#deliverylife

Subtitle: Always Bring Snacks… and Maybe a Block of Wood

Mom got paid, so Milo skipped the usual mad doordashing and instead declared it a "You Pull It" day—junkyard mission time. The goal: replace a tire with a bent rim and fix the cursed window control.

We stopped at Speedway for gas, and that’s when the window button—the one that had been hanging on by a thread—launched itself into oblivion. The little plastic piece snapped out like it had somewhere better to be. Milo called me over to fix it. I fiddled with it, no luck. “Well, Milo Love,” I sighed, “guess you’re gonna be a real wet blanket now.” He laughed. “Just like being a paper boy again.”

Drinks secured, course set, we headed out. There was gaming, chit-chat, and then: arrival. Except… no cash. We rerouted to Sheetz, yanked $10 from Milo’s PayPal, and circled back.

At the gate, I signed us in. As I handed over a ten, I noticed a card reader. “This new?” I asked. Nope. It had always been there. I decided then and there to lie to Milo and say it was brand new. Felt right, less fight.

The drizzle started up again. I adjusted my blue umbrella hat and began the hunt, red wheelbarrow in tow. The lot was a mess—shallow puddles, junk strewn everywhere, the usual post-apocalyptic vibe. I spotted a tire propped against a minivan, grabbed it. One down.

Tried the same van for the window control—no luck. I wasn’t about to lug that tire around like a gym bro with a dumbbell, so I left it by the barrow and wandered. Every van was either wrong or already scavenged. I checked the list again. Walked more. Vans blurred into each other. My back started to whine. I climbed into the back seat of a blue-and-gray Pacifica and sat there for a bit, like it owed me money and emotional support.

Milo and Mom kept me company on the phone. Milo got antsy. I spotted a kid’s sneaker under a seat and waved it like a weapon. “Careful, Milo, or I’ll shoe you with this.” He cracked up. Even Mom almost laughed.

I was ready to leave. Muttering about how I never wanted a Pacifica as I heaved my bad leg over the high door edge, I spotted a block of wood. Pocketed it for later. The shoe stayed.

I wandered deeper. Found a two-window control, no mirror switch. Might work. Kept looking. Row 212: jackpot. Mirror and two-window controls. My brain played Zelda victory music. I double-checked—good to go.

On the way back, I found a little copper pan under a car. Score. Bent but still good for eggs. I checked out—$46 down but with a tire and control in hand.

Back at the van, I swapped the switch with ninja speed. The window purred. Victory.

Tire and milk crate packed, I sipped my Powerade. All was well… until it hit me. Was that the same cursed tire from the green ’02 Caravan? The wrong one from before? I sat straight up in my seat from a slightly reclined position that had been helping my back. Milo’s head turned slowly, eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me…”

We stopped at Country Fair. Zanden Bomb confirmed. I had grabbed the exact same wrong tire I tossed last time. “Mother f-bomb, Zan! Why didn’t you ask me?” “I thought I did?” Nope. Mom confirmed it. My bad.

I called the yard. The owner picked up. “Umbrella hat girl?” he said. “Yes sir.” Long pause. Then—miracle. “We normally don’t allow tire exchanges, but I’ll make an exception.”

Milo cursed under his breath as we turned around. He forgave me halfway there. When we pulled up and I walked through the doors leading to the lot, I stopped dead. The lot had changed. In just an hour, it looked like someone ran a weather simulation and lost control. Puddles had turned into ponds—one even looked like a crater-turned-lake, big enough to sail across if I were cat-sized. A forklift had shifted the concrete. I stood there staring for a second, then sighed and resumed the quest, wheelbarrow rattling.

I stepped into mud up to my arch. Gross. Gave my foot a cat-like shake. “What happened?” they asked. “Nothing. Just a wet foot.”

I’d learned the layout now. Dodge and Chrysler—check. Most tires too small. Spotted a promising one. Wrong socket size. I left the barrow as a marker and kept searching.

More caravans. All wrong. Too small. Too big. I was a chubby Goldilocks with back pain—make that agony. I gave up and stormed off to grab the socket I should have brought. Found it—my trusty double-header, 19 and 21mm—and the hammer. I also grabbed the 7/8” socket—normally a truck size, but I wasn’t taking chances. Snagged the milk crate too. I was going in for the final round.

