mistaken identity.

Lunchtime in New York is a busy time of day. People are bustling about on their 5, 20, 40, or 80 minute lunch breaks trying to cram in errands, food, and a breath of fresh air. But there's also the delivery world, a near-silent network of delivery guys on foot and bike, whisking by you in such a blur that you barely take notice of the little white bags of food they work so frantically to deliver.

The thing with these delivery guys is, well, okay, there are a few things. One is that they are absolute maniacs on bicycles, and are in fact more likely to run you over and leave you for dead than your average taxi driver. You look left and right before crossing, but the second you step into the street a bike with a basket goes whizzing by at immeasurable speeds, missing you by mere inches, and reminding you next time to look around for more than just vehicles with headlights.

The other thing (and I do apologize for how insensitive this sounds but I swear it impacts the story) is that all delivery guys more or less look the same. They usually come from one of two broad ethnic categories: vaguely Asian or vaguely Central/South American, neither of which uses English as a first language, and often results in the same final effect: a little brown guy in a hat and jacket holding a white bag of food.

Most days (especially the overly cold, rainy, or otherwise inclement ones), when I head out for lunch, the lobby of my building is filled with these delivery fellas, a good 6-10 of them, hanging out waiting for their orderees. The orderees occasionally emerge from an elevator, cash in hand, and, overwhelmed with options and a severe lack of communication, will shout out "Gigi's?? Anyone from Gigi's??" and eager delivery guys say in broken English, "yes, I Blimpies," or "yes, Chan's heah," and so it goes until the correct food finds its owner.

So one chilly day not long ago, I was bundled up and riding the elevator down to head out for lunch. And just like any other day, I was greeted by a sea of eager faces, half-covered with hats and scarves and zippered-up jackets, each hoping I had their money so they could move on and make the next delivery. They offered out their white bags, some paper, others plastic, shouting "lady, Chinese?" or "you wait turkee sanwidge?" And like any other day, knowing they aren't waiting for me, I breeze right past them and walk out the door.

On this day, I came out the other side of the door, and snobbily ignored the smoking delivery guy on the other side. He exhaled a mouthful of cigarette smoke in my face, and when I looked up to glare, I had to do a double take. This Asian man's face, like the others, was half-covered with a hat and zippered-up jacket, and he was holding a white bag of food. But this shady-looking man in need of a haircut was not a delivery guy...he was my boss.

In one of those painful moments of realization, I gasped, choking on the second-hand smoke, and turned on my heel. "Oh. Uh. David...hi," I stumbled. But it was too late, and we both knew it. The error was made. He gave me a tight-lipped non-smile, and nodded slightly. I returned the gesture, taking it as a cue to shut up and leave, so I turned again on the same heel, and ran away. Far, far away.

And much to my surprise, I have not, as of yet, been fired.