Delivery

Mark’s phone chimed. He looked at the caller ID: Client K. He let the phone ring twice more before answering.

"Yes?" he answered.

"I need you to pick up a package at 1700 Douglas Avenue, suite C," a female voice said, "and deliver it to 3821 Fairbanks Street by three o'clock."

"I'm not an errand boy," Mark said, annoyed. "If you need a package delivered, call the post office."

Mark was about to hang up when the caller quickly spoke up.

"Please," she said, her voice in a panic. "I wouldn't call you, but I don't have anyone else to turn to. I'm desperate."

Mark tapped the table he was sitting at, thinking. He knew from experience that desperate people tended to have deep pockets. He also knew that the payment usually wasn’t worth the trouble they had gotten themselves in. Still, he was curious.

"How desperate?" he asked.

"I'll pay you triple your usual fee,” she said hurriedly, likely afraid that if she didn't get her words out quickly, Mark wouldn't stay on the line to hear her say them.

Mark did some quick calculations in his head. "It's nearly two now," he said. "Even if I wanted to help you, getting to Douglas and then Fairbanks in an hour isn't possible. Sorry."

"Five times!" Client K said. "Please!"

"I suppose," Mark said, letting the words slowly fall out of his mouth, "I could lend a hand just this once."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed.

"This is the only time I will do something like this," Mark said, pointedly. "Don't bother asking again."

"I won't," the woman said solemnly. "Your payment is being transferred now."

Mark hung up the phone and slipped it into his suit jacket's interior breast pocket. Moving quickly, he got up from the table, went to his bedroom closet, pushed all of the hanging clothes to one side, and flipped a switch hidden on the backside of clothes rod. The rear wall silently slid away, revealing an assortment of weapons. Having never done a delivery job, he was unsure of what to take. He opted for a single Glock 17, which he stored in the holster on the back of his belt, obscuring it from view with his jacket. Returning his closet to its starting position, Mark went to the garage.

He considered a motorcycle since he'd be able to split lanes, but since he was delivering something, he probably needed a trunk. The Lamborghini was his fasted car, but it was likely too large and too conspicuous (the client hadn't asked for discretion, but that was Mark's default for his work). Ultimately, he got in the driver's seat of his Mini Cooper and drove off.

By the time he was on the main road, it was 1:59. Mark didn't ask questions about the who's and why's of his jobs, he just did what needed doing. Still, he couldn't help but be curious what was so important about this package and why it needed to be delivered in an hour's time. Douglas Ave was near the docks, which the Russian mafia controlled, though Mark wasn't sure if their influence reached as far west as Douglas.

Mark weaved through traffic, going at least twenty over the speed limit. He drove without any music playing so he could focus more of his attention on the job. He wasn’t sure if that made sense, but it helped him feel as if he was more alert, so he drove in silence.

He arrived at Douglas Ave at 2:17, one minute ahead of the loose schedule he had in his head. He was surprised when he pulled up to 1700C to see that it was a bakery. Must be a front or something, Mark reasoned. He parked the car and walked in.

A chime sounded as Mark opened the front door. The bakery was small and filled every available space with display cases showcasing the day's assortment of breads and pastries. A young woman in a flour specked apron came out of the door that led to the back, the door swinging back and forth behind her. Her black hair was in a messy bun with a hairnet on top and she was wiping her hands on the towel that hung from the waist pocket of her apron.

"Welcome to Sunny Day Bakery," she said with a smile. "How can I help you?"

"I'm here to pick up a package," Mark said simply.

"Ah, yes," the woman said, nodding. "I was told you'd be coming. Please wait right here."

The woman disappeared into the back again. Almost immediately, she returned, carrying a pink cardstock box that was fastened with white string. She passed it to Mark, instructing him to support the bottom.

"Have a sunny day!" the woman said enthusiastically as she waved goodbye and headed through the swinging door to the back of the shop.

It has to be a front, Mark thought as he got back in the car. I probably have drugs or diamonds or something. I mean, who would suspect a cute, little bakery, right? He laid the box on the passenger seat and drove off.