Row 403. I returned like a battle-hardened vet. I set my tools in the barrow. Sat on the crate like a queen.

Socket fit like a glove. I paused. Would this tire actually work? I consulted ChatGPT—automotive edition. It said yes, probably, just double-check the clearance. Good enough.

Buzz—one custom lug off. Considered keeping them until I saw the spider nest. Nope. Not bringing home eight-legged stowaways. Buzz—tire off.

Threads looked okay, not like the one I returned, which was almost new, but it had plenty of miles left. Tossed it in the barrow. Halfway back, a bump knocked it loose. I sighed and muscled it back in.

Barrow bounced. Puddles splashed. My foot slid clean off a hidden ledge, plunging ankle-deep into a thankfully warm puddle. Balanced one second, submerged the next. No time for a dramatic shake or shriek—just quiet, resigned horror.

Doors opened like sci-fi airlocks. The yard guys saw me. I gave them a tired smile. “Mission accomplished.” They smiled back.

I loaded up, flopped in the van. Milo looked at me. “Always an all-day affair.” I nodded. He knew.

Iced coffee was still iced. Thank you, Styrofoam.

“Home, Milo.”

He pulled out. I drained the coffee. He talked about dashing. I didn’t listen. The adventure was over. Cue credits.

Oh, and the block of wood? Perfect hand size. Milo asked why I brought it.

“So I can block you with it.”

“Huh?”

I fetched it from where I tossed it on the dash, pressed it to his arm.

“BLOCKED.”

Image represents me dancing with an anthropomorphic phoenix or firebird.

Friday the 13th rolled around, and with our income stable again, Milo decided it was the perfect time to bring his almost 10-year-old son, Milo Junior (or Junior, for short), home for the weekend. We made sure everything was set: the two dogs were put away, Mom was safely buckled into the shotgun seat, and off we went, heading towards Hubbard. The trip itself was uneventful, but we arrived early enough to chat with Ann, Junior’s mom.

While we caught up, I got to hold her new puppy, Gizmo—an adorable ball of fur, named after the famous gremlin because of his spots. As we were playing with the puppy, Junior’s school van pulled up. The moment he spotted us, his face lit up with pure joy. It was a surprise visit—he had no idea we were coming.

Once we got him squared away, we started heading back towards Warren. As we passed through Niles, Milo handed me his phone. “Hey, Junior, wanna see what Daddy does for work now?”

“Sure!” Junior said, eager to see.

I loaded up the Dasher app, but "dash by the time" wasn’t available—just one of those mild annoyances we run into sometimes. I let Milo and Mom know as I switched to by the dash.

“I bet we’ll get one where we have to go to Timbuktu for chump change, knowing our rotten luck,” I muttered, setting the phone on my leg. Sure enough—ding-ding!—we got a dash for Firebirds Bar and Grill.

This time, though, we had special instructions: park in a designated spot and wait because they offered curbside service. I explained what we needed to do, we found the spot, and I sent off a quick text to let them know we were there.

Junior kept himself busy, playing some shooter game on Ann’s old phone while we waited. A few minutes passed, and the Dasher app dinged again, grabbing my attention. It said something along the lines of, “It’s taking longer than expected with your order. We’ve notified the customer. Please call or go inside to check on it.”

I double-checked the text I had sent earlier and realized I’d messed up—I’d typed 339 instead of 330 for the area code. Classic. I corrected it and decided to call Firebirds a minute later. They told me to come inside, so in I went.

The second I stepped inside, I immediately felt underdressed. Firebirds is the top bar and grill in town. It wasn’t suit and tie, evening gown fancy, but everyone there looked sharp in button-down shirts and expensive clothes, not a hair out of place. Meanwhile, there I was—standing in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, with my hair a flyaway mess from the wind.

Mind you, my hair is always a bit of a mess unless I practically drown it in hairspray to tame the strands that don’t fit in my ponytail. It’s hard to embarrass me, but I’m pretty sure I was blushing fifty shades of red as I explained to the hostess at the little podium what I was doing there. She gave a polite nod and disappeared around the corner.

