LAST DELIVERY
[email comments/questions/photos to erik.j.sander @ gmail.com]
It's unusual to get the same delivery guy every time.
But I'm a consistent guy. I order the same thing at the same time of night on the same days of the week: Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. I pay the same way: cash. I tip the same amount.
I always tip too much.
I don't mind. It's for Barry.
It's also unusual to ask your delivery guy's name. I think I handled it smoothly.
"Supreme Pizza for ... Erik?"
Something about the way he said my name the first time let me know that he noticed the unusual spelling. Not that it would have mattered what he called me.
I'm a little on the husky side. This guy made me feel small, and in a good way. You want this guy to be your paramedic or your fire fighter. No question about whether he could carry you over his shoulder.
A head taller than me, with close-cropped blond hair, just starting to thin. Pale blue eyes beneath thick brassy eyebrows, matching whiskers on his strong chin. Late 20s, early 30s. Ruddy. A little out of breath.
I live on the fourth floor.
"Yeah, I'm Erik. And you are ... ?"
"Barry."
And he was such a Barry. You know, Barry from work. The guy who's always got a joke and an easy laugh. The guy who always buys the first round. Girls aren't threatened by Barry, even though he's built like a linebacker. Guys like Barry because he's built like a linebacker but he doesn't act like an asshole. Everybody likes Barry.
I liked Barry.
I didn't invite him in. I never invited him in. I thought about it every time I saw him, which was three times a week, four months running.
He would have said no. He would have had to say no. And I didn't want to be that cliche.
We were like clockwork. I joked about it all the time.
"Boss must love you, huh?"
"Why?"
"You never call in."
"Well, at least not on the nights you order."
"Not even on the nights I don't. Admit it."
"Yeah."
Barry's embarrassed smile probably won him the attention of plenty of women, at least the ones who weren't intimidated by his size. He was quite the big hairy beast, from what I could see. Even in the winter he wore shorts, and usually nothing more than a plain white undershirt in the summer, or a rugby shirt now that it was cooling down. Curly blond hair blurred the thick contours of his forearms and calves. Cargo shorts -- five different pairs that I recognized so far -- blurred the wide trunks of his massive thighs and the compelling lump nestled between them.
"It looks like there's a cantaloupe in there," I'd tell my friends, who didn't care. They liked young, thin guys. That was fine by me, but I always resented how they could never humor me the way I humored them.
"You just want to see his feet," they'd jibe, wrinkling their noses.
"Delivery guys don't spend that much time outside," he explained when I asked him about his clothes. I think I referred to him as scantily-clad. "You're either in the car or in somebody's building."
"And what if the car breaks down and you're stranded?"
"I'm built for winter," he said, grinning and patting his gut. He didn't have as much of a belly as you'd think. His bulk was spread out, thick muscle with a thin sheath of fat.
So Barry and I had our routine. Chicken strips and fries, plus a garden salad: $11.80. I almost never ate the salad. I always gave him $15.00.
"Keep the change."
"Wow, thanks man!" He sounded genuinely surprised every time.
It was funny, because the night our routine broke down, we were both to blame.
"Hey, Barry."
"Hey, Erik."
Something was different. He looked impatient. Bouncing on the balls of his large feet, looking around nervously.
"That'll be $11.80." He was looking back down the stairs as he said it. I admired his thick neck, the veins and banded muscle beneath his flushed skin. For the first time, I felt bad about all those steps.
"Cool, lemme get my ..." I fished my wallet out of my jeans. This was a typical ploy on my part to keep him around longer, but suddenly I felt bad about it. Barry looked like he had somewhere to be. I fingered open the folds of my wallet.
"Fuck."
"Something wrong?"
"No cash. God, I'm so embarrassed. Can I--"
"You got a checkbook?"
"You guys don't take checks, I thought."
Barry frowned and shook his head curtly, looking down at the cheap lobby carpet. "No, I can get it OK'd. It's fine."
"Great, um, I'm really sorry about this. I'll be back in just--"
"Actually," Barry interrupted, scratching the back of his head, looking sideways. "Uh, could I ask a huge favor?"
Of course I didn't tell him how long I'd been waiting to hear that.
"Ask away."
"You mind if, uh ... I really gotta take a wicked piss, and I been running for like an hour, so--"
That explained it.
"Geez, no problem. Come on in. I'll point you to the bathroom. I'll write the check while you take care of business."
