“Hey!”
“Who do you got?”
Already knowing the name, I proceed to habitually look down at my phone to read it. “Tim O.”
I look up and find the long-bearded man gesticulating with his arms and mouthing words to me. Hmm. I stare at him blankly, unsure of what he is trying to communicate.
“Speak up!” He says. “I can’t hear you.”
“Ohhhh. TIM O,” I respond, with as much authority as a doordash driver can muster.
“It’s not ready yet.”
“Okay I’ll wait.”
I pop into the restroom to take a well deserved piss. Drive. Wait. Pickup. Drive. Deliver. It’s a simple existence. I deliver food to make some extra cash to fund my yakpacking adventures. Most seasoned dashers don’t do the waiting part. If an order isn’t ready or remotely close to it, it’s on to the next one. But for me, sometimes waiting is where the magic happens. Here in this sort of purgatorius state of being, one can either bury one’s head in one’s phone or observe the world around them. However strange it may seem to others, I choose the latter. There’s a story in the most mundane of things.
Take for instance this fellow behind the counter, for example. When being unable to hear me say the name, why didn’t he just say what or excuse me. What was this whole theatrical portrayal of a raving mute about? Sure being a fry cook at a burger joint was stressful, especially during peak hours, but there had to be more. And I had to know.