Jesus The Deliveryman

I don't know if it was last night or this morning that I finally submitted the 10,000-word script Mr. Newman had demanded. But before facing that dreadful deadline, I had the audacity to start cleaning my room. I rearranged the furniture, hung up the TV that had been sitting in its packing box for months, and threw out all the trash. Then, I sat in front of the blank document, watching the cursor blink, and realized that the only trash left in the house was me.

And now, this trash is hungry.

The only thing left in the fridge—besides a dumpling frozen solid enough to be part of Yellowstone’s natural rock formations—was a package of mozzarella sticks that had gone soggy. I sighed, put it back, and thought happily, Guess I'm not the only trash in this house now.

I minimized the blank document and opened Postmates, the food delivery app that felt more terrifying than Saks Fifth Avenue to us broke students. Cursing the capitalist and consumerist traps, I jumped in with a giggle. I scrolled through the menu but found nothing appealing. Finally, I opened the Korean food section, and an assortment of fried chicken options filled my screen. My already screaming stomach seized control of my brain, clicked on a Korean fried chicken shop 47 minutes away, and ordered a juicy soy sauce fried chicken.

“Would you like to expedite your order?”

My stomach—the evil mastermind—clicked YES. I looked at the delivery fee, which was higher than the cost of my food, and like a middle-aged man ignoring a severe health issue, I quickly clicked SEND ORDER.

“Your very own Postmate, Jesus, will quickly deliver your meal. Estimated wait time: 50 minutes.”

For the price I was paying, he’d better be delivering my food via helicopter.

The little girl next door was probably home from school by now. Not that I liked eavesdropping, but my antique apartment had paper-thin walls. At this hour, the father of the family next door usually fought with his kids at the dinner table. His little boy would throw a tantrum and refuse to eat, while his wife spoke in a rapid string of Portuguese, her voice carrying the universal tone of all exhausted mothers. But their youngest daughter remained unfazed, chaotically pounding away on an electric piano. I didn’t want to be harsh, but her long pauses and offbeat rhythms made it clear she had no musical talent whatsoever.

Such a noisy scene wasn’t ideal for writing, so I turned on the TV, hoping to drown out the chaos next door.

A serious-looking news anchor in a gray suit filled the screen. She seemed to be receiving shocking updates through her earpiece, her frown deepening as she turned to the camera.

“Did they just find out that Trump is actually North Korean?” I muttered, continuing to watch with suspicion.

“We have breaking news from 43rd Street in Manhattan—a deliveryman is assisting the NYPD in pursuing a fugitive,” she announced with FBI-level seriousness. “Let’s go live to David for aerial footage of the chase.”

The screen cut to a high-angle view of the city, the kind you’d see in a Mercedes commercial. “Thank you, Sarah. We’re now over the 28th Street and Fifth Avenue junction. You can see the deliveryman, dressed in black, riding a red motorcycle in pursuit of the fugitive, who is on a stolen black motorcycle. According to witnesses, the fugitive—a medium-height, flat-chested Caucasian male of unknown age due to his mask—escaped after being stopped by the NYPD in Midtown, stole a passing deliveryman’s bike, and fled. The deliveryman then reacted quickly, borrowing another motorcycle from a bystander to give chase.”

This bizarre sequence of events lost me, and apparently, it lost Sarah too. “David, how long has this chase been going on? Do the police have a plan?”

“It’s been twenty-three minutes. All available police cars in the area have been mobilized, and they’re trying to intercept the fugitive before he reaches the Williamsburg Bridge.”

The camera zoomed in on the chase. The deliveryman was gaining on the fugitive, who kept glancing back nervously. Behind them, four or five bulky police cars weaved frantically through Second Avenue traffic. “This is extremely dangerous,” David continued. “Attempting an interception on such a crowded street is a major risk. But I have to say, this deliveryman knows the roads even better than the cops... Oh my God, the fugitive is heading towards the FDR Drive!”

The noise from next door suddenly stopped. Then, the youngest daughter screamed, “Look out the window! Dad! There’s the deliveryman!”

I bolted to my window just in time to see a red blur zoom past on the road below before vanishing.

I turned back to the TV. The fugitive had nearly crashed into pedestrians, slowing just enough for the deliveryman to catch up. They were now riding side by side. Suddenly, the fugitive swerved sharply, trying to shake him off. But the deliveryman braked, turned, and sped toward the next block.

Seizing the moment, I reopened Postmates. “Your deliveryman is speeding towards you. Please hold on.”

I clicked on Jesus’ avatar. His little motorcycle icon had already passed my apartment—heading in the wrong direction. It zipped past again. Then again.

No way. I dialed Jesus’ virtual number. Beep. Beep. No answer. A wave of heat rushed to my head. Shaking, I sat down and kept watching the news.

“Two more blocks!” David was now narrating like it was the World Cup. Police cars raced to cut off the fugitive near the bridge. The fugitive, hearing their sirens, veered onto Columbia Street, but the deliveryman took a shortcut—cutting across Hamilton Fish Park, launching off the grass, and landing directly in front of him.

The fugitive braked hard. The black motorcycle flipped. The man stumbled to his feet, but the police were already there.

“The deliveryman is approaching the fugitive,” David reported breathlessly. “They’re speaking... We can’t hear what they’re saying... Wait, now they’re both crouching down... What’s going on?”

Silence.

Then, the fugitive stood up, raised his hands in surrender, and turned his back to the police. The deliveryman followed suit, raising his hands as well. Officers swarmed in. The fugitive struggled briefly but was quickly subdued.

The camera cut to reporters crowding around the deliveryman. “I didn’t overthink it,” he said, his determined eyes locking onto the camera. “My delivery bike is my livelihood. I couldn’t let anyone take it from me.”

Then, he held up a takeout bag. “I still have an order to deliver—Miss Lamu in Midtown. I’m on my way.”

A notification popped up on my screen. “Your order is arriving.”

A faint roar grew louder outside my window.

Alright. Here comes Jesus with the helicopter.

by Lamu 11.02.2020