Special Delivery
The automated woman left me a voicemail, “This is Franklin Appliance + Visuals. Your delivery is tomorrow with a window of 9 to 2.” The canned cheeriness was grinding. “Your personal care driver will call half an hour before reaching your home. Any questions, please call…”
I called.
Two minutes of inane, redundant directives, punching numbers, star, #-key. Patience was never my strong point. Eventually an actual, live associate, Kevin or Calvin.
“Your salesman promised I’d be the very first on the morning schedule.”
“Please hold.” The line went dead. I hoped it wasn’t. “We see what we can do,” he came back, “you get a call thirty minutes before the driver gets there.”
“That I knew!” I yelled, “Make sure my personal care driver personally knows my request.”
“Yeah sure,” he said — credibility zilch, “Good night.”
It felt like a hangup.
It was always the same: Flamboyant promises to land a sale, and then just bla-bla shit to get you off their backs. I called again. The same numbing prompts. I probably pushed a wrong button, because this time the robot said, “Please leave a message.” I made mine blistering; no interpersonal skills needed for that.
That night at nine a call rang, surprisingly not robo, “Bruce here, your personal care driver. Mr. Stinson, I understand you need your sixty-five inch TV bright and early tomorrow. Perhaps for Morning Joe?” A silly chuckle.
“Oh good, as early as seven is fine.”
“Uhm, Mr. Stinson, tomorrow’s gonna be packed.”
Shit. “Just get it to me first. I have urgent mid-morning appointments,” I lied. It was infuriating being stranded for hours for the cable guy, or a shipment requiring access.
“Maybe I can work something out. It’s not company policy, so don’t mention it to the office.”
“Bruce, was it..?”
“I’ve got your set all boxed up on my truck. If I start my other deliveries before rush hour, I come out ahead. I can be by in twenty minutes.”
“Now? Oh.”
“Two birds, one stone. I’ll need a hand, though, to haul this monster box to your living or playroom, whichever.”
Diesel rumble in the driveway.
Bruce hopped out. Street clothes, no store name, I noticed. No signage on the van. Something seemed off.
“Mr. Stinson,” he greeted. Jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers, bald, beard, attractive.
“Ray,” I said, more at ease.
“Here to solve your TV emergency.”
He swung open the rear gate. The boxed-in flatscreen was the only cargo, elaborately braced and wedged diagonally, barely fitting, “Where’s the other stuff?”
“That’s all you ordered.”
“For the other customers.”
“Those I load in the AM. I don’t want to risk a full load of merchandise on my dime.” He climbed in. Nice rounding of his jeans. I noticed an inch of red underwear. “Help me get this giganormous set out. I’ll hook the baby up for you, so you’re ready for your morning shows.”
Stupid banter. “Listen, Bruce, I’m no TV freak. It’s open-ended deliveries I can’t stand.”
“Understood, Ray, I was just messing. Let me take down the support struts and belts, then slide the beauty your way, and we both take it where it belongs.”
I was still uneasy, couldn’t make total sense. But his work ethic was flawless. We even nudged the loaded bookcase four feet over, shoulder to shoulder, inch by inch without dropping one.
He was ubering, he said, to pay bills and helped out FAV, that’s what he called Franklin Appliance + Visuals, when they were short a driver. He was bending here and there; oblivious to an occasional plumber’s crack, not unappealing on a guy like him for eyes like mine. They came through on the visuals, I inside-joked.
I fished a crisp fifty from my wallet. It disappeared in his tight jeans pocket, his smile melting with sweetness. About to leave, he said, “We’ve crossed paths,” emitting all different alerts.
“Oh?”
“I’m roommates with someone you hung out with.”
“Huh? Don’t be cryptic.”
“You ghosted him.”
This was awkward.
“Dorian.”
There was a Dorian. Months ago. We didn’t have sex. We met over coffee, twice, then a third time over dinner. It didn’t click. I called it quits. “Did he put you up to this?”
“No.”
“You ran into me where?”
“I’m a barista at Clark’s Saturday mornings where you had your second coffee date.”
“How many fucking gigs have you got?” We were in the driveway by now.
“Dorian was enamored. I coached him.”
“You’re evidently not a winning coach then.”
“Hey, hey, I convinced him to land dinner with you.”
We reached the van. “You’re awfully well informed.”
“Dorian was awfully distraught.”
“That’s why this nighttime delivery, Bruce!?!”
“I’m a sucker for the randomness of fate. I caught your name on the manifest. They said you were a PITA.”
“Sorry?”
“Pain in the butt.”
Point taken. “Dorian knows you’re here?”
“Dorian knows nothing.”
“There was no spark, okay? I got no patience to rub two sticks forever to make something happen.”
He grimaced.
That came out wrong. “We didn’t connect! I don’t need guilt-tripping from him, you, or anyone.”
He shook his head, climbed in. “Internet dating… like it’s shopping.”
I was getting angry. “Shopping is one-way, dating better work both ways. Or put a fucking stop to it!”
“Poor you!” He went facetious, “getting dragged through hours of chit-chat. Who needs that, block that!”
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re a PITA!”
I felt gut-punched.
“Just be human, man! Maybe say, Thanks for spending time. But my mind, my heart aren’t in it. There’s lots of guys out there for both of us.”
“That’s naive beyond belief!”
Over the diesel rumble, his window down now, icy, disappointed, “Bye. Enjoy.” He started backing up.
“You said something,” I called out but he kept pulling back, “… randomness of fate? What did you mean?” He had lost patience. I hated that. The van pulled into the street. “I have your number,” I shouted, “I call you.”
Hart Vetter is many things. Newly retired. Immigrant. Queer. Divorced. Dad. Found in Flash Fiction Magazine, the Wild Word and elsewhere.