hell. Oh how I wish I could have seen what those pizzas looked like afterwards.    


Floor People

Floor People

Floor peopleOne particularly sad and disgusting case that belongs right beside #5 in the annals of deplorable places was the aptly named “Floor People”. Dwelling in one of Lawrence’s many fine trailer parks, the floor people will forever haunt mine and many others memories and nasal passages alike.

Now you might think that floor people would refer to the aforementioned dog food bag/trash adorned floors, but it was much, much worse. And as much as it smelled like they had enough pets to cover the entire world with these bags, they had none as far as I could tell.

The floor people were a husband and wife who quite literally lived on the floor of their completely unfurnished trailer, barring a lone television sitting in the middle of the room facing the door. Ranging somewhere between 300 to 400 lbs, they had long ago given up using their legs as a source of locomotion, instead relying solely on crawling and perhaps rolling to move around their estate.

Floor people seemed to be a pretty fitting name for them, although someone else long before me had coined the term. The smell as you got out of your car and approached closer to the door got exponentially worse and worse with every step, most likely due to the fact that neither of them had bathed in roughly a decade. As soon as you knocked on the door you had a finite amount of fresh air breathing left, as there was generally a delay of 15 to 20 seconds between the time you had knocked on the door and when it was opened as one of the inhabitants slinked over from their designated TV watching floor space.

The stench went from comically bad to so horrendous that I often had to fight back the urge to vomit right then and there. I would generally try to take my last breath as soon as I heard their large paws fiddling with the much smaller door handle, and would hold it for the entire transaction. When one studies military history, you often read of the incomparably awful stench that inhabits a battlefield after combat. The smell of blood, death, and decay is often what burns most deeply into survivors’ minds. Going to the floor people’s trailer was the only thing I could ever imagine that could mimic such conditions.

On that note I’d like to thank our servicemen for not only protecting our country but also enduring this ungodly stench without soldering their nasal passages closed with a welder. Whenever the door was finally opened, the expectation of meeting someone at roughly eye level was instead a massive outstretched arm coming from below your waist. Any normal pleasantries such as a “Hello, how are you doing?” or “Have a good day!” were thrown out in an attempt to not inhale any of the possibly deadly smells into one’s lungs, so I would just stand there in silence holding my breath as I waited to receive my payment; I would then then promptly run away immediately afterwards gasping for non-noxious air. It really was that bad.

The floor people eventually became the singular floor person, and then no floor folk at all. All malice aside I truly hope that they somehow received help, and a shower, but something tells me their lifestyle caught up with them in the worst possible way. That being said I was quite happy when the day came that I didn’t have to go to that godforsaken trailer anymore.