Oh no, let's not confuse roles here. Just because I'm the guy delivering pizzas, zooming from door to door with my funny looking moped, doesn't suddenly elevate me to the rank of pizzaiolo. I don’t really have that flair for dough-flinging and the brooding gaze of a pizza oven. That someone, in our little slice of the world, is Lorenzo. Now, before you start thinking of a wiry Italian, fresh off the boat from Naples, let me clarify: Lorenzo's real name is Joseph. But, with a mustache that could rival any spaghetti western villain's and a hairdo that suggests his head is wearing a horseshoe as a crown, he figured why not Italianize it a bit? Hence, Lorenzo was born.
Lorenzo's Pizza Palace came into existence almost five years ago—or so the street legend goes. I wasn't there at the beginning, mind you, but came into the picture a bit later, once the Palace had already established itself as a district landmark. Well, calling it a palace might be giving it airs. In reality, it's one of those prefab huts that mushroomed across the urban landscape at the time. The kind that popped up overnight and disappeared just as quickly when the harsh winds of market forces blew. However, the enduring legacy of Lorenzo's Pizza Palace speaks volumes about either the undeniable allure of his pizza creations or the unexpected sturdiness of its quick-assemble building. You see, most of those other pizza joints vanished into the ether, victims of a culinary Darwinism that spares no one. But Lorenzo's? It stands firm, a cheesy, saucy hope in a world of fleeting fast food fancies. And let me tell you, surviving in the cutthroat world of pizza delivery is no small feat. It's a realm where only the strongest flavors and the crispest crusts can hope to endure.

My name's Caleb, but if you're in my circle, you're dropping the eb and calling me Cal. Lorenzo, on the other hand, he's stuck on boy, despite me trailing him by just a few trips around the sun. Life's thrown its share of curveballs my way, and let's just say not all of 'em were home runs. Growing up where I did, gang life was more of a given than a choice, especially for a young black dude like me. But, hold up—don't go picturing me as some hard-case. Violence? Nah, that ain't me. Jail bars haven't had the pleasure of making my acquaintance, mostly 'cause the most criminal thing I've ever done was, let's say, liberating a garden gnome for a joyride around the block. High stakes, I know.
Post-school life was an interesting chapter. When I say I didn't finish, I mean, technically, I did—but with a diploma so light on academic heft, it might as well have been a certificate of attendance. That piece of paper's about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
'Bout two years back, I crossed paths with Carleen at a N.E.R.D. concert, a blend of black rock and rap that had us both nodding to the same beat. She was from that middle-class world, the kind that seemed light-years away from my block. And even though our thing was more a brief spark than an eternal flame, Carleen, she changed the game for me. After meeting her, I stepped back from the gang—not that I was ever deep in it, mind you. Wasn't like I was the godfather of the streets or anything. But being around Carleen made me wanna be better, do better. It's kinda funny, thinking you gotta offer the world to someone when you've only been together for a hot minute. But there I was, dreaming of giving her something more than just a chill hangout and the occasional bud. I started thinking 'bout a future, a real one, which sounds all kinds of crazy for a fling that didn't even last as long as some of my sneakers.
But that's just it—I hit the pavement hard, looking for a job. Not 'cause she was on my case 'bout it, but 'cause I wanted to. Wanted it for me, for us, maybe for that future I was daydreaming 'bout. Carleen might not have stuck around, but the path she nudged me onto? That's been sticking to me like the cheese on Lorenzo's best seller.

Ha ha, wait a minute, you questioning my ability to read? Now that's just plain cheeky! Sure, I ain't exactly the reigning champ of any read-aloud competitions, and my feet haven't graced the hallowed halls of a library just yet. But believe me, I've got the literacy chops to decode the signs that life—and Lorenzo—flashes my way. Speaking of which, there's this one note at the Pizza Palace that's always caught my eye. Even when Lorenzo buffs that glass to a shine, it still looks like it's seen better days, kinda like it's wearing a permanent coat of kitchen grease. And the sign screamed Help Wanted! in bold, slightly smudged letters. So I was staring at the sign, thinking, Help is on the way, y'all. Because, hey, who doesn't love pizza? And honestly, how hard could it really be? Seemed like nothing I couldn't handle with one hand tied behind my back.
We must've talked for, what, ten, maybe fifteen minutes? It was one of those conversations where you're trying to sell yourself as the next big thing since sliced bread. Before I knew it, Lorenzo decided I was the man for the job. Just like that, I was in. Caleb, the delivery guy, was about to make his grand entrance.
