The Last Review: A Short Story
Short Fiction by Luis Borba
The night is slick with the smell of wet asphalt. Sodium vapour streetlights and neon resto signs reflect in the puddles along the street gutters. Perennial grey clouds loom with the threat of acid rain, black snow, or a combination thereof. It changes like someone flicking a switch.
Few people walk the streets at this late hour. With the curfew in effect, they have sealed themselves away in their homes, watching their screens or drowning themselves in an ocean of clickbait headlines. There is a saying: If you’re not at home, you’re either up to no good, working, or both. In Jason’s case, he’s working an honest job and trying to avoid all that shady stuff.
He throttles his electric scooter and speeds through an intersection as the light turns red. The driver of a left-turning car from the opposite direction leans on the horn and slows to a crawl. Jason zips past with inches to spare. He sees the headline now: Another delivery person dead.
A moment later, he turns down a narrow lane and parks his electric scooter behind Lucky’s Chinese Food Emporium and Karaoke Lounge. A bare bulb comes to life as he approaches the rear door and passes through it into the kitchen. An assembly line of workers are cooking and packaging take-out into Styrofoam containers for delivery. Walking past them through a door into the dining area, he drops the insulated food bag onto the bar. The tiny dining room appears roomier now, with the dining tables pushed into the corner and the chairs stacked on top. The Karaoke jukebox stands silent. The stage is a memory void of the better times when people gathered late at night in public. Since the curfew took effect, the only people working there are the employees. Take out only.
Jason glances at his phone, taps on the delivery app and calls out the order number, “703.”
A stooping Asian woman behind the counter stops wrapping plastic cutlery into napkins and points to a plastic bag at the end of the counter, the next in a long line of orders waiting to get picked up. It’s like this every night, especially when the weather is disagreeable and quick to change. For some reason, people prefer not to cook when the weather turns shitty. Nowadays, they do less for themselves in general. Both a boon and boom for people like Jason, who are willing to work late at night, delivering food throughout the city for a job with no hazard pay.
He places the order into the insulated bag, zips it closed, and retraces his steps to the exit. He glances again at the order app. Customer order 703 is offering a one-dollar tip for a thirty-dollar order—a pitiful amount. Had he refused it, a long line of hungry delivery people would be waiting to accept it. Customers smell the desperate hustle like it’s a reality game, and they take advantage and savour it without the cost of a subscription.
Jason flips the latch on the scooter’s rear cargo compartment and places the bag inside, careful not to tip over the contents. The last thing he wants is a complaint and a negative review. They reduce your average. Enough of them, and the algorithm penalizes you with fewer deliveries—in some cases, termination.
He presses a button, and the scooter awakens. The small dashboard casts a glow on Jason’s face. The headlight beam illuminates the restaurant door and the sign beside it that reads EMPLOYEES AND DELIVERIES. Night deliveries have pros and cons. There is less traffic, but the criminal element wanders the dark corners. Avoiding them is equal parts instinct and luck.
He places his phone into the holder between the handlebars below the odometer and follows the directions on the GPS app. The battery level on the scooter starts to flash red at 3%. Not this shit again, he thinks. He prays there’s enough juice to cover the distance to complete the delivery. The last thing he wants is for the meal to go cold, to be left stranded and looking for a charging station. When the impatient customer inquires about it, Jason will get penalized and lose the tip. Adding insult to injury, he’ll also be on the hook for the cost of the meal.
He twists the throttle and drives away, mindful of the speed limit. Cops are always out feasting on the transgressions of speeders and criminals and anyone refusing to follow curfew orders. Those caught breaking the curfew are rounded up and dispatched to a jail cell to spend a contemplative night in isolation. Upon their release in the morning, they are fined and given a notice to appear in court. Jason’s ID permits him to be out, but it doesn’t get him a free pass from breaking the rules of the road.
The battery indicator flashes 2%. It needs to be replaced, but that requires weeks or months of savings. Two percent battery life, a one-dollar tip and the last delivery of the night. Maybe his luck will change, and he’ll find a quick-charging station. But at this late hour, the chances are slim, with everyone at home charging their rides. The public chargers require payment, but he’s skint, nor does he like the idea of standing around like a sitting duck on display for thieves.
