The delivery instructions read: "If no one answers the front door, we're in the back on the tennis court. Come around to the side of the house and we'll direct you from there".
I was asked to deliver a catered lunch to a prominent man in Calmest Point, a small and wealthy beach town. Upon reading the instructions, I envisioned the scenario. The mansion with the circular drive riddled with top-of-the-line Tesla's, Audi's, or Maserati's (seems to be the choice these days), the lavish and lush landscaping with perfectly groomed boxwood bushes, and all the men wearing their tennis whites with doting wives sitting around a pool occasionally glancing back at the courts to see how her husband was faring. I envisioned the winding streets in the neighborhood with one stone wall after another separating each family from any form of socializing...invitation only, bitches.
I have to admit, I really wasn't looking forward to walking into this scene. Not because I'm uncomfortable around deep-pocket, blue bloods but because, frankly, I was warned that this man wasn't the most friendly or grateful person on the planet and I had dealt with a lot of assholes lately and was afraid of what may or may not come out of my mouth had he treated me like a low-life delivery gal.
I loaded my car with 6-smoked turkey sandwiches w/cherry jam and microgreens, 6-homemade chicken salad sandwiches w/mixed greens from a local farm, 6-green goddess sandwiches (for the vegetarians), a salad w/mixed berries, fresh goat cheese and sugared pecans, and exactly 12 chocolate dipped brownies cut in half. A simple lunch after a rigorous tennis match among friends.
I set my GPS to the posh address on the order form and off I went. Only 7 miles away. I'll be there at exactly 11:30 as requested given a reasonable traffic pattern. I drove passed the Target and Costco and various Mom & Pop stores and finally, after what seemed to be forever, I was entering the "right side of town". THIS is where the mansion must be. I admired all of the homes on evenly spaced tree-lined streets. I must be getting close. Still 3 miles away. At this point, I was hoping those MOFO's were stepping off the court and would be at the front door when I got there so I wouldn't have to schlep around to the back of the house begging to get in with their food.
I kept driving and my GPS was turning me this way and that. I looked around. This must be a mistake. I've driven too far. The tree-lined streets were gone. There weren't any big homes to admire. Instead, there were boarded up houses with weeds up to my knees. There were chain-link fences with signs that read: BEWARE OF DOG. Couches on front porches. There were random people walking around with cigarettes hanging from their mouths and pants pulled well below their asses. "Ok", I thought, "I must've put in the wrong address. Pull over and restart your GPS". I did just that. Twice. The woman's voice kept telling me I was 1 minute from my destination. So, I drove to what I was sure was a mistake.
I pulled up to the address. I didn't find a mansion or circular drive. There were no boxwoods. No stone walls. Instead, I found something way better. I found a small home that had been renovated, and out of the corner of my eye as I drove up, a small and very exposed tennis court. No trees to shade it. No pool with wives sunbathing next to it. As I got closer, I saw a sign that read: "Restoration of the Historical Easton Property. One Love. Tennis and Education Fund". I needed to find out about this gem in the middle of the "hood".
There was no answer at the front door so I went around to the back of the house (as directed). I walked in between two chain-link fences. One kept 3 pit bulls from "greeting" me and the other surrounded the tennis courts. I finally made it to the small tent set up for the players to seek shade and eat lunch. I found out that this Saturday morning tennis match was about raising money for the kids in this neighborhood to learn how to play the game. The funds would pay for rackets, balls, lessons, maintenance of the court, etc. No invitation needed. Just the motivation to walk down the street, dodge a few pit bulls, and open the gate to a tennis court.
As I drove my way out of the neighborhood and back into the world of Target's and Costco's, I couldn't help but smile at two very different worlds colliding and, from what I could tell, making an impact on each other. Of course I had to remind myself that I was the asshole for prejudging that day. Lesson learned.