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Tuesday, May 26, 1998
26 May 98
By Paul Ford
Delivery
Manhattan is the island of commodities, and everything can be delivered, from chairs, to Chinese food, to groceries. You sometimes receive business cards, from people like "Herb Greenfun, entertainment consultant," or "Donny Smoke, party planning." You call a number--a beeper, NY has a special beeper area code--and type in your phone number. Your phone rings a few minutes later. "Probably my Mom," you say to your friend, laughing.
About an hour later, a guy in bicycle pants and a backpack shows up at your door. He opens the bag and shows you hundreds of little baggies. You pull out a bag and he gives it to you. You hand him $30, a twenty and two fives. You try to be cool.
"How's it going?" you ask.
"Sallite. Been long night tonight." His dreadlocks fall to his neck when the bike helmet comes off. "My day job run too long, so sorry I'm late."
"No problem," you say. "Thanks." He says goodbye and leaves quietly.
"He was fucking cool," says your friend.
"Totally fucking cool. Did you catch the day job part?" you say, already cottonmouthed, anticipating the smoke. "Let me get the papers."
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