The GPS on his phone signals left, and he obeys. The battery level flashes 1% percent, and he begins to panic. The street is dark and set at an incline, which drains the battery much quicker. Jason mutters, “shit,” and switches off the headlight to conserve power. The streetlights struggle to penetrate the low veil of mist that has descended on the city. It soaks him, making it difficult to see through the visor. He wipes it and looks at his hand. Even in the darkness, he sees the murky, caustic water. Thankfully, he’s wearing protective slicks to prevent getting soaked through with the stuff. If only he had remembered the gloves, too. Long enough exposure to bare skin brings any number of skin ailments. He eases the throttle. The last thing he wants is to take a spill and hurt himself or damage the scooter.
The destination is one hundred meters ahead on his right. A two-story apartment with an entrance door at the end, illuminated by a bare bulb. It casts a bluish glow on the faded paint and the dirty wire mesh glass. Discarded cigarettes pepper the sidewalk. The mist obscures the opposite end of the building, insulating it in an austere veil. The display on the scooter goes black, but the momentum keeps him moving until he stops at the front door. I’m either very lucky or fucked, he thinks.
On the touchpad in the foyer, Jason presses the code to apartment fifteen. The inner door buzzes; he passes through it and climbs the stairs to the second floor. Dust-covered lights hang on anemic wires along the hallway, illuminating each door and throwing the intervals into darkness. Apartment fifteen is the last one. The light in front is broken and lifeless. Jason knocks on the heavy steel door. A moment later, it opens. Standing before him is a man in his twenties with an unshaven grimace, wearing a plaid robe and abused leather slippers.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands.
Jason flashes his ID badge, holds up the insulated bag and takes out the food. The man looks Jason up and down at his soaked slicks and the dripping helmet under his arm.
“Took you long enough,” he says and snatches the bag.
As he closes the door, Jason puts his hand out. “My scooter ran out of juice. Would you mind if I plugged it into your charging station for a few minutes?”
The man looks Jason up and down again. “Can’t help you out, man,” he says, slamming the door. Jason wants to punch it but remembers that it will result in more problems. Just walk it off.
Zipping up his jacket against the cold, he sits on the dead scooter, weighing his limited options. His phone pings. The food delivery app alerts him of a new review. One star. The comment below reads, “Food was late and cold and tasted like garbage. Totally ruined my night.” His shoulders sag, and he takes a deep, slow breath to calm himself.
Flicking the kickstand up, he pushes the scooter around the back of the apartment building. The parking area is lined with cars and scooters, all plugged into their assigned charging stations as if they are praying silently to an electric God. At station number fifteen stands a similar scooter. The battery indicator on it is flashing green.
“I don’t think the asshole will mind,” Jason says as he disconnects the charger and plugs in his scooter. Twenty minutes of juice should be enough to get him home. He stands between two garbage dumpsters, shivering against the heavy mist now turning to dirty rain.
Another ping. Another message on the food delivery app. It reads: “You have received a one-star review. We take the satisfaction of our customers seriously. One more poor review will result in immediate termination and forfeiture of payment.”
Replacing the battery is inevitable. With limited funds, Jason has no other choice but to borrow money from an unsavoury institution, a private lender. This lender is a rotund thing wrapped in a custom Italian suit. A three-man posse follows him to all his business dealings. They carry themselves with an aura of equal parts violence and charmlessness. Their large skulls swivel on thick necks covered in tattoos, and they wear long coats to conceal guns and various tools of their trade.
“You sure you wanna do this, to borrow money from me?” the boss, Vinnie V, asks Jason with concern. “You know what happens to people who don’t pay my debts, right?”
“I understand,” Jason says, his throat suddenly hoarse.
“You don’t have any friends that you can borrow from?”
“They’re all skint.”
“Huh?”
“Broke.”
“I see. And how will you pay off this debt if you’re also broke?”
“I have a job. I’ll work longer hours. I’ll do whatever it takes to get that money to you. Without a new battery for my scooter, I can’t work. If I can’t work, I’ll lose my job. And it’s not like there is much by way of employment opportunities out there. Especially when you have a criminal record.”
“Criminal record?” Vinnie V asks with mild curiosity.
Jason sighs, regretting having mentioned it. “I got busted for drug possession a while back. Because of that, there aren’t many job options for a person like me with the type of record I have.”
