PHILIP MARLOWE, DOORDASH DELIVERY GUY
by WALTER JONES
1.
It was six-thirty in the evening when I rolled up to the place, a Bungalow court off Laurelwood with crisp yellow grass and a sun-faded BERNIE 2016 sign out front. It was a normal enough neighborhood, if deserted streets and boarded-up storefronts was your idea of normal.
The job was a standard drop-and-go as far as I was concerned, but the woman standing at the door had a different idea. She was a knockout: tall, lithe, and casually attired in a pilled purple bathrobe and a single sock a childs that went all the way up to her ankle. Her delicate features were partially hidden by a homemade face mask that looked to be stitched together from a ratty Joy Division T-shirt. A banana clip held her tousled raven hair suspended above her head like a downy Old Faithful.
Have something for me? she muffled through the mask. Her sea-blue eyes tightened into half-crescents. I took that to mean she was smiling, probably.
DoorDash delivery, maam, I said, handing off the Popeyes order three crisp limbs of some unlucky bird and a Dr. Pepper to wash away the memory then started back down the walk.
Wait, she said. Ive got another tip for you here. She disappeared into the house and quickly returned, a brown paper bag in tow.
Here, she said, passing it over. For being out there.
I opened the bag and looked inside. A four-pack of Charmin.