what was that? is that all there is? who is this? this is it.

Why does the nausea seem to hit me in the face when the elevator doors close? This stagnant little cube of office building air is not helping me locate my coordinates in the no-man’s land between drunk and hung-over. But at least I’m not sharing this one with a herd of loud talking backslapping officetrons trying to one-up each other with tales of conspicuous weekend consumption. Stay on the sunny side, always on the sunny side…yeah right. A 42 story elevator ride is plenty of time to shed a layer or two because that ride into town always makes me feel overdressed. It’s because my apartment is so cold which leads to donning too many layers for the downhill bomb into base. And then when pedaling is required it gets too hot. Whatever. I think I’m still drunk. They said this delivery is office service but it’s a Federal subpoena and obviously it should be process service. The date on the messenger slip is five months old there‘s no suite number and they don‘t even know how to fill out the slip. Do you want me to do it right or do you want me to do what you say? I know you don’t know what you’re doing but I also know how to play the game. And I know you will try and change your mind and blame me next week when the attorney blames you. But most importantly I know how to cover my ass. Rubber stamp this. I don’t feel so good. Maybe I should take off this sweater. Maybe I need to take a shit. Maybe I’m closer to hung-over than drunk. I took a shower but I wonder if I smell like beer. If I had eaten some food yesterday would I feel better right now? Maybe I should try drinking water once in a while. I‘ve heard some good things about water. I’m ditching this sweater…oh of course now the elevator stops. On 38. It’s the FedEx woman. I like her. She’s just going up to 39 but she’s sort of attractive in an interesting I‘d-like-to-take-your-clothes-off kind of way. I’m glad I didn’t have all my shirts all the way off when the doors opened. Just another disaster avoided. Another hair-raising close call in the dangerous reckless tattooed pierced rebellious misfit life of a bike messenger. Whatever. Been that. Done there. A few hundred times. I’m still drunk. What time is it?

Process Service at 603 Stewart
actual conversation:

I’m pretty busy here, do you need something?

No I just have a subpoena for you.

How do you know it’s for me?

Because I’ve been here before  (About 25 times, your name is on the door you grumpy old CPA you‘re the only one here and you‘re so served)

Oh.

4 Comments

tree beard, where do you dig this shit up? "motion focused"

I'm pretty sure I could do 90% of my deliveries on a stationary bike. For another 7% I'd have to walk and the last 3% I might have to walk quickly

i may have farted in that elevator.

I copy free-range no-meato farts from New Hampshire I mean Vermont smell just as bad or worse on elevators as any Elvis or John Wayne or Ronald Reagan fart.

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