Barry's face lit up as I stepped back to let him in. "You're awesome, man. I really appreciate--"
"Hey, uh, no shoes in the apartment. I hope that's cool." I wore a pair of house slippers indoors when it got cold, but other than that I always went barefoot at home. It was so strange to visit people who let you keep your shoes on. To me it felt as odd as wearing gloves at dinner.
"What? Oh, sure. Sorry." Barry bent down to unlace the thermal hiking boots he'd been wearing since the first snow. Back when it was warmer he wore the same pair of striped Adidas trainers all the time. His back and shoulders were massive and seemed to recede into an infinite distance, like the curvature of the earth.
"It's hard for me to find a wide enough shoe," he explained when I asked about them.
It wasn't surprising. His feet were enormous, even for a guy his size. He always wore white cotton socks, which was a vague disappointment. I wanted to get a look at his ankles. I wondered if I could get both hands around one of them.
Barry stepped out of his boots and over the threshold. While large, his feet were proportionate to the rest of him. Compared to the heavy bones of his ankles and his beefy calves, they almost looked small.
"This way," I said, forcing my gaze back to his face. He looked vaguely nervous. Between having his shoes off and taking a piss in a customer's bathroom, he was probably feeling out of his element.
I pointed him to the small bathroom and continued down the hall to my small office where I kept my checkbook. His footsteps were heavy behind me, the floorboards complaining beneath his weight, which I estimated at 260 solid pounds. Sitting down at my makeshift desk -- it was really just a table -- I fished my checkbook out of a pile of junk mail and flipped it open. The date on the most recently-written check was six months old.
"Thank God for the Internet," I thought.
Not twenty feet away, I heard the dull ring of a toilet seat being flipped up, followed by the heavy, urgent froth of urine plunging into the bowl.
Piss doesn't turn me on, but the sound of it sure did.
I was back in the living room before he was done, standing with my feet together, waving the check back and forth nervously between my fingers.
"Here you go," I said, laying the check in his large red hand. I let my fingers touch his palm briefly enough to verify that he'd washed after pissing.
Barry glanced at it.
"$16.00?"
"For your trouble."
"I should be giving you a discount."
"Nonsense. You're the best delivery guy I've ever had."
"Not like it's a hard job."
"You make it look easy."
Standing there on my living room carpet in his stocking feet, I noticed that he stood with his legs spread wide, knees slightly bent. But his back was straight, shoulders relaxed. Great posture for a guy his size. I couldn't figure out what he did to stay in shape. None of the signs were clear.
There was a lot of him to carry, and he did it well.
"Aw, well, you know," said Barry, since there was no real response to my compliment.
"Well I'm sure you've got to get going. Sorry to make you take off your boots, it's just a household tradition I like to--"
"Actually, I'm done," he interrupted, shrugging.
"Hmm?"
"I don't got anywhere to be. This was my last drop-off for the night."
I tried to look neutral. He smelled like my hand soap, and like himself. Salty and warm. Tart traces of boot leather wafted up from his white socks.
"Well good for you." I smiled casually and didn't move.
"You busy? Big plans tonight?"
"What? No, I was just going to eat and maybe do some reading then hit the hay." I was wearing sweatpants and a hoody. Fleece slippers, fresh from the dryer, warmed my feet.
"Oh, cool, 'cause I thought maybe, you know, if you got any beer or whatever, we could--"
"Stay for a drink?"
"I figure I already got my boots off," he chuckled. I glanced down in time to catch Barry wiggling his toes. His feet were broad and thick like the rest of him. As best I could tell through his socks, his toes looked short, which is what I prefer. I don't like guys with monkey toes, who can write or use chopsticks with them.
I waved vaguely toward the sofa. "Take a load off. You drink Newcastle?"
"Aw, you don't have to break out the good stuff for me."
"That isn't the good stuff," I said, grinning.
"Sure, then," he said, eyebrows raised. He looked impressed.
Before retreating to the kitchen to privately jump up and down and squeal for a moment, I snatched a throw pillow from my recliner and laid it on the table.
"Put your feet up," I said, as nonchalantly as I could.
"Nah, I been wearing boots for eight hours. I don't wanna stink it up."
"Go ahead. I do it all the time." I didn't wait for his response but instead padded through the swinging door into the kitchen, where I held my hands over my mouth and crouched for fifteen seconds or so and didn't scream.
