Every weekday, construction workers scurry over the skeletal building, like silent film stars viewed in the modern era. Bangs and crashes and great KAPOWs echo across the paved landscape, til the exhausting roar of a city bus, thick with human figures, obscures them.
When Saturday rolls around, only tarps flapping in the breeze move. The busses’ roars obscures that, too.
Uber Eats: a story circle
So this Uber Eats guy is like four-foot-eight, hauling this giant bag like an army engineer, and he’s pumping his giant bike through the streets of St. James Town. He’s trying to find some building, 645, which doesn’t exist since the numbers fell off. He’s spinning ’round and ’round this complex seein’ every permutation of numbers ‘cept the one he needs until an old guy in a grey-and-white suit points our man where he needs to be.
At long last he punches the numbers on the intercom, and though he’s struggling with the weight of the box – he’s got this fragile frame, right – he gets this tiny rush when the people buzz him up.
But now the lift jolts to a stop with him inside it and he’s wondering if he’s gettin’ off on the right floor, ’cause the doors just sort of pop open, no chime or nothing, and the floor isn’t lined up right, so he’s gotta step down like six inches.
And get this, none of the doors there have numbers – none of ’em, no numbers on the doors – I’m serious – it’s like what the fuck is that? So he’s straining with this goddamn box and knockin’ on every door and everybody’s like “nope not me sorry” and so finally he just cycles home and eats the meal himself.