The elevator dinged, and out walked a lanky teenager, holding the box with a nervous expression.
I looked up from the billing sheets on my desk, and immediately wished I hadn't.
"Hey, Dan, did we order a pizza?" Mike called from the adjacent office.
But his words faded into nothingness as I sat there, paralyzed at the sight of the boy holding the box.
He’s not even trying to hide how light it is.
I averted his gaze, opting instead for the open-window overlooking the lawn, imagining the soft patch of grass that awaited me below.
C'mon you've done worse.
The kid opened his mouth to speak."Yeah I actually have an order for—."
I dove feet first out the window.
My hands shot out from my sides, and I tumbled with little grace, onto a patch of dirt.
Heat rushed through my body, pooling into my knees. I didn’t have to look down to know that the spotless dress-pants from dry-cleaning this morning were now smeared with mossy-dirt.
I could hear the commotion of the whole office as they crowded around the window.
With the help of my good arm, I inched myself off the ground.
Got to go, Dan.
My arms flailed as I stumbled across the lawn. I faced the window. "I'm fine, really, but I've got something I got to take care of, Mike," I panted.
I ran ahead, where the edge of the sideblock met a bustling street. Around the block came the pizza-boy with a menacing glare on his face. He clearly wasn’t expecting a chase.
Then it struck me.
They sent someone to the office?
I told them I work from home.
The angry screech of his sneakers hurtling towards me put my mind to a halt.
Looking up, I saw a small break in the traffic, and with reckless abandon, I began zig-zagging my way through the packed vehicles.
“Stop!” he yelled.
I kept going.
Not when everything I’ve ever built is on the line.
Not when a single glance at those papers would mean acknowledging that I am Daniel Forman. Charged with fraud, and compelled to testify.
The thought alone was enough to make me break a sweat.
But something else kept me up at night.
Mike doesn't know.
Before I realized it, I had run into an alleyway; exit blocked by a pair of garishly-colored dumpsters.
"Sir, c'mon I'm begging you," his voice was hoarse, and he was hunched over, hands on his knees like he had just ran the mile.
"I just need your signature."
I closed my eyes, as my face heated up —fingers clawing through my scalp in an effort to shake myself awake from the nightmare.
And that I did. Waking up to the smell of… ham?
My eyes widened at the boy’s open-box. The scent of sweet fruit and cheese wafted through my nose.
"It's Hawaiian Pizza man,” he grits out. “Not a goddamn subpoena.” He fights the urge to say something else.
I went home that day, (with a cast) and noticeably-lighter wallet.
With the bag of frozen-peas still balancing on my kneecap I heard a knock at my door. Slowly, I peeked through the eye-hole and unlatched the bolt to a familiar face.
It was Mike, but he didn't wear that conciliatory look of pity.
He was red in the face, and the words that followed were perfunctory and abrupt.
"You have a lot of explaining to do.”
At my lack of response, he continued…”but frankly, I don’t think I care to hear another word out of your mouth,”
He pushed a manila envelope into my hands.
It was half-opened, as he proceeded to pour the cascade of documents onto my living room floor without ceremony.
"Did you re—,"
He shook his head with disdain.
"Court date's Tuesday."