Curious, I stepped around the podium and took in the scene. The swankiness was overwhelming, almost like I’d been sent there as part of some prank. Everything was high-class: tables artistically scattered, cloth-rolled silverware and pristine placemats neatly set in front of every chair. Even the bar was lined with expensive bottles of fine wine and top-shelf vodka.

It was a far cry from the little hole-in-the-wall bars my dad used to drag Mom and me to when I was a kid. I felt a pang and quickly pulled my thoughts away from those memories before they ruined my mood. Dad died of alcohol poisoning, and even after 13 years, the sting of that loss hasn’t gone away. Maybe it never will.

Just then, the hostess returned with the order. I collected the customer’s salad and headed back to the Trailblazer.

The next stop was Sheetz. I glanced at the phone, assuming it was the Sheetz just up the road. But then I noticed something odd—Mahoning Ave.

"Strange," I muttered. "There’s no Sheetz there."

Then I saw it: Youngstown.

"Youngstown?!" I exclaimed, stopping just short of the Trailblazer. Both Milo and Mom echoed the word in surprise. Even Junior looked up from his game, his eyes bright with curiosity.

I climbed into the car, plopped my big red bag on the floorboard hump, and sighed. “That’s what I said.”

I quickly checked the customer’s location—they were in Youngstown too.

“Well, get me there,” Milo said, holding his hand back for the phone.

I hit the directions button and passed it over. He popped the phone into the holder, and with that, we backed out and hit the road.

Junior piped up from the back, "What did they get?"

"A salad," I replied, remembering the order from earlier.

"What about at Sheetz?"

"I'm not sure. We’ll find out when we get there."

"Okay."

With nothing else to do, I pulled out my tablet and dove into Nano Machine, a martial arts-inspired fantasy adventure on Webtoons. I was just getting lost in the action when Milo suddenly chimed in, "Hot dang, I’m riding with the big boys again!"

I looked up, realizing we were cruising down State Route 11 at 70 miles an hour, sandwiched between two semis—what truckers call riding in the "rocking chair."

Milo, always full of humor, broke into a little ditty, humming to the tune of I’m Getting Married: "Oh, I’m in the rocking chair with Ma, son, and wifie!"

I silently cracked up. Only Milo.

We barreled on, hitting Route 711—the newest freeway that connects Youngstown to Warren. It’s all cement, so naturally, it earned the nickname “the million-dollar highway.” The tires went thunk-thunk-thunk as we rolled along at about 60 miles per hour, finally coming off into the suburbs of Youngstown.

Soon, we pulled into Sheetz on Mahoning Ave. Milo handed back his phone and asked for his “horse.”

I dug his cane out from the backseat and waited for him to get out. While I was waiting, I checked the app to see what the customer ordered. A large Core water. What? I stared at the screen, slack-jawed. $9.75 for a salad and a bottle of water. Unbelievable.

Milo noticed my expression. “What’s up, Ad?”

I told him what we were here to pick up.

“Seriously? Water rush.” Milo smirked as he took my arm.

Milo has anxieties, which limit what he can do in new places or crowded areas. But with my love and support, he’s come a long way from the insecure, downtrodden man he was when I met him right after Junior was born. It took me two years to get him to start DoorDash. Finally, after being fired from the Tribune six months ago and spending four months stuck at home, he decided to give it a try—and quickly fell in love with it.

Together, we walked into Sheetz. I guided Milo to the bathroom, then made my way over to the pickup area. The place was bustling, but a gentleman behind the counter gave me a quick nod to let me know he’d be with me soon. While waiting, a sign on a machine caught my eye, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Broken, do not use. If you plug it in, you might get electrocuted on Friday the 13th!”

Just as I thought about snapping a picture of it, the gentleman from earlier stepped in front of me, blocking the sign. “Customer, right?” he asked.

“Yep,” I nodded.

He turned, grabbed the bagged Core water bottle off to the side, and handed it to me. “Thanks,” I said, still thinking about that sign. I glanced at it one last time, wishing I could’ve snapped a picture. Then I realized I was holding Milo’s phone, so I sent myself a quick text to remember the details for this Tumblr post.

I returned to the bathroom just as Milo was stepping out. “Ready to H2-go?” he asked with a grin.

“Been thinking up puns?” I teased.