Easy money, huh? I'd chuckle at the thought if I wasn't so busy dealing with the reality that it's anything but. My initiation into the world of pizza presented me with my first challenge: the moped. It has that box carrier slapped on the back like an afterthought. And it’s of a screaming orange color that could startle a pumpkin. It wasn't just noticeable; it was a rolling caution sign, impossible to ignore. Now, your boy knows his way around a car, but a two-wheeler? That's uncharted territory. I'd never even straddled a bike before, believing firmly in the coolness that apparently goes with sticking solely to four wheels. So I was faced with the daunting task of mastering this fluorescent beast.
My training ground on that first night was the empty parking lot of Pill & Thrill Drugstore, just across the street from Lorenzo's. That lot and I became real acquainted, real fast. The first few attempts were... let's just say, if there was a prize for the most creative way to topple over, I'd have a trophy case full. But, under the cloak of night, with only the dim glow of street lamps and the occasional curious cat as my audience, I persevered. I learned the art of balance, the dance of throttle control, and the subtle language of turn signals. I went from wobbly starts and abrupt stops to something resembling actual driving. By the end of the night, I was weaving through those parking lines like they were my own personal obstacle course, the moped and I finally in some semblance of harmony.
No, I didn't get paid for that nocturnal dance with destiny, but it was all good. Consider it an investment in the hustle. When I locked up the moped that night, my confidence was a little less shaky—kinda like my legs after those first few hours. I guess you could say I was ready, or as ready as one could be for a career in high-speed pizza delivery. Bring it on, I thought. How hard could the real thing be? Famous last words, right?
Let me lay it down for you. Gradually, I started vibin' with this delivery gig, but it wasn't all smooth sailing from the jump. See, the main thorn in my side was this uniform they had me decked out in. Imagine wearing the visual equivalent of a loudspeaker—same blinding orange as the moped, making me look like a walking, talking traffic cone. Not only did it scream Look at me! but the dang thing is scratchy as a cat's tongue and about as comfortable as sitting on a pincushion. The material must've been designed by someone who thought comfort was a myth. On those sweltering summer nights, it clings to me like a needy koala, turning every run into a mobile sauna session. And when the mercury drops, the uniform transforms into a sieve that lets every chill breeze waltz right through like it owned the place. Talk about a wardrobe malfunction.
Now, about that hat. Oh, that silly hat. It's like the cherry on top of an outrageously dressed sundae. Not only does it keep my dome from breathing easy, but it's also got Lorenzo stamped right across the front. Not Lorenzo's, mind you, which would've made a lick of sense, given it's the name of the joint. But no, just Lorenzo. So there I am, cruising around town, and folks start calling me Lorenzo like it's written on my birth certificate. I mean, I've always thought I had a knack for blending in, but suddenly I'm the most recognizable Lorenzo this side of the Mississippi. It's a peculiar claim to fame, being the only black guy around here known as Lorenzo more times than I can count. But hey, if it brings a smile and a tip, call me Lorenzo all day. Just know, deep down, I'm always gonna be Cal, your friendly neighborhood pizza guy, rocking the orange like nobody's business.

Aight, so you're on the edge of your seat, itching to hear about those... let's call them unique customer encounters, huh? Well, hold up, 'cause I gotta lay down the groundwork, give you the 411 on how Lorenzo's operation runs. It's like understanding the sauce before you appreciate the pizza, you feel me? So here's the scoop: When an order comes in, Lorenzo takes it down. He's got this old-school pad, the kind that's seen more action than a Friday night at the Palace. Each order, scribbled in his peculiar Lorenzoese handwriting eventually finds its way to the kitchen (run by none other than Lorenzo himself), where the magic happens.
At last, the pizzas come out the oven, steaming like a hot bath on a cold night, and that's where I come in. I swoop in, balancing the stack of boxes, and place them into the carrier on the back of the moped. Each order comes with an invoice and the all-important address, because, you know, I can't exactly deliver based on psychic intuition. Not yet, anyway. So, once I've got that address, it's go time. I whip out my phone, which I've got mounted to the handlebar like it's the helm of a ship, and I'm the captain setting sail into the sea of streets. Now, I might know my own hood like the back of my hand, but venture beyond that? It’s adventurous. Let's just say my phone's GPS got a workout heavier than a New Year's resolution gym session on those first weeks. It was like trying to decipher an ancient map, but I stuck to my guns, and let technology guide me through the urban jungle.
