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Jesus The Deliveryman

by Lamu Xiangqiu 11.02.2020

    I don't know if it was last night or this morning that I finally submitted the 10,000-word script Mr. Newman had laid out. Still, before I was facing this horrible deadline, I even dared to start cleaning my room. I rearranged the furniture in my house, hanged up the TV that had been left in its packing box that I never got around to unpacking, and throwing out all the trash. Then I sat in front of the blank document page, watching the typing characters flash by the slash, and realized that the only trash left in the house was me now.

And now this trash is hungry.


    The only thing left in the fridge, besides the dumpling that is frozen enough to decorate Yellowstone's natural rock landscape, was a package of mozzarella sticks that had gone soggy. I put it back with a sigh and thought happily, "Guess I'm not the only trash in this house now."


    I shrunk the blank document and opened Postmate: the food delivery app that was more horrific than Saks fifth avenue for us poor students. I cursed the capitalist and consumerist traps as I jumped in with a giggle. I panned around the screen but found no dishes that would whet my appetite. I opened a separate catalog of Korean food. An assortment of fried chicken was brought into view. My already screaming stomach seized control of my brain; it clicked on a Korean fried chicken shop 47 minutes away from me and placed an order for a juicy soy sauce fried chicken; "Would you like it to be expedited?"

 

    My stomach, this evil soul clicked YES. I looked at the shipping cost, which was higher than the food price, and like a middle-aged man who is too anxious, he pretends to be blind to a severe problem, I quickly clicked SEND ORDER.
"Your very own Postmate Jesus will quickly deliver a delicious meal to your table. The wait time is 50 minutes."
For the sake of his name and the exorbitant delivery fee, he'd better come in a helicopter to deliver my meal.
The little girl next door was probably home from school by now. It's not that I like to eavesdrop on my neighbor's personal life, but my antique apartment has its take on life. Besides the leaks, it was paper-thin soundproof. The husband of the neighbor's family usually gets into a huge fight with the kids at the dinner table at this time of day, and his little boy flies off the handle and just doesn't eat dinner. His wife speaks a series of Portuguese words in the impatient tone like all mothers would do, as if she were cursing or doing a broadcast. However, his youngest daughter was completely unaffected, so chaotic that she was still playing the electric piano on a slab. I don't want to be too hard on her, but her long pauses and disorderly rhythms could wipe out her musical talent.


    Such joyous scenes were really not suitable for my script, so I turned on the television, expecting the sound of it to overpower the devil's house next door.


    There was bizarre news on the TV, and the woman in the gray suit was channeling the Weather-cast reporter's taste in fashion. A piece of shocking news seemed to be delivered through her headphones, and she frowned and looked at the camera with a heavy expression.


    "Did they just find out that Trump is actually a North Korean?" I thought to myself, suspiciously keep watching, "We just got a report back from our crew on 43rd Street in Manhattan, a delivery man helping the NYPD chase a fugitive." She pulled out the coolness that only an FBI officer could have and said, "Let's see what David sent back from the aerial live of the car chase."


    After a few seconds of cadence, the screen cut to a Mercedes commercial-like aerial shot of the city. "Thank you, Sarah. We are now over the 28th Street Fifth Avenue junction and can see the delivery man dressed in black riding a red motorcycle. The fugitive he was chasing was riding a black motorcycle, this black motor with a takeout box belongs to the delivery man. According to witnesses, the fugitive, who is of medium height, flat-chested, Caucasian, and unable to tell his age because he has a mask on, escaped after being stopped by NYPD in Midtown and then stole the passing delivery man's motorcycle and fled. The delivery man reacted quickly that he borrowed the red motorcycle from the witness." This reporter's description of the motorcycle and the weird situation at hand lost me, and apparently, Sarah's as well: "David, how long has the speeding chase been going on now? Do the police have any plans?" "It's been about twenty-three minutes, and all the police cars around Wall Street have been mobilized, and I think they plan to apprehend the fugitive before he scurries up the Williamsburg bridge." The black-suited delivery men on the screen pressed on the fugitive, who looked back from time to time, and not far behind them, four or five bulky police cars whizzed by, driving frantically in an S-shaped course down the traffic- ridden Second Avenue. "This is a very dangerous move, and trying to intercept the outlaws now on a noisy populated street is bound to be a threat to the surrounding population. Very tricky situation, but I have to say that we may not even be able to match this delivery man of familiarity of the road ...... Oh my God, the fugitive is driving towards the FDR drive." The family next door had somehow quieted down, and all we could hear was the youngest daughter screaming, "Look out the window! Dad! There's that deliveryman!" I darted to the window, only to see a red flying shadow fly past the path beside the FDR drive, and vanished.


