Free Delivery, Part 2
Whatever illusion I had of my own agency and power has vanished...
IN THE PREVIOUS INSTALLMENT, OUR PROTAGONIST SUFFERED TRAUMA AT THE HANDS OF A DELIVERY COMPANY, THEN FROM A BLENDER, THEN HIS OWN MIND. HE HAS ORDERED AGAIN FROM THE SAME COMPANY THAT FAILED HIM EARLIER AND NOW HE AWAITS HIS FATE.
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I got a text:
“Best Buy is using Roadie (a UPS Company) to deliver to you. For your driver's safety, please make sure that all pets are secured and that the pathway is clear and well lit.” They gave me a link to track the delivery, then added, “A Driver, [Name Redacted], is on the way to [My address] with your delivery from Best Buy. This number has been created to connect you to your driver privately. They may contact you here with any questions, or you can reach out to them.”
I guess this was meant to reassure me while actually saying nothing at all. I went about my day, but was now consumed with this blender. At some level, I must have known that I had set myself up for failure and remorse, but that’s the definition of insanity - repeat the same action and expect different results.
All day, I followed the progress of this package, but there WAS no progress. It just sat there, doing nothing, according to the primitive tracking status. Then, at 3:11PM, it was suddenly “in the process of being delivered.” What a strange euphemism that is. To someone used to Amazon’s standard “out for delivery,” this feels a bit weasely. “In the process of being delivered” - is that something a human would say? With Amazon, it’s not even always true. “Out for delivery” can mean “We don’t know what’s going on, but it’ll arrive.” You have to give it to Jeff Bezos, he’s a better mindfucker than most. His message will then say, “If you have not gotten it by today, please wait 48 hours before reporting it as not delivered.” Something like that. And we usually believe him. Because Amazon does deliver, whatever their other considerable and unacceptable faults may be. They also make returns easy, and this is a balm to the impulse buyer.
The day goes by and I begin to rearrange my schedule around this delivery. I walk the dog, eat some food and eventually see that it’s supposed to reach me by 9PM. Their crude web tracking display shows a car glyph that looks like it came from Death Race 2000, the video game from the 1970s. The system looks like it was designed by a freshman in computer science. It makes Uber’s live map from 2017 look state-of-the-art.
I reply to the earlier text with this: “Please call me at this number when you get here and I will come down - XXX-XXX-XXXX.” I hope to get a response, but nothing comes back. The line is open. There is no dial tone. I think back to the days of the telephone dial tone and rue the loss of human contact - in my retail life as well as my personal life.
My internal dialogue gets worse. The anxiety and remorse kick in. Why did I need to get this blender today? How could I be so cheap and fall for this fake free shipping? Maybe I should stop drinking smoothies? Maybe I should sell all of my appliances? That concrete bunker in the desert of my dreams, the one with a landline and a typewriter, maybe I should finally move out there and drop out of society. Do I really need the internet? Why didn’t I apply myself more diligently to life instead of driving around the country taking photos? What’s going to happen to my photos after I die? Why do I have no faith in the cloud or any digital media?
The package is somewhere in Long Island and all I can do is refresh my browser.
I send another text: “How's it going?” and I wait, but there is no response. The phone seems to get smaller in my hand, less powerful, less helpful. This ubiquitous tool that we use to navigate everything in life has become a palliative. Whatever illusion I had of my own agency and power is vanishing from the face of the earth.
The car glyph finally jumps to the Upper West Side, like magic, as though it flew across the East River. It sits way up there for a long time. A LONG time. Then it jumps to what they call “Lincoln Square,” a term I have never used nor heard used. It’s down near Lincoln Center on the west side of the strange island that we call Manhattan. Another hour and it’s in Hell’s Kitchen. But it’s moving! It exists, it’s on my map, and my blender is in that little glyph on the screen! It’s not a scam! Its very movement is proof of its reality.
The Earth has revolved around the Sun 14 times in my head. Important things have happened in the world. Children are born. People die. Others are happily living their lives and not stuck to a status screen. Some people don’t suffer from crippling compulsivity. They can order stuff and then forget about it.
The delivery person is near MOMA, smack in the middle of Midtown. And that’s where he stays, in the same spot, FOR HOURS. I know about rogue delivery men. I was one once, back in the dark 1980s, when I was a drug-addicted bagel delivery man who had dropped out of the corporate world to drive a Grumman step van around the 5 boroughs of New York City all night, howling at the moon. But at least I got the goods delivered first. I’d speed through my route, honing superhero-level delivery skills, using all four limbs at once, barreling the wrong way down one-way streets in Midtown, all under the influence of hard drugs. Only then, when I had finished my stops, would I disappear with the truck and sleep, or just park for a while and stare. I ignored my beeper and got back to home base whenever I got back. But I always got the stuff delivered before I went AWOL.