Alright, let me lay down one more part of this gig that grinds my gears, and trust me, it ain't about the pizza or that flashy orange moped. It's about time—yeah, that slippery concept that Lorenzo treats like it's something you can just pin down with a thumbtack. See, after each order he takes, he wraps up the call by giving out this estimated time of delivery to the customer. Sounds all neat and customer-friendly, right? But time in the delivery biz during rush hour isn’t very reliable. Now, don't get it twisted—I'm all about that evening shift life, riding out when the city's bathed in neon and the streets hum with their own kind of music. But even then, predicting exactly when I'm gonna roll up with someone's dinner? That's like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. And yet, this whole estimated delivery time thing is also printed right there on the invoice, bold as you please.
Occasionally, I'll roll up to a delivery, maybe a minute or two behind schedule 'cause a traffic light decided to play hard to get, or because every car in the city suddenly remembered they had somewhere to be. And there it is, waiting for me—a snarky look or a remark so snooty it could probably get its own show on cable. And sometimes this barely-there lateness nibbles away at the tip I was counting on. Like, really? All this fuss over a handful of minutes? If you ask me, and no one does 'cause I'm just the boy, this whole time stuff is a setup for trouble. Unnecessary? You bet.

I agree, let's rewind the tape to when this peculiar order first popped up. I'd already been in the pizza delivery game for some time by then, cruising past my rookie year into pro territory. With my phone still playing navigator, I had our delivery zone mapped out in my mind, and some of the regulars even started to get hip to the man behind the Lorenzo hat, asking for my real name and all. Kinda nice, you know?
So, the order was for two pizzas, and that pattern hasn't changed since. One of them's always a pepperoni overload—a pie so packed, it's like a party on dough. And sure, it was already dipping into the night by the time I hoisted those pies into the moped's box. I was about to punch in the address when my eyes caught on something odd. The slip read, Millwork Boulevard, which was deep in the part of the city where the night felt a bit more like a cloak. No house number, just an instruction as baffling as a riddle in a fortune cookie: Pink Van. I squint at it. Pink Van? What’s that?
I swung back to Lorenzo, and hoped for some clarity. But he was knee-deep in dough, and his hands crafted what might as well be the next Mona Lisa of pizzas. He's so engrossed in his artistry that when I waved the slip at him and raised an eyebrow about the Pink Van, he just shrugged like it's the most normal thing in the world. "That's all I got," he said, barely looking up. Guess he figured a van's as good a place as any other.
So there I was, turning right into Millwork Boulevard. Calling this stretch a boulevard is like calling a kiddie pool an ocean. It doesn’t even have rows of trees. Must've taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque because all I saw was concrete, warehouses, and the occasional shop that looked like it was holding on for dear life in this industrial wilderness. An area where you're more likely to strike up a conversation with a shipping container than a neighbor.
Now, as for the pink van, it wasn't playing hard to get. It was parked not so discreetly by an empty lot that was ambitiously auditioning for the role of the local junkyard. It wasn't your average, run-of-the-mill delivery van. Nope, this baby was more camper than courier, decked out with a small side window and a more generous one at the back, both sporting curtains that looked like they were straight out of a '70s sitcom. It was like someone decided to mix home sweet home with wheels and painted the whole thing pink for good measure.
There's this soft glow spilling out from behind those curtains, like stumbling upon a secret clubhouse, where the password is extra cheese.
I parked the moped behind the van. Then, snagging the pizzas, I made my way around it. The driver's seat's empty, but there's a door cozied up to the sidewalk. I knocked, and the door swung open, and there she stood—a vision that almost knocked the wind right out of me. Now, I've seen my fair share of pretty faces, and let's not forget Carleen, who had her own kind of glow. But this woman? She's on a whole different level. Imagine elegance and street smarts had a baby, and that baby decided to dress up for a night out. She's got this aura, like she could command the room—or in this case, the van—with just a glance. Her outfit was striking the perfect balance between come hither and I've got places to be. It's bold, it's confident, and it's definitely leaving little to the imagination. Yet, it's not just her looks; it's the whole package—the way she carried herself with an air of someone who knew exactly what they're about.
For a moment, I was back in grade school, tongue-tied and awkward, staring at my first crush. And let me tell you, I'm the kinda guy who's usually smooth with words, able to chat up anyone from grumpy grandpas to skeptical toddlers. But her? She's got me muted like I'd lost the remote control to my own voice box.
She noticed the pizzas, and her smile widened as she took the cartons from my hands. A quick glance at the invoice, and then she handed me forty bucks—way over the amount due. I was trying to string together a Thank you, maybe sprinkled in a dash of charm, but before I could even start, the door's closing on me, leaving me standing there with a handful of cash and a head full of questions.
So there you have it. Whether it's a doorstep or the side of a pink van, turns out the delivery game doesn't change much. No stairs to climb, sure, but also no lingering chitchat or chance encounters beyond the quick exchange of goods. Life's funny like that.

