Suspicion and
Guilt have Killed my Relationship with the
Delivery Guy
by Stacey Tol
Boxes arrive
on our doorstep every day by skittish delivery
people who have perfected the art of the drop-and-dash.
Just to be sure they’ve gone, I wait two
beats after my electronic doorbell makes her
fairy noise and announces, “There is motion
at your front door.” I balance caution with
speed, knowing there might be melting ice cream
in my new package. (Ice cream is obviously a
necessity of a successful quarantine.) Usually, I
see just a flash of the delivery person’s
back side as he sprints to his idling car to make
a quick escape. When I jump the gun and fail to
allow for a successful getaway, things get
awkward.
“Thank you,” I’ll say to the
startled delivery guy.
“No, problem,” he will respond,
widening the 10’ space between us as he
backs away.
What I’m really thinking is, “I’m
sorry you have to do my grocery shopping for me.
It feels like you must risk getting sick because
I don’t want to. I feel guilty about that.
Also, the strawberries you brought last time were
mushy and you forgot the chocolate fudge magic
shell. Surely, there can’t be a run on that!
Do better.”
It did not take too many nights of quarantine
cooking and clean-up for me to suggest to my
family that we order pizza. In pre-Corona times,
the pizza handoff would go like this:
The delivery man—let’s call him Dan—would
stand on my doorstep, three or so feet away from
me. He’d pull my steaming pizza boxes out of
his red insulated bag, hand me a pen and receipt,
then hold the boxes like a table while I signed
my name. Meanwhile, Dan would compliment the
neighborhood, talk about the weather, or say
something sports related. I’d hold up my end
of the small talk, he’d get a tip, and I got
pizza. It was nice.
This time, Dan stood 6’ away and eyed me
suspiciously as he removed the pizzas from the
red bag. He was poised to bolt in case I got any
ideas of bridging the gap between us. He needn’t
have worried. I was equally suspicious of him.
Dan produced neither pen nor receipt, foregoing
the risky signature step. Instead, he gripped the
edges of the pizza boxes and leaned them in my
direction. I matched his angled stretch, gripped
the opposite edges of the boxes, and reeled them
in.
“Thanks,” I said, but he had already
retreated too far to hear me. He got a tip and I
got pizza, but it was weird.
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