Just post and discuss your craziest work story ever.

I work as a delivery driver at Papa John's in my hometown, and this story comes from not long after I got hired. Now, delivery drivers are reliant on getting accurate information on where the customer lives so that, obviously, we can get to their address in a timely manner and give them their pies. In order to do this, when one of our crew members takes an order we have to record down the customer's address on the computer monitors there whilst talking with them on the phone at the same time. Normally, this doesn't present any major issues since return customers have their information already in our database and we can just have them confirm. However, this is a whole different story.

So one of our guys answers a call from a gentleman wanting some pizza. For the sake of privacy I won't give away his five-digit address, and just say "*****" where that would be. Now, the man lives on ***** SE 286th St, but the dumbass answering his call (I never found out who handled his order) plugged in ***** SE 286th Ave. This is major, since not only are the two points miles from each other, but while the correct address was in a fairly standard, nice, suburban area, the erroneous (and nonexistant) address was located in a hicky area where it's not unusual to find cougars in your yard and upscale, sociopathic roughnecks are everywhere.

So anyway, it's 7:00 and I have just returned to the store from my third run of the night. I have just a half-hour left before I need to clock out, so taking this last run would mean having to go overtime; that's okay though since I had nothing else going on later and I could use the extra money, not to mention all our other drivers are out (Saturday night and all). So I take that and another (supposedly close by) order and head out. It took 20 minutes for these orders to leave the door.

So, I arive at my first destination, itself at the edge of both our delivery area and of civilization (literally, right next door to the Seattle watershed, which stretches up to the Cascade crest 30 miles away). Already it's been 35 minutes for these orders (15 minutes out), so I knew I had to make it quick. I go up to the door, hand the couple their pizzas and garlic knots, and take the receipt and head off. Now, in theory, the second address was only a little over a mile away. I head off in that direction and locate 286th Avenue. According to my directions sheet, at this point I had to turn right here and my destination would be on the left in not too long. However, after seeing nothing but bog I get confused. There are houses on another road behind this bog, but none are of the right address at all. I find the house whose address number is only one less, so logic would dictate that the place I'm looking for is only accross the street from here. No dice. I go around in circles for 10 minutes, trying to locate the address. I'm scared to ask the locals for directions, so I call up the guy on the receipt. I'm suspicious because it's an out-of-state phone number, and after ringing a few times he never answers.

It's been 15 minutes. I'm in a panic, on the verge of tears as sweat forms on my face. I call the store back up and get another driver, who looks at the map. He claims he's familiar with the area and tells me that there are two 286th Avenues there, one of which I needed to turn left, rather than right, to reach. So I head up that way, only to look at the addresses and think to myself "this can't possibly be right." So I hang up and call the guy again. This time he answers. I tell him I'm having trouble locating his address and ask him for some help. I rattle off his address, and he points out that he lives on ***** SE 286th Street.

It takes me a couple seconds for my brain to click. "Well. SHIT," I think. I profusely apologize for the lateness and head off in that direction. I'm on 224th Street, so I know 286th is several miles south and it's already been over an hour (we're supposed to have orders take no longer than about 45 minutes). A few minutes later, I'm back in town and try to find where the intersection of 225th Avenue and 286th Street is, knowing his house is nearby. Unfortunately, the grid is a bitch so I get lost again. It's pushing 90 minutes and blood is pouring out of all my orifaces while I grasp at straws. I call him again to get further directions, the call drops. I call again, no fucking response. Just as I get back on the highway, he calls me, and I ask him for directions. Problem is, he just moved up from Oregon so he has no clue where he is in terms of landmarks, and only tells me he lives in Pebble Creek subdivision. I have no fucking clue where Pebble Creek is and my head is spinning in circles. I call him and tell him that I'll get back with him about his order, but in my head I'm like "fuck this, I'm an hour overtime and that pizza is as cold as Tuktoyaktuk in January."

Having admitted defeat and it being close to dark, I trundle back to base like a drunken student out of Manchester, explain what happened to manager, she ultimately decides it wasn't my fault and goes to clock me out. As I go get my extra cash, another driver points out that I can always confirm locations on the map. Yeah, I think, but that wouldn't have done me a lick of good since that would have still pointed me to the wrong place in the first place, and by the time it would have done something, it's been over an hour, the pizza needs to be remade, and the poor customer thinks we're the stupidest shit ever, much like Energy Ball Jellicent. So after all that shit, the manager tells me to take a breath and relax, I take my tip money, and go to the nearby Dairy Queen for some comfort food.