He got back on the road and headed towards Fairbanks St. Mark looked at the clock on his dashboard: 2:20. He had expected to merely walk in, get the package and walk out, so the minute that he had gained on his trip to the bakery was gone. At least he wasn't behind, he thought.

Suddenly, he saw lights flash his rearview mirror. It was an unmarked police car, the blue and red lights coming from inside the front grill, just above the bumper. He looked at his speedometer: he was doing 75 in a 50. He considered stopping, but he’d never make his delivery time by then. He sped off.

The police car added a siren to the lights and gave chase. Mark's Mini was faster than the standard-issue Impala behind him—he had made some changes to his car, so his top speed was around 165—but the police officer had the advantage of getting the surrounding traffic to move out of the way. Mark whipped around cars, putting some distance between him and the cop, though not as much as he needed. He cut off a white minivan and made a right off the main road onto a residential street. He drove straight long enough to see if the cop had seen him turn. The car appeared about three-quarters of a mile behind him. He quickly made a left turn, followed by two rights and another left, scanning driveways as he drove. After another right turn, he found what he was looking for and backed into a long driveway, parked behind the large RV sitting there, and cut the engine.

How long should he sit there? Mark was now behind schedule by nearly three minutes. He could likely make that up, but he needed to get moving. He anxiously tapped the steering wheel with his middle finger and thumb, bouncing his hand back and forth. After nearly a minute of waiting, he decided the coast was clear and started the engine.

Mark pulled out of the driveway and made his way back to the main road. He wasn't familiar with this neighborhood and turned into a cul-de-sac before leaving the housing development. Just as he was turning onto the main street, the cop appeared behind him. You’ve got to be kidding me, Mark thought, shaking his head. He floored it.

Rather than try to lose the cop immediately, Mark just drove as fast as he could towards the drop-off point. It wasn't that simple, of course. The cop would undoubtedly call for backup and if Mark stayed on the most direct route, they'd likely cut him off or put down a spike strip. No, Mark had to keep them guessing as much as possible: head down Roland for eight blocks, cut across Colorado, double-back up Summit for three, before heading down a narrow alley and then back down Roland.

As Mark drove like this, two squad cars joined in the chase. Before long, Mark was finally only a few blocks away from the drop-off. It was going to be close, especially since these cops were on his tail like a rattle on a snake. Every turn he made, they were close enough behind him that he couldn't lose them. Mark realized that he was going to have to ditch his Mini soon and finish on foot, a fact he found incredibly annoying. He turned down a narrow street and saw that a large moving truck was backing up to a high rise apartment. He drove as fast as he could: if he could squeeze past the truck before it blocked the street, he'd have enough of a lead that he could ditch the cops; if he couldn’t, things were going to get ugly.

Mark gripped the wheel tightly as he drove on to the sidewalk and pressed down on the gas. Time seemed to stand still as moved his car close enough to the building that sparks flew from the his passenger side mirror before it was torn away. He held his breath as he slid past the truck, clipping the edge of the liftgate. The driver's side mirror flew off just as he cleared the truck. He looked in his remaining mirror to see the unmarked car try to make the same maneuver and get wedged between the building and the truck. Mark breathed out and turned down Sullivan, one block away from his destination.

He parked the car on the street before reaching into the glovebox and pulling out a dark brown wig and matching moustache. He removed the plastic backing from the 'stache, pressed the sticky side against his face, and slid the wig over his own red locks. He also retrieved a pair of aviator sunglasses from the compartment and pressed an unseen button near the top. He grabbed the package from its place on the passenger seat and exited the vehicle. He walked quickly, though not too quickly, down the sidewalk, turning at his first chance. Once around the corner, Mark pressed the automatic starter on his car's key fob, triggering the car to explode. He put the keys in his pants' pocket and kept walking.

Mark rang the bell of 3821 Fairbanks St at exactly 3:00. A petite middle-aged woman with short blonde hair answered the door of the stately townhouse.

"You made it!" she exclaimed, a look of relief washing across her face as soon as she laid eyes on Mark—or, more likely, the package Mark held. She reached out to take the pink box from him, but Mark held it just out of reach.

