Shortlist Saturdays: Delivery by Nancy Waddell

  “Sweet!” Rick grinned as his cell pinged with a new order from the DeliveryToGo App. Easy money, man. He took his phone with him and hopped out of his car, parking in the box store parking lot just as the rain started to come down in cold sheets.

He pulled his jacket up over his head and ran into the building. He brought the phone up to his face, expecting the usual this time of night – case of beer, bag of chips, pack of eight-roll toilet paper. The kinds of items a student from the university downtown would need at 10:55 pm. Instead, the list on his phone surprised him. Sewing kit. Small bottle of rubbing alcohol. Cotton balls. Bouquet of red roses?

Rick had only been delivering for the app a little over a month now. He had been desperate for work since Lucy kicked him out of the apartment for cheating and his job as a junior programmer ended. He was in a state of limbo, couch surfing with friends and doing odd jobs in between getting high and pounding back malt liquor. So he really didn’t mind the work. He could keep his tips and was paid an okay rate for his time. He had to admit, this was the strangest delivery list he’d received so far. And the delivery preferences were even weirder. He stared at the screen.

Drop off instructions:

  Put items in laundry basket on driveway, in front of mirror. Back up while facing mirror. Ring doorbell once. Leave promptly.

  Rick shook his head. “As long as I get paid, man. Maybe I’ll even get a tip.” He grabbed a wire basket. “Okay, where do I find a sewing kit?” He looked up at the signs hanging from the ceiling over each aisle. Flustered, he flagged down an associate who directed him to the far end of the store. He found the kit right away, filled with needles and a few spools of thread. Stitching up a wound, perhaps? Strange.

  Next on the list, a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Rick snuck over to the pharmacy aisle and picked up a small bottle. Is this to clean a wound? Weird.

  He moved on to cotton balls, and found a bag next to the alcohol. “Red roses?” He read the last item from his phone aloud in disbelief. He made his way to the floral bouquets and found a healthy mix of scarlet blooms and baby’s breath wrapped together in tissue and cellophane. It looked like something he’d get Lucy for Valentine’s Day. Or used to get, when he actually remembered. Perfect.

  He left the store, his jacket over his head as the rain pummeled him, and sprinted to his car. He tossed the bag of things onto the front passenger seat and then took a look at his phone. “Okay, 66 Mulberry Street.” Oh hell, I know where that is. Rick raised his brows. That’s the creepy house at the corner. He remembered walking past it when he was a student at the university. The two front windows looked like two sinister eyes when the lights were on, glaring at passers by. It reminded him of a house from an old horror movie he forgot the name of, and it had always given him the shivers.

  Rick quickly found Mulberry Street in the darkness. The streetlights illuminated the sheets of rain coming down, and he parked near a puddle at the curb. He peered at the house and he could make out a huge laundry basket underneath the car port with a full length mirror standing inside it. He cautiously got out with the bag of things and walked up the driveway to the basket. He looked around, feeling like he was being watched. The rain pelted him hard and he noticed himself in the mirror. The face looking back was thin, cheeks hollow. He had lost weight from the stress of living rough the past few weeks.

  Wait a minute. He could almost swear his image inside the mirror moved differently. He slowly lowered the bag and examined himself. His reflection blinked and grinned at him. Rick backed away and cursed. His eyes landed on the bedroom window just above him. The light was on and a shadowy figure moved behind the curtain and then quickly ducked.

  “Nope!” Rick bounded back to his car and slammed the door. His phone pinged. Rain was still running down his face and he picked it up.

  Tip: $100. Thank you.

  Dammit. He had forgotten to back up and ring the doorbell before he left. Rick gripped the steering wheel, angry at himself for getting so scared over nothing. He drove off feeling guilty, undeserving of the generosity.

  The next night, the skies were clear and the moon was out, and at 10:55 pm, Rick’s phone pinged again. He read the delivery list from the same customer. Sewing kit. Rubbing alcohol. Cotton balls. Red roses.

  Cool. This time, he’d be faster – he’d know where to find everything, and he’d remember to back up and ring the doorbell. He was anxious to prove his mettle and earn the $100 tip from last night. Rick dashed into the box store and scooped up the delivery items, winking at the cute blonde cashier, and raced off to 66 Mulberry Street.

  He hurried up the driveway, up to the same laundry basket with the long mirror standing upright. He gently placed the bag inside and stared at his reflection.

  The colour in his face was brighter and his eyes shone with a light he couldn’t quite recognize. This was all so weird. He was, after all, sober for a few days now. He had a thought. He’d test out the mirror and see if his reflection would move again on its own. He slowly brought his hand to his face and saw his mirror image do the same. Must have just hallucinated the other night.

  Then he saw it. His reflection pointed at him from the mirror. Rick stood staring, goose flesh sprouting down his neck. He dared to come closer. What the hell is this?

  He saw his reflection mouth something to him, exaggerating the words. He stared back and made out the message. “You’re a loser. Fix yourself.”

  Rick cursed. His body started to shake and he balled up his fists. “You don’t know me! You don’t know what I’ve been through!”

  Just then, the words of his long dead grandpa dropped into his brain. Ricky, my boy, the worst wounds are the ones we inflict on ourselves.

  No! Screw this! A tsunami of rage overtook him and he grabbed the edges of the mirror and pushed it over, sending it crashing to the ground. He kicked the laundry basket for good measure and the delivery items scattered onto the driveway. The bag of cotton balls tore, and the balls rolled, some reaching all the way to the sidewalk.

  Rick jumped into his car. He saw the front door open and an old woman emerged wearing an oversized bathrobe, a wave of blue-gray hair rolling like the sea down her shoulders. Her face was crinkled, her eyes burning into Rick like lasers. She shuffled in Crocs through the puddles and bent over to pick up her delivery items.

  Rick shook his head, desperate to tear out of there, but feeling guilted into staying. He opened the car door and shot out. He cursed under his breath and jogged up the driveway to help pick up the cotton balls in the dark.

  “Why so mad?” The old woman stopped grabbing the scattered items and stared at him.

  Rick’s face flushed. He quickly tried to place her accent. Polish? Russian maybe? He met a Russian girl once who stole his wallet on a blind date when he was drunk. “Ugh, I’m not sure what happened ma’am. Full moon?”

  She shook her head. “No full moon. Not yet. You see yourself in mirror, maybe?”

  He froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady. I gotta go.” He crammed the rest of the cotton balls into the torn bag and handed it to her.

  She gazed at him, her eyes reaching into his soul. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Be happy.”

  He noticed her false eyelashes in the moonlight, and she smiled at him through a layer of cracked lipstick, holding the bag to her heart. She turned to the mirror lying on the driveway. “And don’t break mirror, it give you bad luck seven years.”

  Rick helped her pick up the mirror and set it back in the basket. He backed away and saw the bouquet of roses from the corner of his eye, lying in a puddle. Scooping it up, he brushed away flecks of mud from the cellophane, and gave it to her. Her eyes twinkled and she cradled the bouquet in her arms. “ Oh, spasibo.”

  He waved at her and walked back to his car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Rick took a deep breath. That was messed up. He opened up the DeliveryToGo App and read the message.

  Tip: $100. Thank you.

Nancy Waddell is the publisher and contributing writer of The New Canadian Stories Magazine, a literary publication featuring short stories and poems from writers across Canada. Her Sci-Fi short story collection, An Orb Over The Strawberry Moon And Other Sci-Fi Tales, was recently published on Amazon and is available on Kindle and in paperback. Visit her website at www.nancywaddellauthor.com and subscribe to her Substack at writerpublishernancywaddell.substack.com.