When I returned to the living room, a cellar-cool Newcastle in each hand, Barry was on the couch. His broad, veined hands were locked behind his head, and his feet were resting on the pillow, ankles crossed. The sole of one foot looked about as broad as my entire face. Even if I had tried to look up his shorts, which I didn't, his thighs were so large there was no slack to peer into. Clothes shopping for the guy must have been a nightmare.
With his thighs pressed so close together, the cantaloupe straining behind his zipper looked more like a basketball.
Or the Sears Tower, I thought. Jesus.
"Cheers," I said, handing him the ale. I let the neck dangle from my fingers, allowing him to grasp the body of the bottle. No contact required. His fingers still managed to brush mine.
He's just got big hands, I figured. It was true. He could have held my head like a basketball.
We both took pulls of our ales as I circled the table and perched on the far end of the couch, cross-legged. The ale was thick and nutty. I enjoyed watching Barry's mouth working on the bottle as he emptied half of it in one gulp.
Swallowing loudly, he sighed and let his head fall back against the couch cushion, closing his eyes and smiling easily.
"So what do you do?" he asked, not looking at me.
"Freelance writer."
"What do you write about?"
"Anything. Politics, fiction, culture."
"Culture like bands and movies and stuff?" Barry's hand made its way under his rugby shirt and came to rest on his belly. I brought my knee up and wrapped my arm around it. It was a defensive gesture. I realized suddenly that he didn't know anything about me.
"More like culture war stuff. Religion, minority studies, gender, that kind of stuff."
"Ah, war of the sexes."
"That too. Magazine columns. Opinion pieces. My own little projects when I've got free time."
Barry opened his eyes a slit and looked sideways at me. "It's cool."
"Hm?"
"It's cool, man. I saw the poster in your bathroom."
Years ago, in a Christian bookstore, I bought a pamphlet titled, "I'm Gay ... OK?" It was a homophobic screed talking about the unnatural sin of homosexuality and how those afflicted with those desires could find salvation in Christ. Et cetera. I didn't agree with it then, and I don't agree with it now, but the cover of the pamphlet depicted two veined muscular hands clasped together across a long, windy road. It was an oddly pro-gay message for an anti-gay screed.
"Ok." What else was I supposed to say?
We both took another sip of ale.
"So what's your favorite thing about working as a delivery guy?"
"Driving. I love to driving. You know?"
"No, not really," I said. "I never got my license."
"Never?"
"Long story. So what's the thing you like least about working as a delivery guy?"
"My feet are killing me at the end of the day."
"Really."
"Yeah, you'd wouldn't think so, seeing as I'm driving all the time. But there's a lot of running around, too. A lot of standing around in the cold, waiting for people to get dressed and answer the fuckin' door."
With pride I silently noted that I was always prepared for Barry, opening the door just as he knocked. Then I realized how creepy that was.
"There's a lot of stairs, too," he said with a meaningful look.
"Sorry."
"Nah, it's good exercise. Gotta do something to stay in shape."
"Don't tell me that all you do is deliver pizzas to stay in shape." It was the closest thing to an all-out compliment I would dare.
"Well, I stretch out every day. Yoga and shit."
"You study Yoga?" I silently chided myself for asking such a stupid question.
"Old girlfriend of mine got me into it," he explained, clearly used to my response. You don't generally associate enormous hairy men with flexibility and breath control. "I was into a lot of weight training, little cardio, but my range of motion sucked. She thought it would make us closer or something. Totally didn't have that effect. I was like, whatever. But I still do it every day. Helps keep me from going totally soft."
"Yeah," I said, glossing over my surprise, "I figure Yoga saves me money on massage therapy."
"Shit, I can't afford a massage either way."
"Never had one?"
"Not professionally. Had a couple girlfriends try, but they got tired too fast." Barry chuckled. "Never finished the job."
"Let's get you another beer," I said, rising with something like grace.
Half-way into our second round, I said, "Gimme your foot."
"Huh?"
"Trust me. It's a Yoga thing. Gimme your foot."
"I don't think you wanna be anywhere near my feet right now. Not after eight hours with boots on."
"If it was bad I would have noticed by now."
We looked at each other for a few seconds. Barry looked incredulous. I just smiled patiently.
"Barry, I've done this before. Come on, gimme."
"You sure?"
"It's just your foot. You'll thank me."
