So boom—
I’m out here, minding everyone’s business except my own, doing my gig work. Nothing fancy, just dropping off stuff like usual. GPS leads me to this quiet neighborhood. I pull up, hop out, and start unloading the car.
Then out walks this short, slender king. Slender. Real slender. Like half-a-hamburger-away-from-disappearing slender.
Before I can even process, he’s already up on me like,
“Hey, you need help?”
Now pause—sir, this is your delivery… right?
So I hit him with the classic:
“Uhh… I don’t know. Do you live here?”
This man said, straight-faced, “Nah. I’m the baby daddy.”
Sir.
What does that even mean in this context? Like, are you visiting? Are you squatting? Are you on child support pick-up duty? What’s the vibe here?
Anyway, before I can overthink it, he grabs the heaviest box from my backseat like he’s auditioning for “Baby Daddies Got Talent.” I’m looking down at him from my sturdy 5’6, 230-pound frame with my “I don’t trust this setup” face. He’s unfazed. Probably used to women giving him the side-eye.
Then this man—this stranger, this guest at his own child’s residence—looks me in my soul and says:
“You wanna come in?”
Come in where, sir? Into what? The twilight zone?
I said, “Nah, we don’t go in.”
Like I was part of a union or something.
I followed up with, “Ain’t nobody got time to be hit over the head.”
He chuckled like I was playing, then goes, “Oh no, never that—you’re protected here.”
Now listen—when someone you don’t know tells you you’re protected in a house that doesn’t belong to them, that’s the cue to speed walk back to your car and pretend you forgot how to reverse safely.
But I’m trying to be polite while also fighting the urge to sprint.
So I keep it cute, keep it moving.
That’s when he hits me with the double compliment ambush:
“I like your hair.”
My hair was out here fighting for its life in the wind. It looked like I’d just come from a round with a leaf blower.
But okay, thanks.
Then: “I like your shoes.”
Sir. These shoes are orthopedic-adjacent. These shoes are from the comfort first aisle. These are shoes that whisper “arch support” when you walk.
I said thanks again, threw up a weak smile, and got the hell outta there like the house was on fire.
Because listen—shooting your shot is cute and all, but doing it from your baby momma’s front porch? Wild. Disrespectful. Bold. And a little bit tragic.
I just came to deliver a package, not get recruited into a triangle.
Moral of the story:
Gig work is unpredictable.
People are bold.
And my hair may be messy, but apparently—it’s magnetic.