"There were complications," he said. "I want half again as much as we discussed."

The woman was taken aback. "That's not what we agreed."

"I agreed to take the job with the assumption that this would be a simple delivery," Mark said, his patience long since dried up. "Like I said, there were complications."

"It's not my fault you assumed this would be easier than it turned out," she said, reaching out for the box again, only for Mark to pull it away again.

"And it's not my fault that you need whatever's in this box. Pay me the new amount, I hand it over, we’re both happy."

The woman's eyes narrowed as she mulled over Mark's ultimatum. "Fine," she said, exasperated. She reached into her back pants' pocket and pulled out a smartphone. After a few taps, she returned the phone and told Mark that the payment had been made. Satisfied, Mark held the box out for the woman to take.

Just then, a silver-haired man appeared behind the woman.

"Honey, what's taking so long?" he asked her. "Is the birthday cake here? The kids are getting antsy."

The woman snatched the box away from Mark and passed it to the man behind her.

"The delivery driver just got here with it," she said, giving Mark a pointed look. Mark faced the man, a tight-lipped smile on face, and nodded.

"Perfect timing, son," the man, in a tone that struck Mark as an odd combination of appreciative and condescending. The man disappeared into the townhouse, leaving Mark and the woman alone once more.

"It was just a cake?" Mark asked through gritted teeth.

"I thought you didn't ask questions," she said after a pause.

"I'm asking this one," Mark said, spitting out his words. "Did I just deliver a cake?"

"I said I was desperate," she said, throwing her hands up. "My assistant had the nerve to shatter her pelvis and I was too busy to get the cake myself."

Mark sighed, shaking his head. "Lose my number. I'm not taking any more jobs from you. You're not worth the trouble."

Misprint

Floyd reviewed the customer's order. Experience had taught him that it was worth the time it took to do a quick proofread before printing however many copies were ordered. Seeing an error in the headline, he grabbed his red pen and marked the copy: the customer had transposed a couple of words. Strangely, he noticed that the same error kept appearing throughout the document. Could it be that what Floyd assumed was an error was actually correct? Deciding to play it safe, he swiveled his chair around, picked up his desk phone, and dialed the client's number.

"Hello," the friendly voice on the other end of the line greeted, "this is Andrew."

"Hey, Andrew," Floyd replied. "This is Floyd over at Showalter Printing."

"Hi, Floyd," Andrew said warmly. "How're the brochures coming along?"

"That's actually what I’m calling about" Floyd said, happy to get to the point so quickly, "I was doing a quick review of the proof you submitted and I came across this weird error: every instance of your organization's name is listed as 'The Quinton J. Bromberg Society for Suicide Awareness Prevention.' I think whoever made this up, their computer has a glitch in the autocorrect."

"There's no error," Andrew said, still warmly, though some weariness had entered his voice. "We are indeed the Quinton J. Bromberg Society for Suicide Awareness Prevention. I know, most people expect it to be 'suicide prevention awareness,' but we're the other way 'round."

"Wait," Floyd said, confused, "you guys try to get be people to commit suicide?! That's horrible!"

"Not at all," Andrew said, the exhaustion in his voice belying the fact that this was not his first time having this conversation. "We work to prevent the public from being aware that suicide exists at all. When Mr. Bromberg passed away, he left instructions in his will that a sizable portion of his substantial wealth should go to establish this nonprofit. So, we do our best to fulfill his wishes.

"To be clear," Andrew added, "we don't lie to anyone or try to convince anyone that suicide doesn't happen. Instead, we target individuals who have never heard of suicide to begin with and work to keep it that way."

"Are you sure he didn't make a mistake when writing his will?" Floyd asked, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

"That," Andrew said, as if by rote, "is almost certainly the case. After speaking with his widow and those who knew him, we are quite certain that Mr. Bromberg simply mistyped his wishes in his will. Unfortunately, our lawyers have made it very clear that we must uphold the wording as it appears in his last will and testament."

"That's awful," Floyd said, surprised by his own candidness. "I mean," he stumbled, trying to recover, "I'm surprised that your entire organization is founded on a mistake. Why is his family not fighting it?"