Yeah, I hear you, thinking that first run-in was nothing but an everyday transaction with a dash of unexpected charm. But hold up, 'cause this story's got another layer, like a deep dish pizza loaded with surprises.
Fast forward two weeks, and that vision of a woman hadn't quite faded from my mental rearview. She'd pop up every now and then, like a catchy tune you can't shake.
I was cruising through another quiet night. The orders were trickling in at a pace that even a tortoise would find manageable. Phone rang, Lorenzo answered with his usual, Lorenzo's, we make 'em, you take 'em! A beat, then he's jotting down an order with a pen. Every so often, he'd glance over at me, nodding as if to say, Easy night, huh, boy? I found myself leaning against the counter, watching the clock tick. And I realized that the orange of my uniform felt less glaring in the dim light of the shop. Customers popped in and out, grabbing their orders with a quick thanks or a nod. Regulars threw me a familiar smile. A few even dabbed me up with a handshake or a fist bump. How's it hanging, Lorenzo? they'd jest, chuckling at their own joke as if it hadn't been made a thousand times before. I took to straightening up the menus, aligning them, then, dusting off the counter. The night air was cool, and sneaked in every time the door swung open.
"Cal, take five," Lorenzo called out. He knew as well as I did that nights like these were rare. So, I stepped out into the quiet of the evening. But then he dropped that I'm down to my last delivery of the night. The address hit me with a sense of déjà vu—Millwork Boulevard, Pink Van. Two pizzas again, pepperoni making its encore.
But this time, I was rolling up with a bit of foresight. The image of the van lady had been lounging in my thoughts, giving me ample time to gear up mentally for Round Two. As I turned onto Millwork Boulevard, the familiar sight of the van greeted me, though it's scooted down the street a bit. Still sticked out like a sore thumb, thanks to that light spilling from within. The street's quiet, not a soul stirring except for me and the softly humming van.
No sooner did my knuckles tap against the van's side than the door flung open with such swiftness, it's as if she possessed some sort of preternatural sense of timing—or perhaps the unmistakable growl of my moped acted as a pretty effective herald. She was all smiles, like I was the protagonist of her favorite story making a much-anticipated comeback. Her presence was startling, invigorating, and impossible to ignore. Her long blonde hair was tied up in two playful ponytails that danced like twin flames on either side of her head, giving her this air of whimsy mixed with undeniable allure. But it's her makeup that truly sealed the deal, especially the lipstick, a shade so vivid, so perfectly applied, it could probably stop traffic or at least make it consider taking a detour. It's the kind of bold that spoke volumes, saying she's not just here to play—it's game on.
"Oh, it's you again," she remarked, and her voice revealed both surprise and amusement, as if the idea of Lorenzo having an armada of delivery guys was even remotely plausible. "Ehm... yes," I managed to stammer out, channeling all the eloquence of a particularly shy mime. Talk about a masterclass in witty banter. And just like that, the transaction's over before it even had a chance to bloom into something more. The cash exchanged hands, and the door shut with a finality that left me standing in the dark, clutching the money like a consolation prize.
But this time, I was not on the clock, rushing back to dive into the pizza fray. I had a moment to myself. So, I did what any self-respecting philosopher of the pavement would do—I thought. And boy, did I think. About her, about this serendipitous string of deliveries. There's something about her, but I couldn’t quite fathom what it was.
Tucked away from the main drag, there's this little alley that snaked its way into a space owned by a plain warehouse. And right there, shrouded by the bulk of a three-story edifice, seemed like the perfect hideout for my moped. So, I nudged it into its temporary hidey-hole, far from the prying eyes of the pink van scenario unfolding. I camped out behind the brick corner of the building, eyes glued to the van, my mind buzzing with questions. Now, I ain't no mathematician, but two pizzas usually add up to two mouths to feed, and from what I could tell, she didn't seem like the type to double-fist a couple of Lorenzo's specials solo. So, who's the mystery guest at this pizza party?
I gave it about fifteen minutes—felt longer, given that patience and I aren't exactly best friends. Fueled by an itch to know more, I decided it's time to get a closer look. I slipped away from my hiding spot, and left the moped behind to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Creeping back towards the van, I was hit with the sudden realization that, despite ditching the vehicle, my uniform was about as subtle as a fireworks show at a funeral. Decked out in that screaming orange, I sneaked around like some sort of neon ninja, blending in with the shadows as well as a sunflower in a field of roses. But hey, a little spotlight never deterred a true detective, right?