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
Barry lifted his heels from the table and began to pivot his entire body, swinging his feet in my direction. I quickly snatched the pillow from the table and set it in my lap, just in time for Barry to lower his heels.
It was like having a car parked on my lap.
"You okay?"
"Ya ya, it's fine. You're just heavier than most guys I know."
"I meant the smell."
"I told you, I would have noticed by now. I just smell sweat and leather. You're fine."
He was more than fine. From this vantage point I could take in his entire enormous body, from the white cotton plains of his feet to the curves and slabs of his legs, curling with thick blond hair, to the modest swell of his belly and the fabric-straining bulges of his chest and arms. And of course the Space Shuttle Columbia pointing skyward from behind the zipper of his cargo shorts.
Good God Almighty he was an enormous man.
I rubbed my hands together, warming them. Expectantly, Barry wiggled his feet together, white cotton rasping against cotton.
I can't explain the pleasure I derive from massaging a man's feet. The bigger the man, and the bigger his feet, the better. Not just any foot will do. It must be broad and clean, and it must be warm and soft, and just a little hairy, or a lot. It must have deep arches and short, plump toes. And it must be aching for my touch.
I closed my hands around Barry's left foot and squeezed, mapping out the bones and pads and sinews with my fingers. When my thumbs found his deep arch and pressed, he groaned. Now and then he would open his eyes and watch my hands on his foot, unbelieving. We never looked at each other. I looked at his foot, and he looked at my hands.
I stretched each of his toes, which were just the right length, stubby and strong. I kneaded the tension from the sole, pressing with small circles then pulling with long strokes. I grasped the entire foot, pointing it forward, then took his toes in my hand and flexed the foot back.
"You've got good calves," I said. "Flexible, I mean. Good range of motion."
"Yeah," he said, his voice husky. "Those stretches hurt like a bitch, too."
Then, after a pause, "You've got good hands."
"Everyone's got a calling."
After twenty minutes or so, I was finished with his left foot and ready for the right. I lifted him by the heel and raised his left foot over my head, setting it on the back of the couch behind me. With his legs spread I could make out the swell of his testicles around the crotch seam of his shorts.
Then I pressed my hands together again, rubbing until they were even warmer, and started on Barry's right foot. I did the same things, and he made the same noises.
"I used to do this for my old girlfriend all the time," he said. "She was a waitress, and it was murder on her feet."
"But she wouldn't do it for you?" I asked, pulling on his big toe with my entire fist until I felt a satisfying pop.
"She wouldn't ... she wouldn't get anywhere near my feet," he said, groaning. "Said they were disgusting."
"Women are like that," I said, not sure if they really were or not.
"Well, I don't know too many guys who would want to get anywhere near my feet, either."
"Well, I don't mind them at all."
"Seems like it's more than that. Looks to me like you like my feet."
"I like them just fine."
"Well they like you too," he said, and his smile was sleepy. Absently, he began rubbing the back of my head with the ball of his left foot. My short hair scratched against the sock. I leaned back, pressed into the arch, which was deep and warm.
"Dude," he said, and I wasn't even annoyed. "I'd pay you to do this."
"I'd pay you."
"Then this is payback for all those tips."
"I'll keep tipping."
"Then I'll have to keep taking my boots off when I come by."
"Ask me nice and I'll do it for you."
Barry laughed under his breath, grinning broadly. His hand stroked up and down his belly, occasionally lifting up his rugby shirt to reveal a dense thatch of dark blond hair.
"I think more guys should do this."
"Trust me, lots of guys do this."
"I mean straight guys. It's a great way to bond."
I laughed out loud, holding tightly onto his foot.
"Just make sure they get video and post it on Youtube."
Now it was his turn to laugh.
"Don't tell me you got a hidden camera or something."
"I wish," I said, rolling his toes between my fingers. I could feel how hairy they were through his socks. I imagined the silky blond hair glinting on the flushed skin of his foot, and was glad there was a pillow between his heel and my crotch. "I could make more money rubbing your feet on camera than I do writing."
"Mm," he said. "Seriously, though, this is the most pleasure I've had without a woman involved."
"Imagine if you found a girl who would do this," I said, forcing myself to say it. "Maybe she could give you a really good foot rub, barefoot with lotion and everything, while giving you a--"
"Trust me," Barry said, "if there was a girl like that out there, I would have found her by now. At least one who would do it for free. You have no idea how many girls I've asked to rub my feet, and every single one just wrinkled her nose and said, 'No way!'"