“Only for you,” he replied, gesturing for my arm.

I let him take it, and together we walked back to the Trailblazer, where Mom and Junior were waiting.

“Where are we going?” Mom asked from the passenger seat.

“It’s just around the corner,” I replied, trading Milo the phone for his "horse." I added, “Firebirds salad and a water from around the block, talk about a weird order.”

“It’s not the weirdest one. At least it’s not like Milkshake Mission,” Milo quipped.

I smiled and settled into the back seat, watching as Junior rummaged around in the floorboard, looking for something to do since his phone had died. After a bit of searching, he pulled out a newspaper bag full of toy cars. I’d cleaned the Trailblazer earlier but left the bag for him, knowing it would keep him occupied. His eyes lit up as he found the cars, and he settled back happily to play with them.

My heart swelled as I watched him. He might not be my biological son, but I’ve helped raise him, and sometimes it feels like I’m his second mom.

The GPS announced that we were nearing our destination, so I started paying attention to where we were headed to help Milo navigate. A minute later, we pulled into the driveway of a middle-class, two-story home.

I grabbed Milo’s phone, then reached for the food. For a second, I wondered where the water had gone, but then I realized Junior had placed his toy cars on top of it.

“Junior, please don’t cover the customer’s food—you might damage it.”

“Sorry, Ad,” he said sheepishly.

I got out, pulled the salad from my bag, and placed it in the required drop-off spot. After a quick picture for confirmation, I returned to the Trailblazer with the family.

As I ended the dash, $9.75 popped up on the screen. I couldn’t help but think it would’ve been at least a $15 order if it had been “by the time.”

“You know the way home?” I asked Milo, my hand hovering over the Google Maps icon.

“Yeah, right up 46. Let’s grab a few more dashes and call it a night,” Milo replied, steering us back onto the road.

“As long as we don’t get any more salad-and-water runs, we should be good to go,” I joked.

Even Junior laughed at that.

We’re just a bunch of dashing nuts—out here for fun, family, and a little extra money.

Image represents Milo holding two phones.

It started off like any other dash—simple, straightforward, no surprises. We got a ping for a Subway order, and we were ready to roll. Easy, right? Except... the address the app gave us was completely wrong.

It promised to be another slow day, so Milo decided to head to the mall. It’s always busy there, but because of the 82/46 diverging diamond construction (as mentioned in The Wahaka Taco Dash), we usually avoid it. But with a quarter tank of gas and only a $4.44 order under our belt, Milo was willing to put up with the mess.

We got the notice—Subway, with an address listed on Main Street. Milo did a flip in the Spectrum parking lot, and we headed in the direction of the address. I pulled up the map to double-check, and instead of showing Subway downtown ahead of us, it had the location to the upper left. Strange. I hit the directions button, thinking maybe it was in Niles but had a Warren zip code.

So down North Road to DeForest, we went. Then the app wanted us to turn onto a little gravel road, known locally as Porter’s Off DeForest—the spot for the old Porter’s Auto Wrecking lot where they keep older vehicles.

"Not right, Ad," Milo said, passing by the gravel road without hesitation. "I'm going to the downtown Subway."

"Okay, I’ll call to make sure," I replied.

I called, and the guy at Subway listened as I explained the situation. “Yeah, they have us in the wrong place. Happens all the time with Dashers,” he said, sounding almost bored with the whole thing. I told him we’d be there soon and hung up.

As we headed down Pine towards downtown, I pulled up the help options on the app and found the chat with support. I explained to the AI what was going on, and it connected me with a human—except there was a 2-minute wait. Great. We pulled into the Subway parking lot, and I hung up the chat, selecting the option that said my issue wasn’t resolved due to long wait times. At least now, I could get the customer’s real address.

I put the address in my phone, set it down, grabbed Milo’s phone, and entered the store. The same guy who helped me on the phone was there, with the order ready to go. He advised me to call support to get the order manually completed.

So, I call support on Milo's phone. The account is in his name since he’s the licensed driver, so I’m the one waiting for VIP Dasher support. After a moment, the phone rings with an incoming call from DoorDash. I switch over, thinking maybe I should’ve just waited for the chat support to call back.