Then I found myself ducked down under the street-facing window, curled up in a state of stealth and sheer nosiness. It's a fine line between curiosity and outright snooping. As I pressed an ear to the slightly ajar window, the night wrapped around me, its silence punctuated by the sound of her voice floating through the gap. It's her, alright, unmistakable and solo. There's no mistaking the singular timbre. “Oh, yeah, that’s just right. Deeper! Faster! Oh, this feels so good. You know what I like.”
Rooted to the spot, I linger just a tad longer, while the unfolding audio drama held me captive. Her voice, it spiralled and swelled with a kind of intensity and desire that, up until now, I reckoned was exclusive to those over-the-top glamorous porn flics.
What a nerd I was. A pink van that's giving off strong mobile bordello vibes. A young woman dressed up like a pavement princess. A tucked-away corner in the less-glam part of town. If you had told me this was how my evening was gonna unfold, I'd have laughed you out the room.

What? Diving into the details of my sex life? Y'all really think this is the spot to unpack that suitcase? Aight, if we're going there, I'll keep it one hundred—it's been quiet since me and Carleen split. A desert scene, complete with tumbleweeds rolling past, and you've got a pretty good idea of the situation. Yeah, there's all the digital stuff of you-know-what and you-know-where, but let's be real, I've been hip to that game since I was about twelve, so ain't nothing new or exciting popping off in that department. Now, don't get it twisted, the idea of stepping into a... let's call it a pleasure palace, crossed my mind once or twice. But for reasons I can't even begin to unpack here, I never walked through those doors. Maybe it's nerves, pride, or just not finding the right moment. Who knows?
But while I tiptoed back to my moped, mulling over the recent developments, the idea hit me again like a slap of cold pizza. Yet if I was gonna break this dry spell, truly step back into the game, it had to be with her, the van lady.
Posted up behind the corner like some off-brand gumshoe, I tried to shake off the shock. I mean, curiosity had me on a leash, and I wasn't about to walk away without seeing how this chapter ended. So I waited. And then, the customer made his exit. He could be easily pushing eighty, and he had this wear and tear shuffle, leaning on a cane like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. He ambled off in the opposite direction.
So now what? I couldn't exactly saunter up to the van, knock on the door, and drop a Had fun? like I was some kind of after-service survey. Looked like I gotta play the long game, wait for the stars to align with another order that would send me back to this place. And maybe, just maybe, if I could muster up the courage, I'd ask her for an appointment. But for tonight, that's a wrap on my detective gig. I gave my moped a companionable nudge, and guided it through the shadows like we're sneaking out of an exam we didn't study for, until we're a safe distance from the van. Then, it's time to hit the road, back to the now-sleeping Pizza Palace.
Lorenzo's spot was all buttoned up for the night, dark and silent. I wheeled my steed into its usual spot in the backyard, secured it for the night, and walked home. It had been one heck of a shift.

Y'all still with me? I get it, the story's been meandering like a creek, and trust, I was feeling that drag too. Three long weeks rolled by, and with each passing day, my determination to have a real meet-up with the van lady cranked up a notch. It's like every order Lorenzo handed me became a mini lottery, me hoping to hit the jackpot with that Millwork Boulevard address. But nah, the universe had me on a diet of anticipation, serving up every location but the one I'm craving.
Now, you're probably wondering, Hey, if you're so set on sparking something with her, why not just roll up to the van on your own time? Ditch that neon outfit, slip into something less... loud, and shoot your shot. I mean, would be a solid game plan, right? Except, it didn't sit right with me. I wanted her to know me as I was, orange uniform and all, 'cause that's how she first saw me. Plus, there was this whole thing about timing—I needed to be sure she'd actually be there, and I wasn't about to trek all the way to industrial nowhere on a maybe. Because, rolling up to an empty spot, especially one as out-of-the-way as hers, would be like showing up to a party that got canceled last minute. Nobody wants to be that guy, standing alone with his hopes up and nowhere to put 'em. So, I played the waiting game, uniform at the ready, for that one order that would put me back on her radar. It's a strategy, okay? Maybe not the boldest move in the playbook, but hey, love, a quickie—or whatever this was turning into—makes you choose some funny plays.

The call came through early that evening, just as the day was settling into its nightly routine. It was an average workday, nothing out of the ordinary—until that order popped up. I clocked the time crunch immediately, feeling that familiar pinch of annoyance. More time, that's what I needed, but time was playing hard to get, like it always does when you're racing against it.