He sounded strangely hurt.
"That must suck," I said, "being with someone who doesn't want to touch you."
"You have no idea." I wondered how many men felt like he did, like their bodies were dirty and disgusting and they were lucky if women touched them at all. I thought of the men who would have begged, paid, dressed up in drag to get next to Barry.
"I used to know what that felt like," I said, musing. "But I've learned that there's a market for everyone."
"Even me?"
"Especially you."
He rolled his eyes. "You're just trying to butter me up so you can keep touching my feet."
I looked at him until he looked back, then said, "Okay."
Barry's hand, which he'd been running absently up and down his belly, strayed lower, fingertips dipping beneath the waist of his shorts.
"I think it's cool how you're into my feet."
"Sure."
"It really makes me feel good."
"Good."
"It turns me on."
"Okay."
"Is this weirding you out?"
"I could do this all night."
"Do you want to do something else?" His face was blank, guarded.
I looked down at my work, resisted the urge to bend down and run my lips along the tips of his toes. "Let's find out."
"I don't want you to touch it or anything. I just want you to look at it."
"I can do that."
"You wanna see it?"
"Sure."
"That's it?"
"Yes, I want to see it."
"See what?"
"Your dick."
"You wanna see it?"
"Absolutely." I told myself I wouldn't beg. I wouldn't be that fag. Though of course I was.
"Check this out."
Unceremoniously, he unbuttoned his shorts and peeled the zipper apart. Inside his olive green cargo shorts, his underwear shone white. One hand still held behind his head, he slid his free hand down into the breach, cupping all of it.
"I got hard the second you touched my foot the first time."
"I was wondering. Sure looked like you had something big in there."
"I guess it's big. You sure you wanna see it?"
"Jesus Christ on a stick, yeah I wanna see it!"
Barry laughed.
"Okay, okay!" he said apologetically. "You didn't tease me, so I guess I shouldn't tease you."
And with that he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear and yanked them down, along with his shorts. I was forced to briefly release his foot as he pulled the entire kit down over his feet and yanked them free. Returning his feet to their rightful positions, the left behind my head, the right in my lap, he rested his big red hands on his beefy thighs and let me look.
So that's what a pound of dick looks like, I thought.
"What do you think?"
"I think you have an enormous penis."
"You like it?"
I wasn't sure how to answer that. Sure, I liked dick, at least on principle. But Barry's dick was in a completely different category, like I'd been asked to assess the genitals of an entirely new species. I won't bore you with measurements or comparisons, but at first glance it looked like the kind of cock that is handled not by an individual, but by a committee. It was a lot of dick. It was like ordering one pizza and getting two for the same price.
"I think it's amazing," I said. To show my appreciation, I did something to Barry's foot with the knuckles of my left hand the the thumb of my right hand that had him squirming and arching his back. I caught a glimpse of moisture sparkling at the blunt head of his dick, the skin of which was taut and red. I couldn't tell if he was circumcised.
"After that you earned it, man. You earned whatever you want."
"Do whatever you were going to do. Do what you want to do. That's what I want. I want you to do your thing."
"Here's my thing," he said, lifting up his left foot and lowering it so that both feet rested on the pillow in my lap. "I want you to do whatever you want to do with my feet, and I'm going to do what I need to do with my dick. That cool?"
"Just a minute." Reluctantly, I slid out from beneath Barry's feet and jogged to the bathroom. I came out with a bottle of peppermint lotion.
"Naw, that's cool," said Barry, shaking his head and grinning. "I make my own lube." Looking down at him, I could see that he was telling the truth. A puddle of pre-cum matted down a four-inch patch of hair on his belly.
"This isn't for that," I explained, setting the bottle of lotion on the table. Cupping my hands beneath the pillow, I lifted up his feet and slid onto the couch, then lowered his feet onto my lap. "Lemme show you."
"Cool," said Barry, lazily waving his dick back and forth in one hand. It looked like a prehistoric creature that had bored its way up from the center of the earth.
I hooked my fingers under the cuff of the sock on Barry's left foot and slowly peeled down. After the long foot rub I'd just given him, the fabric slid off easily, exposing a bare foot that was as thick and hairy and flushed as I imagined.
"Feels nice to get some fresh air on it," he said, and his grip tightened on his weighty member.
