Did It Hurt When You Fell On My Car?

Chinese takeout, the perfect nighttime meal for the man on the clock. There's something satisfying about opening up the container, the one with those cute little handles, and to see everything packed up with such precision. When the steam from the fresh vegetables erupt in my face as the greasy aroma of noodles and chicken linger through my car, it sparks nothing but bliss. It's simple, I know, but it never fails to spark me with glee.

To the workers, these noodles are little more than a routine, but to me, it's heaven. It may be an accomplishment the first time they perfectly pack a takeout box; they'll greet the customer with a beaming smile, hand off the art they created, and salute them a good day. However, the next customer is in line, and they have to do it again! It's not as good as the last one, but it's still alright. Then the next one, and the next one, and the next one. Soon enough, they've served about a thousand customers that day, and they've lost track of their progress. They think they've peaked with that first box, because it's the only success that's memorable to them, and they accept that they'll never make a takeout box as perfect as that first box ever again. I opened that last takeout box the worker made; it was immaculate.

This takeout is more than simply food; it is also part of my routine. The nights I spend in the police car become cold, drab, and lonely; I need something to spice up my life or else I'd probably go crazy. I begin each shift with an eyeroll and a grumble, and I end each shift with a sigh of relief. But when I purchase the nightly grail known as twenty-four-hour Chinese takeout, my body is overcome with a joy so vibrant that I feel as if I could rocket out of my socks. A downside is that I've started to develop what my sister-in-law calls a "dad bod"; I think that's something everyone gets in their older twenties, though. I mean for God's sake, I'm only twenty-nine. It's only, what, ten, fifteen spare pounds? That's no problem. I'll slim back down, and I'll find a nice woman, and I'll get hitched soon. I have to eventually, right?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The takeout box sat comfortably between my knees, still embracing my face with its warm, wet steam. I picked at it a bit with a fork and stirred the food around in the container, conjuring up a big piece of orange chicken draped in lo mein.

"Hmph." I chuckled, lodging the food into my mouth. As usual, it was perfection.

To tell the truth, I'm not really interested in any of that right now, the marriage for life thing or the nice woman, and I don't think I ever will be. Right now, I have a stable job, an apartment, and my Chinese takeout. I'm happy; I'll be fine.

*THWACK*

In some kind of mystical act of bad juju, the entirety of my takeout splashed out of its perfect box and all over my crotch. A searing shock spread across my body and forced me out of the cop car; I danced around and yelped like a chihuahua, hurriedly attempting to wipe the greasy lumps of pain from my khaki pants before my privates fall off. It was to little avail. Full of rage, I kicked the door of the car and made the siren start blaring throughout the neighborhood. My shoulders drooped and my eyes sunk. There, I stood on the sidewalk, hands covered in sticky remnants of grease and looking like I pissed myself as my car woke up everyone from their peaceful sleep. What a mess. The chalky icing on this expired cake of disappointment was the unconscious man face-down on the hood of my car.

Cheese and rice, a body!

I scurried to the hood of the car, yanked one of his frail arms, and put two fingers to his wrist. There was a pulse, thank God. The impact didn't do too much damage to the little man either since he squirmed a bit when I scooped him up and placed him in the passenger seat. His forehead and arms were all scraped up, though, and his clothes were tattered. He probably won't be happy about that since he was a gaudy looking fellow, decked in all kinds of fancy garments that I probably couldn't name to save my life. He was still a reasonably ordinary looking guy despite the wounds and his clothes. Kind of handsome, too. I ran my fingers through the soft bristles of his short blonde hair to check for wounds to his scalp, and, outside of a few minor scrapes, his head was in tack.