Two weeks back, Lorenzo decided to expand the crew, bringing on board a second assistant. This new kid on the block was mainly tasked with manning the oven and juggling calls, but every now and then, he'd hit the streets for deliveries, armed with his own bike. With this fresh pair of hands on deck, I saw my out. Feigning a headache, I approached Lorenzo, laying it on just thick enough. "Lorenzo, man, I'm feeling all types of twisted up. Head's banging like it's got its own soundtrack. Think I gotta call it early tonight, right after this Millwork run." You gotta understand, in my time with Lorenzo's Pizza Palace, I've been as solid as a day-old pizza crust—reliable to the core. I could count on one hand the times I've bailed, and even then, I was back at it quick. Lorenzo, he gave me this look, the kind that's trying to read the fine print on your forehead. But knowing my track record, he didn't put up much of a fuss. With a nod that was part approval, part resignation, he waved me off. "Alright, Cal. Take care of that head, you hear? We need you in top form."
And just like that, I had my ticket punched for an early exit. It wasn't exactly my proudest moment, playing the headache card, but desperate times call for desperate measures. There was something about that Millwork Boulevard delivery, a thread I couldn't leave dangling, and if bending the truth a bit was my way in, then so be it. With Lorenzo's nod, I was set, a plan forming in my mind as I prepped for what was shaping up to be more than just your run-of-the-mill pizza drop-off.
As soon as my knuckles met the van's side, signaling my presence, the door swung open with a familiarity that told me we were becoming quite the duo, her and I. But today, I wasn't just the pizza guy. Today, I had a mission—a personal one. And so, before she could reach for the pizzas, the words tumbled out of me. "Hey, um, would it be possible that I have a date with you… here?" I blurted, though the exact words slipped my memory.
Her eyebrows arched in surprise, as if my question arrived completely unexpected. "An appointment? You think you’re into this?"
"Yeah, I mean, why not?" I replied, and the conviction in my voice surprised even myself. "I think it could be... nice."
She paused for a moment, considering, then disappeared briefly inside the van only to reemerge with what looked like an appointment book. Flipping through its pages, she mused aloud, "Let's see when we can pencil you in."
"Monday's usually best for me," I offered, eager to find a slot in her potentially mysterious schedule. "Lorenzo's is closed, so I'm all yours."
"Next Monday it is, then," she agreed with a nod, marking it down. "Same time, here?"
"Yeah, that works," I said. I was actually doing this.
She glanced up, and I saw that a smirk was playing on her lips. "It's Lorenzo, right?" she teased, echoing the name emblazoned on my hat.
I couldn't help but laugh. "Nah, it's Cal. Cal's the name."
"Cal? As in, short for California?" she inquired, and now I sensed a hint of real amusement in her voice.
"Ah, no," I chuckled. "It's actually short for Caleb. But if you're in my circle, you get to call me Cal."
"Pleasure, Cal. I'm Cayenne," she introduced herself, and extended a hand that I shook, wondering all the while if that was the name her mama gave her or one she chose for nights like these.
With some extra time up my sleeve—thanks to Lorenzo giving me the green light for an early night—I figured, why not play detective again? Last time's stakeout had me curious as a cat with a yarn ball. So, I parked myself in the same discreet spot as last time, eager to peep the clientele exiting the van. Just for kicks, you know, purely out of curiosity.
But, the figure who emerged from the van a little later ain't the dashing young Romeo I half expected. Nah, it's a lady, and she's strutting her stuff with the grace of someone who's seen the world turn a few more times—let's say she's rocking her 70s like it's a fashion statement. My jaw about hit the floor. Talk about defying expectations; Cayenne was versatile, alright.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for inclusivity in the customer service game, but this revelation had me scratching my head, pondering the range of her... let's call it, clientele. The last thing I wanted was to stumble into a niche market situation, especially if it leaned heavy on the senior discount side of things. But then, logic tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me she would've probably given me a heads-up if that were the case.

Aight, so listen up, 'cause what I'm 'bout to lay down here needs to stay on the down low. Especially this next bit—'cause, real talk, if Lorenzo ever caught wind of it, getting fired would be the least of my worries. Nah, I'd be crowned the king of comedy around the joint, my dignity served up as the daily special for the rest of my days. And don't even get me started if word got back to my crew in the hood. Man, I'd have to become a ghost, straight up vanish, 'cause the roasting I'd endure would be next level. I'd be dodging my own shadow, fearing the chuckles might find me in the streets. It's the kind of embarrassing that's got me checking over my shoulder, making sure this tale doesn't leapfrog out of our circle. So, you got me? This is the kind of secret that's got to be kept under lock and key.
Here comes Monday, rolling in like it's just another day off in the life of Caleb, the delivery guy. Usually, my Mondays are laid-back to the max—like, kick-my-feet-up, binge-watch the latest series, maybe mess around on the game console, and definitely, definitely sleep in late. It's my chill day, my reset button for the week, you feel me?
