What You Want Before You Know It

The person from the precognitive food delivery place shows up unexpectedly. They always do, pretty much by definition.

When the doorbell rings, Dale is slumped on the couch, notionally reading (but with his book upside-down next to him), kinda watching TV (but not looking at the screen), and refreshing social media over and over. It has been a while since anyone rang Dale’s bell, so it takes a second ring for him to get up and look out the peephole.

The delivery person looks bored and distracted and kinda cute. Dale has never seen one in person before, but he’s watched enough influencers doing the “order precognitive dinner challenge” that the blaze-orange precog food delivery carrier is unmistakable, so he opens the door.

“I’ve got your food delivery from TelepathEats.” The delivery person’s thoughtful pale green eyes are at odds with the familiar resigned tones of a gig employee reciting a customer-service script.

Dale can’t even finish saying “But I didn’t order—” before the delivery person resumes their spiel.

“Of course you didn’t,” the delivery person says. Their right-wrist Kerch blinks royal blue, so Dale knows they use he/him pronouns, and the royal blue is alternating with a magenta cascade, meaning he identifies as bisexual with a gay preference. His left wrist Kerch is flashing infra-black, meaning I’m working so please don’t hit on me.

“No one orders from TelepathEats,” he continues. “We know what you’re going to want even before you do, so we get it here before you figure it out.” He sighs with bone-weary exhaustion, and pushes a gray-dyed chunk of hair back over the sandy brown stubble of his scalp.

The ads for psychic food delivery services—the TelepathEats, the Culinaripaths, the Precog Apetits—are everywhere but no one Dale knows has actually used one. Precogs are rare enough that they command insane hourly rates on the gig marketplace, and all of those costs are passed on to the customer, in addition to the usual delivery fees, convenience fees, tips, and other charges. So it’s quite honestly insane that this cute psychic delivery guy is standing at Dale’s door.

Dale shifts to block the line of sight into his apartment, irrationally worried that even the quickest glimpse of his couch will somehow broadcast how much time he spends there. He fidgets with his own Kerches, royal blue cut with pale pink on one side and silver on the other (at least pretending that he’s open to a fling), and, with some effort, makes direct eye contact with the delivery guy.

“I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” Dale says, and the delivery guy barely stops himself from rolling his eyes.

“That’s the major flaw in our business model. But I need you to stop and really think about it for a second: are you hungry?”

Dale, a rule-follower since grade school, stops and really thinks about it for a second. “Actually, I am, yeah.”

“Well there you go,” the delivery guy says. “I’ve got your dinner right here.”

“That’s great,” Dale says, “but, speaking totally bluntly to save us both some embarrassment, it would be pretty irresponsible of me, financially,  to order psychic food delivery. I really think there’s been a mistake.”

“Well,” the delivery guy says, “that’s another really weird thing about this business. Everyone I deliver to thinks there’s been some mistake, almost by definition. But, also almost by definition, there never is. Because I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want me here.”

Dale almost points out that there’s a difference between wanting someone here and wanting something unexpected for dinner, but that infra-black left Kerch stops him. Instead he asks, “Okay, then, what do you have for me?”

“I don’t usually pay attention,” the delivery guy says, “but this one stuck in my head.”

Right then, even without any other context, Dale knows with absolute certainty what it is, and says it in unison with the delivery guy: “Grilled octopus.”

The delivery guy is nodding, but Dale is physically staggered. He grabs the doorjamb to keep from falling down.

“Whoa, sweetie,” the delivery guy says. “Are you okay?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Dale says.

“Everyone’s always weird when I show up,” the delivery guy says, “but mostly in a happy way.”

“Most of them probably aren’t getting an implied death notice with dinner.”

“Excuse me?”

“When I was a kid, maybe ten or so, my mom showed us this documentary about a diver who befriends an octopus. It was…a weird choice, I guess, but that was my mom. My dad, meanwhile, spent the whole night talking about how delicious grilled octopus was, drizzled with good olive oil and a squeeze of lemon. I threw a tantrum and swore that I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I ate anything that smart.”

The delivery guy smiled. “Very principled.”

Dale did his best to smile back. “My dad laughed and told me that it was a dish worth eating, and that if I couldn’t live with it, I should make it my last meal. I stormed out, whatever. But my dad was never one to let a bit die, so my whole life, whenever I got upset about anything he’d always say, Don’t order the octopus just yet. Or something like that. So.” He looks down at the orange delivery carrier. “I guess I ordered the octopus.”

The delivery guy fidgets with his Kerch. “Are you sick?”

Dale shakes his head.

“Depressed? Do you need help?”

“I think I’m okay. Or, anyway, I don’t think I need help, exactly.” Dale flicks the Kerch on his left wrist from silver to an inviting gold, immediately tucks his arm behind his back, then awkwardly brings it forward again, rubbing his forearm with his right hand.  “Do you know any of the precogs?” he asks.

“They’re all at a central dispatch. I’m just a courier.” The delivery guy hands the warming pod to Dale. The pod is rounded, expensive looking. It’s covered in gorgeous instructional pictograms.

“Do they ever…tell you all anything?” Dale asks. “Give you lottery numbers or anything like that?”

“Nah. There are rumors that they occasionally do favors for drivers they like, but I’ve never seen it.” He looks over Dale’s shoulder. Dale, in turn, notices that there are no deliveries left in the orange container.

The delivery guy clicks his left Kerch from infra-black to gold.

“No more stay-away?” Dale asks.

“My shift’s over,” the delivery guy says.

Having company suddenly seems not only desirable but essential. Dale steps aside and gestures the courier in. Precognition has always been tough for Dale to wrap his head around. Eating something as smart as an octopus still seems cruel, but it would be even crueler to not eat it if it’s already been cooked. He thinks he’s glad he ordered dinner. Or will be glad, anyhow. By definition.

Dale lifts the capsule to his face, one side lit up pink and the other gold by his two Kerches. As the apartment door closes, he inhales brine and char and lemon.

© 2022 Matt Terl

About the Author

Matt Terl is incapable of choosing dinner and wishes his future self would do it for him. He lives in Maryland with his family and an annoying dog.