A Living

FICTION

by K. A. Polzin

          I work making home deliveries of hot cookies. The artisanal cookie place makes these overlarge, chunky cookies bulging with chocolate chips, and they market them as The Best, delivered hot, any time of day, until 3 AM. 
         The cookies go into an insulated bag that I seatbelt into the passenger seat of my car. Then the computer plans the most efficient route to all the addresses getting cookies. They have to arrive hot. People get angry if they aren’t at least very warm. If the chocolate chips have resolidified, I can get a dressing down. This is bullshit!, someone once said to me after unbagging their cookie and gauging its temperature in their hand.
         Each cookie is five dollars, and they’ll have me deliver just one if someone orders it. One thing I’ve learned: if you give people the option, they’ll take it. I’ve delivered a lot of single cookies. Like, hundreds. 
        When it comes time to tip on the single cookie, people aren’t always sure what to do. Going strictly by percentages, my tip comes out to one dollar, but to some people, God bless them, that doesn’t feel right. Maybe they think of me driving all that way to their apartment and riding up in the elevator with my insulated bag to deliver just one cookie. So they reach back into their wallet for a second dollar bill, saying here as they hand it over, and it makes me feel optimistic about the future of the species. 
        People sometimes call me Cookie Man. It’s not my official name, or the name of the company. It’s just that when they open the door to a man delivering cookies, a lot of people say, “It’s the Cookie Man!” Or, as they pay: “Thanks, Cookie Man.” One contributing factor: many of the people who order cookies late at night are stoned. 
         The cookies, by the way, are terrific: crisp, with just a hint of salt, and full of warm, creamy chocolate chips. At the bakery, the broken cookies get thrown into a big bowl, and they’re free for me, and cheaper than buying breakfast. Or lunch. Or sometimes, dinner. But I am a little sick of them.
         Recently, I got stuck behind a garbage truck, and by the time I delivered this guy his cookie, it was almost room temperature. He was pissed. I offered a refund, but he snapped at me, I just want what I fucking ordered, a delicious warm cookie. I couldn’t help it, I had to laugh at that. 
         He turned red and screamed, You know what you are? You’re a fucking loser! You’re a grown man who delivers cookies. You should kill yourself!
         But after I showed him the microwave trick, he was happy. 
          “Thanks, Cookie Man,” he said.