    Back in front of the TV, the fugitive's black motorcycle slows down after several near-misses into pedestrians, and the delivery man accelerates to catch up with him. Seeing that he and the criminal are almost parallel, the fugitive suddenly swerves and dumps the delivery man again. The delivery man immediately stopped and turned around, and sped off to the next block. Taking advantage of the intermission, I turned on POSTMATE, thinking that such an exciting chase scene would be very boring without food to accompany it.


    "Your delivery man is speeding towards you. Please hold on." I clicked on Jesus' avatar, and his little motorcycle logo had already gone past my apartment, in the opposite direction, the small logo moving so fast that he had arrived——
"East Houston Street! The fugitives are approaching the bridge! The deliveryman that we gave high hopes is a little behind, but still not giving up!"

 


    NO WAY! This surreal situation led me to dial Jesus' virtual number, "Beep— Beep—" There was no answer. It was like a rush of heat to my brain; I shuddered and sat down, continuing to watch the live feed.


    "Two more blocks!" David was as passionate as if he was explaining the World Cup. Two police cars drove into Manhattan from the bridge, and they turned right on Pitt Street. The cunning fugitive heard their police cars and drove into Columbia Street, but the delivery man didn't follow, choosing instead to go straight into the Hamilton Fish Center, where he crossed the green space and the swimming pool. He uses the grove's lawn cushions to drive directly into Columbia Street, ahead of the fugitive to block him. Going off the road, the criminal braked hard, and the black motorcycle flipped to the ground. He tried to get away, but a police car had already arrived behind him. "Now, the delivery man is keeping his distance from him, like he's saying something." David's voice trembled. The delivery man slowly took off his helmet and placed it on the ground, hands in the air, as a group of well-armed police officers descended from a police car on the side, their guns at the ready, even as reporters raced to the scene.

    "The gallant delivery man was slowly approaching the fugitive, and they were saying something; we couldn't tell the fugitive's mood, we just kept watching." David kept looking for a sense of existence. The delivery man and the fugitive were now standing together, he placed a hand on the fugitive's shoulder, and the fugitive's head was down. There was a standoff for a while. They slowly crouched down as the sky was darkening, and everyone waited for a final response.

Suddenly they got up, and the delivery man turned his back on the fugitive and holds both his hands, which they held over their heads in surrender. The policemen, at once divided into two groups, surrounded them, and then went forward to apprehend the fugitive. The fugitive still struggled for a little, is finally brought into the police car.

    The TV cuts back to the live feed, where the frontline reporters are surrounding the delivery man. "I didn't overthink it, the delivery motor is the life of my job, and I can't let anyone take it away from me." His pristine and determined eyes looked into the camera, "I have one more order that hasn't been delivered, Miss Lamu, who lives in Midtown, I'll be right there." He held up the ridiculous fried chicken bag with glee and proudly shot a message to me. The whole situation was so magical that I had gone all stiff.


    The aerial shot them following the delivery man racing towards my apartment, the sound of propellers coming closer and closer outside my window.


    Alright, here comes Jesus with the helicopter.

© 2023 LAMU SHANGCHOO ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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