Yet, this Monday was playing a different tune. 'Cause see, I got this appointment later on, and not just any run-of-the-mill kinda deal. We're talking 'bout a date with Cayenne, or whatever her name was. And lemme tell ya, as the day slipped from morning coffee to afternoon daydreams, right into the velvet embrace of evening, my excitement's building up like it's the premiere of the hottest blockbuster of the year. Now, for the prep work—'cause you know I gotta come correct. First things first, I hit the shower, turning it into my personal concert hall as I run through every song that's got me feeling like a million bucks. Then, it's on to the wardrobe dilemma that sees me digging through my closet, looking for that just-right outfit. Something casual cool would be nice. I settled on a combo that felt like a winner. Finally, I gave myself the once-over in the mirror, practicing what I hoped was my most charming smile, then a nod. "You got this, Cal," I told my reflection, half pep talk, half prayer. A spritz of cologne for good measure—couldn't be rolling up smelling like pizza dough, after all.
With the clock ticking down, I grabbed my phone, wallet, keys—check, check, and check. And took a deep breath that failed to calm the butterflies throwing a party in my stomach.
Decided against the bus and the short trek to Millwork Boulevard, but opted for the full journey on foot, craving that fresh air I've grown kinda fond of. You get used to the breeze, the city's breath against your face. Missed that on my days off. Halfway there, the sky decided to get a bit emotional on me, and let out a soft drizzle. Wasn't nothing serious, just enough to make the pavement glisten under the streetlights. So, I picked up the pace, not trying to show up looking like I took a dip in the pond. Ended up reaching the spot way too early, with night starting to drape everything in its dark blanket. Noticed the lights glowing inside the van, warm and inviting. Couldn't tell if she had company, and wasn't about to gamble and stroll up like it's a normal house call. So, back to my tried and true hiding spot I went.
When the time hit, precision on point, I knocked. And there she stood, making my heart do a whole gymnastics routine. She was decked out in a schoolgirl uniform that was straight out of every cliché yet undeniably captivating. A crisp, white blouse, buttoned just so, suggesting more than it revealed. The skirt plaid, swirling around her knees, flirting with every move. Knee-high socks climbed up her legs, capped off with shoes that said innocent but her eyes screamed adventure. Topped off with her hair, somehow both prim and wild, she was a vision that had me questioning every decision that led me here, yet grateful for each one.
Let's get one thing crystal clear before we dive deeper into this tale: I ain't the type to chase after anyone who ain't close to my own age. But that night, under those circumstances, she had this pull—like gravity but with allure. If you'd been in my shoes, you'd catch my drift without me spelling it out.
Stepping into her van was like entering a whole new dimension. It was cozy, sure, but cozy like a puzzle where every piece had its place. There's a plush armchair, yet it held a certain dignity in its wear. A sofa, cramped into the space like it was convinced it belonged there, offered a soft embrace with its cushions. The lighting was dim, and for a couple of seconds my eyes followed the shadows that danced along the walls. Everything was a bit on the snug side, making you feel like you were part of an intimate gathering, even if it was just you and her. One thing that struck me, almost immediately, was the absence of a bed, or even a simple mat or mattress. In a space that small, though, maybe I was expecting too much. It wasn't like there was room to swing a cat, let alone accommodate full-on bedroom furniture.
"50 bucks for 45 minutes okay for you?" she inquired, and it seemed she already knew my response. It wasn't so much a question as it was a gentle nudge towards the transactional nature of our meeting. I nodded, understanding the drill without needing a manual. It dawned on me then that this wasn't about choices—it was about the protocol. And so, without further ado, I handed over the cash (and was delighted that it was cheaper than I had expected).
She motioned me over to the sofa with a gesture that was part invitation, part command. Now, the thought crossed my mind—should I be shedding layers like a caterpillar ready to cocoon? But as I caught a glimpse of her, fully clothed and making no moves towards undressing, I abandoned the idea and took a seat instead. There I was, parked on the sofa like a statue, hands resting on my thighs.
She settled herself into the armchair across from me, reached behind and pulled out a softcover book from a tiny, cluttered shelf. She opened the book, and her fingers danced across the pages until she found her mark, then she looked up and began to read.
