Last Friday, my office-mates and I arranged for a large order of fried chicken from a delivery place called Pluck U. Although Pluck U is not an institute of higher learning, as its name would imply, it’s in the vicinity of the university where I work, so the name makes perfect sense. Also in the neighborhood:  Phuc U (a Korean place), Suck U (a place that sells drinking straws and vacuum cleaners) and Darius RUCKer U (a place that sells the two or three Hootie and the Blowfish CDs that are out there on the market).

The order came to $52, and it took about two hours to deliver. I was fine with this as the ladies in my office usually order lunch way too early, but it did seem a bit long for a place that’s only two blocks away. It was super rainy outside, so we could all imagine that they were busy, sending chickens flying every which way around the Village. Nonetheless, we called a few times to complain, and the owner offered us a free $50 order for a later date. Whatever.

Monday morning I received a call from our receptionist saying that the manager from Pluck U was in the lobby. He wanted to see the guy who picked up the delivery last Friday. That was me. What the hell is he doing here? I thought. Did he feel so bad about the two-hour delivery that he wanted to apologize in person? Is he bringing us a voucher for the $50 meal? More importantly, will he be dressed as a chicken?

I went to the lobby to ask him what’s up?  (Alas, no chicken costume)

“Did you pick up the order on Friday?” he asked. He had a friendly manner, but I didn’t trust him one bit.

“Yes, that was me. What’s going on?” I asked.  (Where’s your chicken costume,

I thought.)

“Well, we were short $52 that day. I know you guys paid, but I think one of my delivery guys kept your money,” he told me, with vengeful eyes.

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

“Well I have all my delivery guys downstairs. You think you can just come down and point out which one it was who delivered your food?”

“So you got a lineup downstairs? A chicken deliveryman lineup?”

“Yeah, I got three guys who were working that afternoon,” he said.

“So I’m going to point out some guy, you’re going to fire him, and then I’m going to get murdered?”

The receptionist let out a hearty, clucking laugh.

“No, no, none of that.”  

He kept asking me the race of the deliverer. (“Was he Indian? Hispanic?”)  I honestly couldn’t remember. I just remember him being short and unassuming.

“Just come with me,” he pleaded.

“Am I being punk’d?” I thought.

So I followed him down to the lobby. (Maybe these guys will be in chicken costumes. It’s worth a shot. More likely than the owner anyway.) In the elevator ride down, I complained about how long the order took that day. I felt the need to really drive that home, so we’d definitely get our free order someday—for the sake of the office, ya know. Lunch is very important!  

When we arrived at the front of the building (where he proceeded to go through the revolving door the wrong way, prompting an angry shout from the guard), I saw the three guys standing outside.

“Hey guys,” I said. “I’m really sorry about this.”

They were a sad bunch. Miserable. Embarrassed. Their dignity was drained. Though they were not wearing chicken costumes, they might as well have been. They looked like they were waiting for the principal to scold them. Am I the principal? Is their stupid boss the principal? Did he drag them here by the scruffs of their necks? It was so embarrassing. I felt embarrassed for all five of us men, standing there in front of my workplace, looking for the poor bastard culprit. I kept apologizing.

The owner grilled me: “Was it one of these guys? Which one was it.”

At first I thought I was going to participate in this. One of them was a black guy, taller than the other two. “It definitely wasn’t him,” I said. “Too tall.” The owner told him he could leave. He disappeared, walking away like some flightless bird. I’m left staring at the two shorter guys left behind. The Indian man tried to plead his case with me: “I didn’t deliver here on Friday. You ordered a delivery?” The other man, the one who delivered the chicken, remained absolutely quiet. I looked at them. They both look back at me with innocent eyes. “I don’t recognize either of these guys,” I said.  “I can’t remember.”  I’m no dirty rat. I wanted to tell the owner of Pluck U to go pluck himself, but I kept it in, and walked back into the building. I couldn’t look back. Hopefully they all flew away.