I had to learn forward to reach the lotion bottle, Barry's warm bare foot pressing into my chest. Pushing down on the pump, I filled my cupped hand with lotion then leaned back and rubbed my hands together until the lotion reached body temperature. Then with a single stroking motion I coated Barry's foot top and bottom, from hell to toe.
He gasped.
On the down stroke I squeezed my hands around his foot, slathering the lotion into every slope and crevice of his foot, into the cracks between his toes, matting down all that curly blond hair. I heard a rustling of skin and fabric and looked over to see Barry pumping himself for all he was worth, the head of his dick making thick syrupy noises.
"I don't think," he breathed, "I'm going to last until the other foot."
"I'll do it anyway," I said, smiling.
I smelled sweat and peppermint, and the ale on my breath, and the untouched food cooling in the kitchen, and the briny tang of Barry's pre-cum. The skin of his foot drank the lotion in as I thumbed it into the soles, worked it in between his toes. I tugged at the hair on his foot and watched it spring back into tight blond curls. I listened to his breathing deepen and his foot began to squirm in my hand.
We didn't make eye contact when he came. I wouldn't have liked that.
At the last moment he yanked up his rugby shirt, exposing the broad hairy expanse of his chest. He was flushed, almost blotchy with arousal and alcohol, and the weight of his heels dug into my thigh as he lifted his hips off the couch.
Some guys shoot watery cum, and some guys shoot clotted cream. Barry shot thin, pearly icing, enough to fill a shot glass, in high volleys that landed back onto the head of his dick and ran in translucent sheets down his knuckles.
This was the tense moment for me. I kept my promise and peeled off his other sock, working a fresh warm handful of lotion into his other foot while he got his breath back, keeping a firm grip on his slowly softening dick. It softened very slowly. He made no move to clean himself up.
After a minute or two I felt him struggle to raise his head.
"You okay?"
"Sure," I said, not looking up. "You?"
"Fuck, man, you can't tell?"
"Some guys get weird after they shoot."
"I was already weird," he said with his best grin. "Thanks a lot."
"No sweat."
I slipped Barry's socks on, resisting the urge to kiss his bare feet before doing so. He lay there watching, holding his cummy hand limp above his chest, spent dick oozing happily onto his huge thigh.
"Need a towel?" I asked.
"Yeah, I was gonna say, except I thought maybe you--"
"Not after it's cold, sorry. I like it fresh."
"Next time then, eh?"
"Next time?"
My voice sounds cold sometimes, when I don't want it to.
"Oh. Uh ... sorry, man," he said meekly. "I didn't ... I guess I shouldn't have assumed anything."
He started to pull his feet from my lap but I held them, pressing my fingers into his deep arches.
"I mean I'm pleasantly surprised you said something about a next time. That would be great."
"Cool. That's great."
"Yeah. Let me get you a towel."
It was a hot towel, soaked in rose water. Just like in an Indian restaurant. I don't like the taste of rose water, and I wanted to make sure I could resist the urge to taste it after he was done.
Barry pulled on his underwear and shorts, but I put his boots back on, right there outside my apartment door. He looked down at me, smiling strangely as I laced them up.
"So whatcha up to tomorrow night?"
"Tomorrow night I have an appointment." I was seeing a therapist at the time. Without insurance it was cheaper and more reliable than meds.
"Oh, cool. That's cool. How about this weekend?"
"All Saturday and Sunday during the day I'm up at the cabin, working on my book. Sunday night I have dinner with my editor."
"All 'booked up' then, eh?" He chuckled at his own joke to cover up the growing awkwardness of the moment.
"I'm free Monday night."
"Really? Cool."
"And Tuesday."
He nodded, hands on his hips. "And Thursday. I get it." He seemed almost disappointed.
"Is that cool?"
"Yeah, that'll be cool. It's fine."
"I don't mean to blow you off, it's just--"
"Hey, I get it. It's not like this is ... whatever this is. I dunno."
"Me either. So, Monday?"
"Yeah."
I put my hand out. He shook it. It looked like a toddler's hand.
We stood there for ten seconds or so, and nothing else happened. Then he let go and waved, and I smiled, and he turned and made his way down four flights of stairs, each one protesting loudly against his dense weight.
I stepped back and closed my apartment door and smelled my hands until I heard Barry's car crawl from the parking lot, crunching on salt and snow. Then I turned around and was completely unsurprised to see my check on the table.
[email comments/questions/photos to erik.j.sander @ gmail.com]