An Unexpected Delivery

Things were slow at the restaurant, Paolo's Ristorante in the Gold Coast of Chicago. I do the jobs of at least eight different people at this place but, alas, they always list me as "Phones". I bus when the bussers are understaffed, I sweep the floors whenever I see trash scattered about, and I also host, whenever the lines aren't busy, leading guests to their tables with a pleasant demeanor. The best days are when the patio seating opens its windows, and I can walk outside for a brief moment, smoke a cigarette, and smell the trees and the pavement, especially it rains.

I also like to make conversation with Sophie, a regular at the host's stand, always reading a book with a cigarette to bum.

Today, however, was different. The restaurant was nearly empty.

"Slow today?" I ask.

"It's Tuesday," she says, "we're always slow on Tuesdays."

"I know," I say, "but today is especially slow. Any reason why?"

Sophie puts down her book and rests her chin on a fist.

"I can't think of any reason in particular," she says, "Don't you have to answer phones?"

"They're not ringing." I say.

Just as the words passed my lips, I heard the phone ring.

Blelelelelelelelelelep. ... Blelelelelelelelelelelelelep.

I rush to the kitchen and answer with my usual mantra.

"Thank you for choosing Paolo's, how may I help you?"

I hear a faint breath, but not much else.

"How can I help you?" I ask again.

The voice that responded was as smooth as silk.

"Do you have tiramisu?" the voice asked.

"...Yes", I replied, "We do."

"Good. I'd like your finest tiramisu."

I punched in his order on the POS system.

"Anything else?" I asked, "also, I'm gonna need an address."

"No," said the man, at least, I was assuming he was, "I'm at 875 N. Michigan Avenue. Room 375 S. I expect this tiramisu to be a divine culinary experience. Can I expect this from your establishment?"

This was clearly a man of refined tastes, clearly a resident of the Gold Coast.

"Absolutely," I tell him.

Whenever we're scarce of drivers, my managers allow me to deliver on foot, all of them were out delivering their orders at the time.

"I'll be there in... roughly twenty minutes."

"Good," said the voice, before the line was disconnected.

I never got his name.

It was springtime, so the air was mild and you could smell the lake from wherever you stood in the city. I threw on my dad's blue ski jacket that he'd worn in the '70s, and I began my trek holding a bag of our renowned tiramisu towards a mysterious man who lived somewhere on Michigan Avenue. I entered the address onto Google Maps and walked around the place at least five times before discovering I would be delivering to the John Hancock Building. I stood at the entrance of that monster of a skyscraper, its giant x's covering the windows, and went inside.

I approached the doorman.

"I have a delivery here for a man who lives in 375 S." I say.

"Hm," says the doorman, looking through his clipboard, "There is no 375 S. in this building, and I cannot grant you access unless the room exists."

Suddenly, his phone rings.

Blelelelelelelelelelelelep.

Oddly enough, his phone's ringtone is the same as ours.

The doorman answers.

"Good morning, Mr. H. ... Mhm... Yes, I have a young man in the lobby with your tiramisu... Mhm. Absolutely, Mr. H. He'll be upstairs with it shortly."

The doorman hangs up the phone and looks at me with curious eyes, as if I wasn't supposed to be there.

"Take the last elevator to the right. Press two and five consecutively three times and you'll find the room you're looking for."

After he gave me those strange instructions, I thanked him and made my way toward the elevator. The floor was made up of black and white diamond tiles, and I walk past sections of small restaurants and bars occupied by men and a few women all in suits, drinking and discussing the daily news and their business affairs. The walls were coated with mirrors, so I began to see reflections of myself within reflections of myself. The whole ordeal sent me into a frame of mind which I can only describe as a metropolitan Wonderland. When I reached the elevator, I pressed the button to go up, and out walks two people: a little girl carrying a violin case, and an older woman with a dog on a leash, talking into her cell phone.

"Oh you know Rodger," she says, "he's never around whenever I'm expecting him. I've already cooked dinner and did all the laundry but he's always in some meeting... Yes, mother, I'm aware of the breakdown he suffered last month..."

She walked further away from me, but I couldn't help but overhear.

"Mother, no, he shouldn't be on lithium, it turns him into a zombie... Mom, no... Mom, I told you, he's been sleeping well these past few months and I don't want him to make any changes in his regimen..."

I enter the elevator, walled with more mirrors, pressed 2 and 5 three consecutive times, and make my way up to an unknown floor, clutching the bag of tiramisu in my hand. Whenever you take an elevator in a skyscraper as high as the ones in Chicago, your ears begin to pop. To counteract this, you should always have a stick of gum on hand. Not soon after I pop the gum into my mouth, the elevator doors open, and I don't suspect anything strange about the hallway I walk into. It looked like any other high-class hotel hallway, except, the doors were not numbered.

I pace and look at every door, only to find that 375 S. is the last door on the left side of the hall. "375 S." It read. Underneath, the name: "Rodger Hollisburg."

I knock.

"Ah," said the voice, "right on schedule."

***