“I see. So, it was just for possession; you weren’t dealing or anything like that?.” Vinnie V smiles.
Jason sighs. “Well, I was working for a guy and delivering the stuff for him. So, yeah, technically dealing, I guess. That’s how the cops saw it, in any case.”
Vinnie V sits back in the mechanic shop’s office chair, bringing his fingers together into a steeple. The building is located at the city’s east end. The establishment is known for fixing cars, which is its obvious purpose. They also break people who renege on their financial obligations.
“If you’re looking for work, Jason…something that pays more than delivering food, perhaps you can be of service to me?”
“I appreciate the offer Vin….I mean, sir. But I’m doing my damned best to keep my nose clean. Any more run-ins with the cops, anything, they’ll ship me off to prison. I don’t like the idea of going to prison.”
“Very well, then,” Vinnie V says. “If you ever change your mind, let me know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Alright, the terms of the agreement are clear, Jason. Weekly payments with interest until the debt is paid. No missed payments, no deadline extensions. No questions asked. If you fail to do so…”
“I understand the consequences.”
Vinnie V glances at his men, but they don’t move a muscle. “Do you think I can trust this boy to pay me back, fellas?”
I’m not a boy, Jason thinks, squeezing the armrest.
The three mountainous men look down at Jason. Silence is their response, and Vinnie V nods his approval.
“Very well, Jason. The money is yours. Opening the top drawer, he takes a manilla envelope and slides it across the desk. “I expect the first payment in a week. Close the office door on the way out.”
That concluded the meeting.
With the battery replaced, Jason spends the next few days hustling, accepting as many deliveries as possible. He is exhausted, barely sleeping and eating, and always on the move. Once he makes the first payment, he breathes a sigh of relief, but this doesn’t leave much left over for the necessities. Plus, another nine equal payments are coming up, so there is no time to relax.
He works longer hours, delivers every order the app offers, rides faster, and ignores the rules of safety on the road. These are desperate times.
It is another late night, and business is slower than usual. Two deliveries in total so far. There are typically fifteen or twenty on a good night. Jason’s phone pings. A delivery request for pharmaceuticals—to the same address from two weeks ago. Apartment fifteen. Tempted to decline it, he reconsiders and accepts it. The algorithm analyzes rejected deliveries, eventually penalizing workers. In a large city, it’s not often you get the same customer. The fortunate delivery people, you get the good ones. However, many times you get stuck with the crappy ones who think you owe them the world because of a meagre tip. He hopes it will be different this time.
A neon sign hangs over the entrance to McMichael’s Pharmacy. It reads PRESCRIPTIONS FILLED HERE. Beneath that, another line reads HASSLE-FREE REFILLS. Jason enters and walks past the barren shelves to the back.
“I’m picking up order #1554,” he calls out.
A balding middle-aged man behind the counter hands him a small paper bag without a word. He glances at the convex mirror above the door on the way out. The pharmacist is watching him, probably to ensure nothing is stolen.
Jason is about to drop the bag into the cargo container and stops. Looking around to make sure no one is watching, he pulls apart the stapled lip of the bag and peeks into it. There’s an amber plastic bottle with a white safety cap inside. The name Wilbur is printed on the label, along with the name of the prescription, painkillers. Pulling away the staple, he refolds the bag. Asshole won’t notice a thing.
The streets are empty, but they pulse with the aura of the flashing neon signs. DRUGS, TAKE-OUT, CONVENIENCE. He passes a sign that says GIRLS and sees one standing outside talking on her phone. She’s wearing a sequin jacket, a tight pink skirt that could pass for a belt, and eight-inch white stilettos. A drunk man emerges from within, grabs her by the collar and pulls her toward the door. Jason’s instincts tell him to help her, but he doesn’t need any heat from the cops, especially with his criminal record. Having one attached to your name makes everyone look at you differently, and knowing his terrible luck, it would worsen the situation. The girl drops her phone, curses and kicks at him, landing a heel on his shin. Yelping, he releases her and stumbles back into the building. She retrieves her phone from a puddle and shakes it to dispel the grimy water. The neon sign above the door reads, Sinners Paradise.
Delivering food and convenience products during a curfew presents challenges. It’s not for the faint of heart. Theft, violence, and crooked cops lurk in the humid shadows of the alleys and vacant parking lots. On several occasions, Jason almost had his electric scooter stolen twice at gunpoint. In each case, he fought off the thief and escaped unscathed.
