The Astral Plane of Chinese Delivery

 

Yes, we probably order Chinese food too often in our household. By, this I mean we have Chinese delivered about twice or three times a week. This comes from the fact that Grub Hub has our standard order, from the same place on record. It just seems the easiest thing to click a button on the iPhone and soon after have piping hot dinner on the kitchen bar.  All this whilst the spinach leafs slowly turn brown in the refrigerator. Death comes quickly to spinach as the intent to make butter chicken dies.

The odd bit is the delivery driver. I assume he’s an INFJ or first year Hufflepuff. Or maybe he’s magical.  Now I have seen a lot of porn movies involving delivery drivers. I also have years of experience avoiding cooking and relying on a random stranger to bring me dinner. And yet, I have never had much experience with a possible inhuman, or maybe spirit-being delivery dude.

Here’s what happens.

When the time comes for the delivery, a soft thud, not unlike the sound of a fluffy bunny being tossed at out front door, can be heard. Then a text…. “Your food is outside…” opening the door is like if Santa came, but you didn’t have a chimney. No knock. No awkward interaction with a delivery driver. Just a text. I; of course, cannot leave this alone… To me, this was a challenge of see the delivery dude. A quest of interacting with the delivery spirit.

When the text comes, I started to quickly run to the window to catch sight of him. Like a kid looking for Santa.  I only witnessed a half-primered, lowered Intra peel away from the curb.  But, then I knew he could exist on the astral plane, if even for a small time. Then I waited inside, next to the front door. When I heard the distinct sound of General Tso's name-sake dish thumping against the door I pounced. Swinging the door open I caught just a glimpse of bleached anime hair zipping around the corner. “Run mystical delivery dude! Run like the wind!” I whispered as the smell of wontons filled my nose.

This is when I learned that I am not meant to meet my delivery dude. Even if I forced it, I may only destroy the magical sphere in which he exists.  He departs the muggle existence, slips this dimension, as it should be… in an Acura with miss-matching wheels. As I scarf down my Moo-Shu chicken I re-read his communication. “Your food is outside” someday I might text back.