I explain the situation to the support lady, and she promises to call Subway to confirm the order so I can proceed. Meanwhile, the other line I dropped has most likely hung up—can’t blame them, all they got was dead air.

The support lady hangs up, and we settle in to wait for her to do her thing. I pull up the customer’s info and get ready to send them a quick update. But before I can, DoorDash pops up again with another incoming call, taking over the screen. I hit answer and put it on speaker.

This time, it’s the dead air support guy, who very politely asks what my issue is. Milo stifles a laugh beside me, making me wonder what kind of expression I must have had on my face. Keeping my voice as level as possible, I explain the situation—again.

He goes through the steps for reporting the wrong address in the app with me, thanks me for being a valued platinum Dasher, and disconnects. At this point, I can only shake my head.

Finally, I hit the confirm pickup button and the customer’s address pops up. I tap the directions button and try to place Milo’s phone in the phone holder when—DoorDash again! Will this poor customer ever get their order? I think, answering the call. It was the first lady calling back to confirm that she’d verified the pickup and told me to restart the app.

Milo snorts in laughter, and I can’t help but grin as I thank her, telling her that I got it. She reminds me to contact the customer, which, honestly, had just occurred to me. again. I assure her that I will and hang up.

I quickly send off a text to the customer, trying to explain briefly and apologizing for the wait. Finally, I put Milo’s phone in the holder and we go to leave. Just as we start moving, both phones go off at the same time, chiming in with GPS instructions. My forgotten phone, sitting between us near the e-brake, had sensed the movement and was helpfully guiding us toward the customer. After all the frustration, the absurdity of both phones going off at the same time cracks both of us up.

Still smiling, I turn off my GPS, and we head off. Soon we’re approaching the customer’s trailer park, and he steps out to get his order. “Did you get my text?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Happens a lot there.”

I fish out his sandwich with a grin. “At least it’s a cold cut.”

“True. Have a good one!”

“You too!” I return to Milo and hop back into the Trailblazer.

“That was a smashup,” Milo comments as I settle into the passenger seat.

“A Subway Dash Smash,” I agree, already composing this update. “On to the next adventure.”

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Image of our trailblazer's engine compartment displaying the jumper cables I ran for the kicker.

After wrapping up a few lunchtime dashes to fill up the tank for the dinner rush, Milo suddenly got it in his head to install a kicker—a signal amplifier for his CB (citizens band) radio. A kicker, also known as a linear amplifier, boosts the radio’s output power, allowing him to send and receive signals over longer distances. In short, it gives his CB extra range, perfect for those long dashes where he likes to “talk skip” with other drivers—essentially chatting with people from all over by bouncing radio signals off the atmosphere. Now, I’m not exactly a huge fan of the whole CB radio thing, despite going by the handle Crazy Daisy (or just Crazy for short). But I humor him. After all, I have my hobbies—like 3D modeling—and he has his CB stuff. It keeps him out of trouble, and I’m all for that.

First, we had to figure out where to put it. My first thought was to stick it right beside the CB on the dash, so I gently plopped it down and glanced at him. “No,” Milo shook his head immediately, knowing I was teasing him. I grinned, but we both started seriously looking around. I hooked up the short 3-foot jumper cable that connects the box to the radio so we could see where we could place it without straining the cables. Taking into account how loose the cable needed to be to prevent breakage, that left us with about two feet of wiggle room.

Milo suggested the glove box, but I pressed it up against the front of it and shook my head. “We need that for storing things we need to dash with,” I said, giving the cord a little wiggle. “And also, airbag.” I mimed the airbag going off and the kicker smacking me in the face. “That would not be pretty.” “Right,” Milo agreed, wincing at the thought.

He looked over at his mic holder near the radio and patted the area. Without saying a word, I quickly removed the mic and placed the kicker up against the plastic part of the dash around the radio. But all I could picture was banging my knee on it over and over. I mentally sighed—it wouldn’t be the first time.

I noticed the cables would still be in the way of the airbag, but an idea struck me immediately. The kicker is a box with long metal heat sinks on top, fins spaced wide enough to allow airflow. I could easily fit my fingertip between them. On the bottom, it had a lip on each side, and I’d already drilled screw holes in it to secure it.