"Oh, they are," Andrew said, sounding a bit more cheerful. "Particularly his widow. I hope she succeeds and shuts us down. Do you have any idea how hard it is to prevent people from learning about suicide? It's basically impossible."

"Why not just shut down your organization on your own?" offered Floyd. "Why wait for Mrs. Bromberg to do it?"

"The founding of this society was a stipulation for other charities to receive funding," Andrew said, the weariness in voice growing again. "If we close our doors, several actually worthwhile groups will have to pay back their funds. At least, until Mary Ellen wins her case and is able to convince a judge that this organization exists against her late husband's wishes. I believe the next hearing is in about four months, so, fingers crossed!"

Floyd thought about what he'd been hearing, his initial shock replaced with sympathy. And by the sound in his voice, Andrew had had to explain this same story plenty of times already. Instead of being angry, he felt sorry for the guy.

"That sounds rough," he offered lamely. "Well, I guess I've got what I need. I'll print up these brochures and send them to the address we have on file. Sorry to bother you."

"It's fine," Andrew said, sighing slightly. "I'm used to it."

Summons

Brian returned the contents of his jeans' pockets as he walked away from the security detail at the entrance of the courthouse. Since this was his first time going to jury duty since moving to his new place, he wasn't sure where he needed to go. He pulled the summons from his jacket pocket to see if he could decipher the instructions now that he was physically in the building, but it was no use. Brian looked around for someone he could ask for help and saw a woman behind a desk a little ways away, just in front of the elevators. Brian walked towards her.

"Um, excuse me," Brian said to the young woman sitting behind the desk. She appeared to be in her early twenties, had dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and was wearing a plain yet professional-looking blouse. "Can you…?" he started, but paused. The woman's breathing was labored, she had a far-off look in her eyes, and she had a light sheen of sweat on her face despite the cool temperature of the lobby. "Are you okay?"

"What they don't tell you," the woman said breathlessly, not making eye contact with Brian, "is that a small order of cheesy breadsticks is still supposed to be for, like, four people." Brian looked down at the desk and saw a large, greasy piece of waxed paper laid out, showing the crumby remnants of, apparently, a small order of cheesy breadsticks.

"I'm here for jury duty," Brian said, cutting to the chase.

"You're in the right place," she replied, still slightly out of breath and still staring off into space.

"Right," Brian said slowly, trying to keep his cool. "Where do I go next?"

"What's your summons say?" she asked, raising her head to face Brian, though with her eyes closed.

"I don't know," Brian replied, the annoyance in his voice becoming more obvious. "I couldn't make sense of it."

"Let's see it" the woman said, extending her hand but keeping her eyes closed. Brian handed the paper to her and she finally opened her eyes to examine it. As soon as she laid her eyes on the paper, she held it back up to Brian. "This isn't your summons: it's the instructions that came with your summons. Did you bring your actual summons with you?"

"Look," Brian said, fed up with this woman’s behavior, "I couldn't make sense of the terrible instructions, but I brought the piece of paper that actually has 'summons' printed across the top. Now you’re telling me that the summons is the one without 'summons' on it?"

"Sir," the woman said a bit condescendingly, finally making eye contact, "there's no need to get an attitude."

Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Since I don't have the summons," he asked, looking back at the woman, "what do I do?"

"You'll need to go subbasement C and get a replacement summons," the woman said with what seemed to Brian to be a sarcastic smile. She gestured behind her. "You can take the elevators or," pointing behind Brian, "the stairs. Have a nice day."

Hoping that walking would help him blow off steam, Brian took the stairs.

After six flights—a main level, two basement levels, a garage level, and two subbasement levels—Brian finally arrived at the highly anticipated subbasement C. While the walk had helped him cool down a little, he was still pretty annoyed. Opening the heavy door that separated the stairwell from the rest of the floor, the first thing Brian noticed was the faint smell: stale booze mixed with just a hint of bleach. An outdoor public bathroom on a hot day is far worse, but it still wasn't something he was prepared for. He stepped out of the stairwell and heard his shoes peel off the sticky floor. Brian looked down and saw a dried puddle below his feet with a disconcerting red color. Trying not to think about what he could be stepping in, he headed down the hall.

