intuitive ink

Today I had the least fortunate experience of delivering pizza to the most brainless teenager on the planet. Perhaps this is a bit of an exaggerated claim, but it's valid nonetheless. Point #1: She did not know her own address. I arrived at work about 15 minutes early (waiting to go to work is usually much less productive than actually *going* to work; but not today.) She had ordered three pizzas and wanted them delivered to her address. This is normal procedure for people who want food delivered: call-in an order for something to eat and just like magic, the food will be delivered to your door. One necessary element of this magic is that the people calling in orders know the specific address where they want the food delivered, not just the name and approximate number on the street where they live. 4581? There is no 4581 in this cul-de-sac! I verified after double, triple, and quadruple checking. Would my eyes deceive me so? Of course not. Delivering to imaginary hou...

Inches (or millimeters, if that matters) from death, I was not afraid. I *could* have been run over by the vehicle . . . squashed into some unrecognizable and bloody mess; and I would not have cared. But that I wasn't is a fact, and that I shall live for another day of pizza-delivering is as well. Backing out from the alley, obliviously and unaware, the vehicle was stealth in its maneuverment. As I crossed the street on foot, "fresh hot" pizzas in hands, the vehicle seemed to be on some rampant bee-line path with my body. Closer. . . closer still; I was aware of its presence, and naively assumed it was aware of mine. But not. The moment was not, but seemingly choreographed as a ballet would be. . . for my escape movements were indeed on tip-toe. And my tiny-person calves are to thank. The rush of hot air and heady exhaust, the gleaning of sun on metal and plastic. . . there was undefinable space between the undefinable, and I blinked not once. "This is Building # [ ]...