The Wobbewy, or Is Chinese Delivery Really Worth It?

You think you live in a decent neighborhood. You think that maybe there are just some rowdy kids around and the old guy in the next building who always pulls the fire alarm. You think that maybe it’s just your imagination and no one really tried to siphon gas out of your car and left marks where they pried the gas-cap cover open.

You think.

I had decided not to think much that evening, and just to order Chinese food. The Boyfriend and I put our order in and waited.

We watched a little tv while we waited.

After about an hour, I called. I reached someone whose native language was assuredly not English, and tried to ask about our food. I was passed off in a flurry of something vaguely Asian sounding, to another man, to whom English was at least his third language, but maybe not second.

“Ohhhh, you dwiva get wob!” I wasn’t entirely sure what he was saying but it sounded suspiciously like “Your driver got robbed.” My apologies to Asian people who are living in the US, for this slightly stereotypical description. My mother was afraid that if I left this part in, I might offend. I tried to let her know that I didn’t think you’d be offended, I mean I’m sure in American-owned restaurants in Asian countries, similar problems occur. Except in those cases, the American owners are probably too busy complaining that “you’d think this country would learn English! Jeez!” to notice the irony.

I asked again, about the status of the driver, and was given a sketchy description of an innocent Oriental food driver being viciously attacked and beaten to death on my doorstep.

“Oh my God! Is he ok??” I could feel the blood draining from my face. Lo Mein was definitely not worth this!

“Yah they just take food an run away. Driva run to car.”

So apparently, no beatings, just hungry stoners. That’s a relief.

Hungry stoners are like the Appalachian Black Bear. People talk about how harmless and gentle they are, until you run into one in the woods at night while you’re carrying a fully loaded pizza. “Duuuuude….that pizza smells….amaaaazing…” Ten seconds later you wake up amid shredded cardboard and spilled bong water. Not pretty.

The man at Wang Chung’s Flaming Wok asks me if I would like my food re-delivered. I envision a shaking, terrified Oriental man looking nervously about before attempting to rush to my door.

“No thank you,” I tell him, and hang up.

It takes me a while to recover from the attack on my deliver driver, enough so that I don’t actually order anything to be delivered from my home for at least another week. My psyche is a quick healer, what can I say.

The second year in my apartment is…less that groovy. In addition to the pack of teens, covered in chapter 2, I read, in the paper, mind you, that there had been an attempted shooting in the building next to mine. I have a 5 year old. My psyche is NOT healing from this one.

Time to shop for houses in the country.