My managers and my now ex-wife would lament, “Paul, where were you?” I would just lie and say, “It was bad out there.” Or if I was in a creative mood and they complained about me not answering their beeps, I’d say, “satellite trouble,” which meant nothing, but they didn’t know that.
It’s now past 8:30PM. The howling begins, for there is no way to actually track a Roadie driver. I call them up again. I wade through phone prompts, but nothing comes of it. I do not get a human. I meditate on how real human interaction has become the most precious commodity. What little is left of this scarce resource is being aggressively stolen by the use of really, really dumb AI chatbots. Why? To save corporations money. I leave a message with Roadie, but they never call back. The wires are cut somewhere in Oklahoma.
I send another text to the driver, “Are you still coming today?” No reply. A message into the void.
I am desperate and initiate a chat with Best Buy. It takes a few feints and jabs with the bots. The miserable bot gatekeepers.
I start a claim with a human. The guy lies wildly - “I have high hopes that he should be there by 9PM Central Time” to which I say, “That’s in five minutes. How high are your hopes?”
He then says, “I am certain that, if he doesn’t do it, he will deliver it tomorrow without fail.” I mutter out loud, “Who talks like this?”
I’m now getting not only desperate, but crazy.
I text this ghost driver with my final pathetic plea, “OK. I will assume you are not coming tonight.”
An hour passes and then it happens - I get one terse message from him: “On the way.”
He exists! He will arrive after all! This whole self-inflicted mess, this neurotic psychosis is not for naught!
I instantly reply, “How long?” and then wait. More radio silence. Lucy and the football. Nothing from this guy.
In the meantime, my significant, magnificent other, my even-keeled girlfriend, has gently tried to persuade me to give it up, to let me know what I already know - that there is nothing I can do about it and that life is too precious to sit around and wait for a slacker to show up with my blender. It’s too late to make a smoothie now, anyway. It’ll come when it comes. Que sera, sera and all that crap. The dog has given up on me and, besides, he’s still mildly sedated from the pills he has been taking since his back surgery. He’s lying in his donut bed. My girlfriend is on her computer, silently waiting for my madness to end. I remain glued to the screen.
Another text from him: “What your name and address so I can tell you how far because it's a route”.
I reply that he’s supposed to have my name and address. It’s on the fucking package, right? I tell him and then I wait. Ten minutes later, he texts: “11:10,” a time that seems so precise that it must be arbitrary.
I respond, “I will try to be awake.” I have nothing left to do but wait. That’s late for any delivery and it makes me uneasy.
The glyph on the screen finally leaves MOMA and moves again. The direction is promising - Kips Bay? He has moved east, it’s 11:20PM and I’m wondering if his other recipients are still awake. Is it just me? He then seems to head back west on 34th. I’m waiting for the big left turn down 7th Avenue or 9th Avenue, but he goes straight. Is he heading to Hudson Yards? How can I not be next? The map - for once - is working in real time in a herky-jerky way and I start to deflate as his car goes towards the Lincoln Tunnel and then appears to float across the Hudson River. It settles in Jersey City somewhere, at which point the door in my mind opens a crack to let sanity back in.
He sits there in Jersey City. I get ready for bed, but keep checking in on him. The car does not move. Does he live there? Am I going to get screwed for the night? Anybody else would have hung it up hours ago and enjoyed their life. Do I need to look at what’s so compelling to me about this? I’m not going to therapy, I’ll tell you that.
My worst fears are that he’s either on drugs or crazy. He continues to sit there and I solemnly announce to Tonya and Santo, “I’m done. Fuck him. I’m going to bed.” Neither one of them moves. I check back on the computer one last time.
The idea of meeting this guy in the street now is what finally gets me to call it off. Who thinks it’s okay to make a delivery at midnight? I’m scared of him. Safer to turn off the phone and go to bed.
My day has vaporized and I settle in bed, knowing that I’m going to lose 3 hours of my life tomorrow, trying to get my money back from Best Buy. More automated phone bots, surly managers, long explanations. I’ll do it, but then NEVER AGAIN. I fall asleep. In the morning, I turn on my phone to a notification that came in at 1:56AM: “John B. has arrived for delivery,” followed by another message that says, “Your delivery from Best Buy could not be delivered and is being returned.”
I have to smile at the madness. This was a delivery driver from another dimension. Maybe I just missed a date with a serial killer. I get another chance at buying a new blender. I run it by the woman and the dog, then order from some other company and decide not to think about it until the package comes.
But the taste of madness hangs in my mouth.
All photos by Paul Vlachos.
Paul Vlachos is a writer, photographer and filmmaker. He was born in New York City, where he currently lives. He is the author of “The Space Age Now,” released in 2020, “Breaking Gravity” in 2021, and 2023’s “Exit Culture.”
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LOL! Maybe therapy wouldn't be such a bad idea, Paul. And if the therapist is as loony as some I've met, you'll have another story to write. 😁
oh what a fun read. maddening tho it was. more so for you. hope you are enjoying a smoothie this morning.