Tonight is no different. At every stop light, he feels the opportunistic eyes watching him from the doorways and windows of the buildings around him. Before the light turns green, a car pulls up behind him and honks. A split second later, the light changes as if the driver knows the secret to its timing. Throttling the scooter, he takes off, trying to distance himself from the car, but it’s on his tail like a hungry wolf. He changes lanes, turns down a side of the street, and then another. The car continues tailing him, its hungry bumper two feet away and closing in. He stops at another traffic light. Jason looks into his sideview mirror. It’s a black GTO with matching dark windows. It’s impossible to see the driver. A tune is thumping through the speakers inside. The driver revs the motor, inching closer to his scooter. It’s a typical scenario in this crazy city; they plan to bump and disorient him. Then, they jump out of the car and steal the scooter. Before he knows it, he’s lying on the street, relieved of his ride. If he’s lucky, he gets to live with the regrets of his job choices. There are alternative endings to this story.
He waits for the right moment. The light turns green. He grips the throttle and gives it everything the machine has. He shoots forward, steers a hard left into a U-turn and takes off. The GTO accelerates, tires screeching on the slick road, peeling into the same U-turn and barrels toward him. Jason is far enough ahead with the advantage. He finds a narrow gap between two buildings, wide enough for him to fit. He punches it into the darkness, leaving the car screeching to a stop behind him. Another successful evasion. Another sigh of relief.
Jason hesitates before knocking on the door to apartment 15. Putting his ear to it, he hears the floorboards creaking inside, muttering and pacing. The moment he knocks, the door springs open. Standing before him is the same man, dressed in the same plaid robe and leather slippers. A full beard now wraps the bottom half of his face.
The man sticks his head out and glances at the end of the hallway. “You alone?” he asks.
“Yeah, it’s just me.” Jason steps back.
The man puts out his hand to take the bag. His bloodshot eyes are twitching. “Took you long enough, man. I really need those meds.”
Jason dangles the bag in front of him and pulls it away. “One star,” he says.
“Say what?” The man glances at the end of the hallway again nervously.
“You expecting someone?”
“Huh?”
“One star. You gave me one star. Two weeks ago, I delivered food to you. My scooter ran out of juice, and when I asked if I could charge it, you slammed the door in my face.”
The man squints at him, and his confusion turns to recognition. “Oh yeah, it’s you! Yeah, my fucking food was cold. You took too long, so too bad.” He reaches for the bag again.
Jason takes another step back, pressing his back to the wall.
“Give me my fucking meds, man!”
“No, Wilbur.”
“How do you know my name?” Wilbur begins to scratch himself, nervously picking at the scabs on his arms.
“One star is all I’m worth?” Jason backs down the hallway toward the stairs. “Do you know how hard I work making deliveries? Is my hard work only worth one measly dollar?”
Wilbur slaps the concrete wall, sending flecks of paint onto the carpet. With each slap, he screams, a pleading staccato, “Give–me–my–fucking–meds!”
“No, Wilbur. You need to understand. You seem like the entitled type. You expect to receive everything on demand for nothing.”
“What the fuck, man. You’re just a delivery boy, so deliver my meds and fuck off. You’re nothing, man, nothing!”
“Don’t call me boy, loser!”
Wilbur appears stunned. “Did you just call me a loser, man?”
“Fuck you, Wilbur. The shittiest tips always come from the biggest losers like you. What are the meds for, huh?”
“None of your damn business what the meds are for!”
“Look at you. Locking yourself in your apartment. I’ll bet you don’t even come out during the day. You rely on people like me to get you everything you need so you can stay holed up in this place like some depressed mole rat.”
“I need those meds!” Wilbur’s face turns red; his eyes widen like they’re about to pop out of his head and drop onto the dirty carpeted floor.
“One star, Wilbur, one star!” Jason backs his way down the hallway.
Wilbur steps into the hallway and rushes toward Jason. Jason turns and runs down the stairs to the foyer. Behind him, he hears the slap-slap of Wilbur’s leather slippers chasing him. Jason sprints through the front door, jumps onto his scooter and squeals away. At the traffic light, he glances over his shoulder. In the distance, a beam of light jerks from side to side as it closes in. Wilbur is on his scooter, gaining on Jason, and he’s screaming. Jason releases the brake and speeds off.