Unlike on the main floor or in the stairwell, the fluorescent lights of subbasement C had a sickeningly green tint to them. Plus, it seemed like every fifth light was flickering. Along with the smell and the sound of his shoes, still sticky from the mysterious puddle, it all made for a truly unnerving experience.

Brian stopped in front of a room directory to see where he needed to go. Some of the letters had fallen off and laid on the ground. According to the sign, only four rooms were on subbasement C: A chives I, Arch  s II,  rchives I I, and Sum ons Rei sue. Thankfully, the room numbers were intact, so Brian headed down the hall looking for room C-13.

After walking for several minutes, Brian reached room C-13. Except, there were two C-13s: C-13a and C-13b. The doors faced each other from either sides of the hall. Not sure what else to do, he opened the door to C-13a. Well, he tried to open the door, but it was locked. So was C-13b. Shaking his head in confusion, Brian knocked on b and then a. No answer.

Just as Brian was turning to walk back towards the stairs, C-13b's door opened. An elderly man with thinning hair; thick, black-rimmed glasses; and wild, unkempt eyebrows poked his head out. He did not look happy.

"Yeah?" the man demanded. "What do you want?"

"I need my summons reissued," Brian blurted out, wanting to just have this day over with.

"You need room C-13 down the hall," the elder man said, pointing with his thumb farther down the hall. He started to close the door, but Brian stuck in his toe in and held it open.

"Isn't this room C-13b?" Brian asked, confused.

"Yeah," the man said in a patronizing tone through the small opening, "and C-13 is down the hall. Now if you don't mind…" The man pointedly looked at Brian's foot.

"Fine," Brian said, retracting the appendage. The door closed immediately and a click indicated the lock sliding in place.

Brian continued down the hall, looking, once again, for C-13. Fortunately, he soon found it about fifty feet from where he had spoken to the elderly gentleman. He tried the doorknob and, miraculously, it wasn't locked. Relieved, he opened the door and stepped through.

And down. The room was about one step lower than the hall.

"Aaagh!!" Brian screamed, barely catching his balance before he fell on his face. Something inside him snapped. He was beyond frustrated, beyond angry, beyond furious. He didn't know what to label what he was feeling, but he knew he was losing the grip on his sanity.

"Can I help you?" a concerned voice called out. Brian looked up to see a middle-aged woman with short, red hair and blue, horn-rimmed glasses standing behind a counter.

Brian looked at the woman, his breathing heavy. "Summons reissue," he said tersely. "Can you help me?"

"Certainly," she said turning towards the computer on the counter. "I just need to see your driver's license." Brian fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out his license, and laid it on the counter. The woman picked up and paused. "Is this your current address?" she asked after a few seconds.

"Yes," Brian replied. "I moved there about a year-and-a-half ago."

"Hmm," the woman said as she typed something into her computer. "It looks like there's been an error," she said at last. “You're outside this court's jurisdiction, so apparently you were issued your original summons by mistake."

"Does that mean I can leave?" Brian asked, barely concealing his excitement.

"It does," the woman said, nodding.

Brian was so relieved, he nearly collapsed on the floor. After so much trouble, so much discomfort, so much Sisyphean effort, he was finally free from this personal hell. With a sign of relief and smile on his face, Brian turned to leave.

"Sir," the woman said behind him, "you'll be issued your release as soon as you visit the Service Release department on the fifth floor.”

Brian stared at the woman. Of course this miserable trip wasn't over yet; that would be too easy! "I'm sorry?" he finally managed to get out.

"You need to be released from service today or you'll be issued a fine." The woman pulled a sheet of paper from an unseen shelf below the counter and held out it out to Brian. He hesitated. Maybe if he didn't take the sheet, the woman would take care of it for him and he could just leave. Eventually, the inevitable happened: Brian took the paper. After all, she was a seasoned professional in torment and he was merely her latest victim.

"Fifth floor?" Brian asked, a shell of the man he was when entered the building that morning.

"That's right," the woman said with a smile. "Have a nice day."