So I tapped. And thirty minutes later, a rusted-out compact sedan rolled into my driveway. The muffler sounded like a dying lawnmower. Out stepped the driver.
He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. Oversized hoodie, skinny jeans that looked like they’d been through a shredder, and that hair—faded pink dye growing out into dark roots. He walked up the steps staring at his phone, headphones around his neck.
“Delivery for Frank?” he mumbled, not making eye contact.
I snatched the bag. “You know, back in my day, we looked people in the eye when we did a job.”
He blinked, looking up. His eyes were tired. Red-rimmed. “Sorry, sir. Just a long shift. Enjoy the burger.”
I didn’t tip him. I told myself it was because of the attitude, but really, it was just the sight of him. He looked like a caricature of everything I heard on the talk radio stations. Soft. Unfocused. Drifting.
I ate my burger alone in the silence of a four-bedroom house that used to be full of noise.
The next morning, the sky opened up. It was a cold, miserable rain, the kind that gets into your bones and stays there. I had a cardiologist appointment across town in forty minutes.