He turns right down a laneway lined with garages on either side and emerges onto a side street. He pulls the scooter left, almost loses control, and cuts through a small plaza of neglected shops with neon signs twitching in their final moments of commercialism. The battery level is dropping by the second. He needs to shake this crazed person.
Two blocks ahead, he sees the headlights of an oncoming cop car. Any speeding ticket or infraction will get him fired at this point, and he needs to avoid it at all costs. If they run a scan of his name, they’ll find out he has his criminal record, and then who knows what they will do next. Probably try to shake him down for money, and if they are unsuccessful at that, throw him in a jail cell. The police car swerves into his lane and cuts him off. The lights of the cruiser flash, and the siren chirps a warning. Jason grips the brake, swerves the scooter to the right, then throttles it again. By some miracle, he narrowly misses the car and maintains his balance.
Wilbur is less fortunate. He slams into the side of the car, flies over the handlebars and tumbles onto the road. Jason screeches to a stop. His heart is pounding. Jesus, I think I just got this guy killed. The prone Wilbur stirs and slowly sits up. Shaking his head, he points at Jason and screams something unintelligible. His clothes are dirty and wet from the road grime. His leather slippers lie several feet away. Two cops emerge from the cruiser. One jumps on Wilbur and struggles to handcuff him.
“I want my fucking meds,” Wilbur screams.
The other cop points at Jason. “Get your ass over here,” he demands. Jason is frozen with fear. The cop jumps back into the cruiser, stomps on the accelerator, tires spin on the slick asphalt, and the cruiser speeds toward him. Jason releases the brake and throttles the scooter. The tires spin on the wet road. The police cruiser is closing in from behind. First, the GTO, now the cops. This isn’t my night.
Jason takes the first right and heads down a darkened side street. Most of the light stands are dark. Some flicker, struggling to illuminate the way. Several lay broken across the road, forcing him to steer his away around them. This proves difficult for the cruiser but doesn’t deter the cop behind the wheel. The red and blue lights on top are flashing. The chirping siren echoes across the vacant buildings. Many of the streets are victims of the same abandonment and neglect. I should have stayed, Jason thinks. Now, I look guilty for taking off.
The street abruptly ends at a chain link fence that stretches across the road. There is no way out, no alleyways to slip through. The doorway of a vacant building stands open, revealing darkness beyond its threshold. Jason knows that if he tries to ride his scooter there, he’ll be stuck without a chance of escape. The only option is to run. He jumps off his scooter and dashes into the darkness, feeling his way through one room and then another. Behind him, the cop screams for him to give up; there’s no escape. Jason pushes further, the red and blue flashing lights illuminating the darkness like a strobe. Jason made his choice. There is no going back. I’m not spending a night in jail with Wilbur. Fuck this noise.
The neon signs glow faintly in the mist. How long has the curfew been in effect? Longer than anyone remembers. When people are out during the day, they discuss it and often argue. When did it start? How did it start? Everyone has a different memory and tells a different story.
Standing in his small apartment, Jason looks out the window through the fire escape at the street below. People are scurrying around, buying their necessities before the curfew starts. Food, water, alcohol, medications. According to his calculations, he has three days worth of food before it runs out. Two cans of beer remain in the fridge. He must find another job. The payment deadlines for Vinne V have come and gone. Several text messages demanding repayment have been ignored. One message reads, “If you can’t pay me my money, you can work it off like we discussed. Make deliveries for me until the debt is paid.” His henchmen are out looking for him. They’ll get their payment or their pound of flesh.
Holding the amber bottle with Wilbur’s name, Jason pops the cap, shakes out a pill, swallows it and chases it with a sip of beer. He crawls into bed and waits for sleep, but it’s elusive.
The phone on the nightstand pings. He picks it up and squints at the screen. It’s another one-star review with the comment: “Never got my delivery. Useless driver. Totally ruined my night.”
As he drifts off to sleep, he hears knocking at his door. It doesn’t matter because he’s not answering it. They’ll find a way inside. When the night comes, the criminals will be out searching for compensation.
If you enjoyed this short story, please consider my debut novel, “Ghosts of the Burning City”.