Hold up—reading? In that moment, my brain scrambled to make sense of the scene unfolding before me. Was this some next-level type of foreplay I hadn't been clued into? I peeked at the book’s title: Hot For Teacher. Holy Moly. I listened to her hushed voice: “Nora threw him her most sultry gaze, and the devastating effect sealed Henry's fate. ‘Do I not look sure about us right now?’ Henry could only gape at the woman's unmatched natural beauty. ‘Take off my clothes,’ she commanded demurely. The young man's grin broadened. ‘Yes, ma'am.’ The couple stood face to face, smiling adoringly at each other, as Henry began unbuttoning Nora's top. He was overcome with the desire to rip the woman's clothes off and take her right now, but forced himself to operate slowly. When Henry was finished, Nora coolly raised her arms overhead, allowing him to remove her shirt.”
The prose floated through the air, while I sat, completely clothed, utterly bamboozled, yet undeniably hooked on every word. It was sensual, sure, in an auditory kind of way, but miles away from the physical encounter I'd imagined.
My mind was doing backflips trying to figure out my next move. What was going on here? Were my ears the only part of me supposed to be getting a workout tonight? 'Cause, let me tell ya, that wasn't exactly the plan when I stepped into this mobile den.
Every so often, she'd throw a glance my way, her eyes flicking up from the pages of that book. Was she just checking if I hadn't dozed off to dreamland, or was she waiting on me to... well, do something more in line with the traditional expectations?
She read on. “Henry's eyes bulged as he gawked at the most exquisite breasts he had ever seen snugly wrapped in a sexy black silky bra like a Christmas present. He was about to peel off the bra when Nora inclined her head towards her pants. Barely able to contain himself, Henry obeyed. He carefully undid her pants to discover that this beautiful woman, his former high school teacher, was wearing a matching set of panties. His cock throbbed so hard that it hurt. ‘My god,’ he breathed. Nora beamed. She kissed him sweetly before declaring, ‘My turn.’”
I hesitated. It felt like standing at a crossroads, with one sign pointing to Just Listen and the other to Do Something, Fool. After a moment of inner debate, I decided maybe it was time to add a bit of the expected script to this play. I mean, this was Cayenne's show, but maybe I could at least try for a supporting role, right?
I reached down and cautiously began to unzip my trousers. My fingers fumbled a bit, and the sound of the zipper seemed louder in my ears than the crescendo of her reading. And then I had my big boy out. And big it was already from the titillating nuances of her reading. It got even bigger when I began to stroke it.
Barely half a minute later, I found myself back on the chilly street, a fresh-out-the-oven experience of getting the boot. I didn't so much see the door slam shut behind me as hear it.

Aight, before you go painting that smirk all over your face, let me ask you—what would you have done, huh? It's easy to judge from the sidelines, but trust, being in the middle of it is a whole different ballgame. I was making what I thought was a move straight out of the playbook, only to realize later that night, courtesy of a deep dive into the internet's vast ocean, that I had the game all wrong. Turns out, Cayenne wasn't peddling the kind of services my imagination had conjured up. Nope. She was in the business of auditory allure, reading from erotic novels to a clientele that, let's just say, had more seasons under their belts, folks, mostly on the seasoned side of life, tuning in not for the touch but for the tales. They were there for her voice, that smooth, seductive cadence weaving stories that took them back, way back, to days of youth and wild abandon. All for the low, low price of 50 bucks and 45 minutes of their time. And if they wanted a side of Lorenzo's finest with their escape? Well, that was on the menu too, but you bet that came with an extra charge. One could even book these novel narration sessions online. And yes, she also makes house calls. So, yeah, discard that mocking smile and put on your thinking cap. The world's full of surprises, and I just happened to stumble upon one.
So, I was talking with Lorenzo, and tried to steer the conversation into a certain direction without spilling too much tea. I mean, how do you even begin to explain the story without diving into the deep end? I kept it rather surface level, real casual-like. "Hey, Lorenzo," I started, "due to some... personal reasons, which, no offense, ain't really up for discussion, I'm gonna have to pass on any future deliveries to that pink van." You should've seen Lorenzo's face. It was like his brows were doing that little dance they do when he's trying to solve a puzzle. I could tell he was itching to dive into a full-blown interrogation, probably had a list of questions ready to fire off. But, bless him, after a moment's pause, he just let out this long sigh, the kind that said, Fine, I won't pry, and nodded. "Alright, Cal. If that's how you feel, I'll respect that." And just like that, he backed off, no further questions asked. Crisis averted.
From then on, whenever Dwayne, the other guy, slung his leg over his bike, two pizzas secured to the back—one pepperoni—I'd find my mind drifting. Drifting to Cayenne. Couldn't really shake her off. Call it what you want—infatuation, a mild case of the what-ifs—but there was something about her, something that lingered in the back of my mind, popping up at the most random moments. And I realize again and again that I’m still missing her.