Friday nights were the pits. After a year of delivering for Renaldi’s, Jeffin knew exactly what addresses he’d be hitting. No big tips this shift – fuck! Nobody from the slick glass-mirrored, monolithic high rises along Lake Shore Drive would be ordering anything New York style tonight. Nuh-uh. The fat cat doctors and scumbag lawyers from those opulent digs would be getting loaded in all the tastefully decorated chic watering holes on Michigan avenue, buying pricey watered-down mojitos from painfully hot bartender/actresses who wouldn’t piss all over the best part of their 401Ks. Those humps just didn’t get it. They were like forests – dense.

No, this night would be spent making a hundred back and forth yo-yo trips within the eight square blocks of his work world. East Lakeview streets would be cluttered with double parked delivery vehicles of varying age and decrepitness, servicing those disposable income types too tired, too high or too lazy to get up off their fuckin’ asses and go out to a restaurant or, God fuckin’ forbid, cook something for themselves.

He hated them, all of them – they made his skin crawl – more than usual, but he dealt with it. They didn’t talk much, mainly just grunted and shoved money at him – assholes! He was the invisible means to their end. The best part about this gig was the tax-free income – Uncle Sam was clueless. Under-the-table cash and free slices were the only perks of the job. It’d do – but he hated carrying the extra ten pounds he gained this year eating comped slices between trips. Boredom was gonna’ kill him. Absofuckinglutely!

Without even looking at the tag on the pizza box he knew his first customer. 410 East Surf, apartment 429 – at the end of the long, dim corridor. She was as predictable as death. His trips to her bookended the week – every Monday and Friday: small sausage, extra sauce, liter of Coke. Drive like he was on fire, double park the battered, one headlight Oldsmobile, hit the creaky elevator, reeking of weed by now – it was the weekend – run down the hall, give the greasy box to the disembodied hands protruding from the slightly opened door. No need to count the money – always $10.85 – exactly – never a tip. Cunt. If he ever saw her walking on the street, he’d grind her into the fuckin’ pavement. He laughed remembering he’d never once seen her face. Sshhhiitt!

All his regulars checked in tonight, as usual. The two partying couples who’d always ask him to roll some blunts for them. Really?; The old guy with the obese, non-stop barking beagle who shared his “garbage” pie – anchovies and all – Christ!; St. Andrew’s rectory, where the pastor usually gave him a whole buck tip and his blessing – cheap fucker; the perpetual widow, always in black, who constantly asked if she could get an “8 incher” next time – Jeeeeezzzzus lady….how many fuckin’ times?; the two pre-teen boys left alone and watching porn while mom was out hustling tables at the Golden Nugget on Broadway; and his creepy favorite, the retired cop who seemed to be cleaning his cannon of a .45 each time he answered the door. He guessed his particular hell was to see these same clowns every fucking Friday!!! He glanced at his watch and smirked. Like clockwork – she called, right before closing time – the gorgeous twenty-something redhead who lived in the renovated coach house right next to the el tracks. She’d be his last stop. Oh yeah.