I grabbed the drill from the back and drilled a smaller hole, but the zip tie wouldn’t fit. I was just about to switch to a bigger bit when Milo piped up, “I wanna do it!” I playfully hugged the drill to my chest. “Mine,” I teased. Milo grinned and grabbed for it, and soon enough, we were play-wrestling for control of the drill. Naturally, he won—because I let him, of course.

I held the kicker in place while Milo lined up the drill. A moment later, the hole was drilled, and I threaded the zip tie through it.

I placed the kicker in the spot we’d finally decided on and shifted it around, lining it up just right. Milo held it in place as I—out of pure habit—tried to drive a screw directly into the hard plastic. Naturally, it slipped away. Milo snickered. “I knew it.” I grinned as I reached for the bits and drilled the first pilot hole. Once I swapped over to the screw bit, the drywall screw went in smoothly, like a mouse slipping into its hole.

Halfway done mounting it, I stepped out of the Trailblazer and swapped bits again to do the lower hole. I had to bend over, pressing against the seat to get the right angle. "Wish I was that seat," Milo commented, grinning like a fool. I tossed my bangs out of my face and shot him a smile. “Behave.” He was quick with the comeback, full of teasing as usual. “I don’t have to behave. I’m your old man.” “Pfft, you’re younger than me,” I snorted as I kept working.

I tensed for a moment when I felt his hand gently rest on my shoulder, then forced myself to relax. Years of an abusive relationship had left me wary of unexpected touch, but Milo knew that without me having to say a word. He understood, accepted it, and never pushed. After finishing up, I gave his leg a quick squeeze as I rose, a silent gesture of appreciation.

I grabbed some mutilated jumper cables from the back. They only had one set of clips—the other end was bare wires, perfect for powering the kicker. After losing an expensive kicker in what we now call the white truck incident, we’d come up with an easy way to install and remove them for situations just like that.

In a nutshell, the white truck incident was one of Milo’s bright ideas—he trusted a friend and agreed to blindly swap vehicles with her. What she conveniently forgot to mention was that the truck actually belonged to her brother, who turned out to be a vindictive little twerp. Once he found out about the trade, he wanted the truck back, and he was determined to make our lives miserable.

First, he removed the battery, which made us miss an entire day on our route. When we responded by locking the truck, he upped the ante. While we made a quick pit stop to check on Mom between dashes, he removed the back tire, took off the brake hub, and put the tire back on. We didn’t realize what had happened until we hit the road again. The back tire flew off as we drove down Genesee Ave, leaving us stranded.

The cops got involved, the truck was towed, and while we did eventually get the Durango back, we lost everything that was in the white truck—tools, CB equipment, and worst of all, his mom’s blanket, the one she used before she passed. That’s what hurt the most. The cop wouldn’t even let us grab it.

Ah well, it’s in the past now. We’ve moved on, but ever since then, we’ve kept everything grab-and-go—nothing more than we can carry.

The zip ties were linked end to end, creating a loop about eight inches across. Unconsciously, I spread my hands, fingers looped through the ties, and began rotating my hands in a circle, keeping the loop taut. It was like I was guiding something through a track, focused on keeping the ties steady.

After a couple of motions through the loop, I let go and threaded the cable through it, trying to pull it through the hole. But it was too thick to fit that way. “Nope!” Milo, my personal peanut gallery, called out from the driver’s seat, clearly enjoying watching me work through this puzzle.

The ends of the cable came back together as I pulled it back through. That’s when the light bulb flicked on. I twisted the wires together, keeping the loop between them, and fed it through the hole. A little finger fishing later, I grabbed the wire and carefully guided it the rest of the way.

With a shimmy and a push, the cable slid through the fender and out the side, near the door. Milo’s jaw dropped. “All right, smart-ass,” he said, clearly impressed. I flashed him a grin as I dropped the cable through the door and pulled in the slack, then used the twist ties to secure the wire to the fender so the door wouldn’t catch on it.

Minutes later, I had everything wired in, the clamps hooked up to the battery. I stepped back as Milo checked my handiwork. In my head, I could hear a sports announcer shout, “And there’s the kickoff… score!” as Milo received his radio check.

I’m not a football fan, so it’s probably the wrong term, but I didn’t care. The kicker was installed, and now we could dash with a happy Milo. I won. 

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