Well after nearly wiping that hairy pedestrian out of existence, it was all clear sailing.  He guided his bike like a skipper guided his boat, no fear, no stopping until he reached his destination.  Okay so he didn’t need to pass through gayville, but it was often his only chance to sneak a few peaks.  It wasn’t like he could bring a guy home anytime soon.

God he wished that he could move out of hi parent’s house, but there was no way that was going to happen.  He was poor as it got, a courier job not exactly paying a lot of bills, and he relied too much on his parents already.  Between the student loans and the credit car and cellphone bills, he barely squeaked by a living.  Add a rent to that and he might as well find the roomiest box on the street.  Not even enough room to put up a clock.

Shit!  Six minutes.  That’s how long until the package safely secured in his side saddle had to be in the waiting hands of its destination and he was still about ten blocks away.  He had never been late before and today wouldn’t be the day to make a first.  Weaving through the path of a streetcar on Carlton and sailing down Church Street, Pancho leaves the village almost as quickly as he entered it, a very familiar feeling.  He is never allowed to stay too long in case he is seen.  There are people who would love to rat him out.

Sweat burrowed from his forehead as he burnt the time lost gazing, his darker complexion glistening in the afternoon sun.  Making a sharp right on to Gerrard leaping towards the wide sidewalks of Ryerson University, his stomach finally gave notice that it needed sustenance.  His mother would probably be starting the evening’s buffet, dish after dish slowly taking shape on their circular family dining table, a throne to meals swept through time honoured tradition.

He mostly made it home for supper.  It wasn’t like his parents forced him to eat, but it was a part of his family’s culture to be obedient to his parents.  Well as best he could.  They hated his job, often comparing it to the slums of restocking grocery shelves.  He should be a doctor or a biological engineer.  Once his father had hinted at insurance.  Now he was doing a job where he might need it.

Three minutes and King Street was in sight.  A sharp turn at the lights, whizzing by the corner Starbucks and he was home free.  Zigzagging past suits, he throws his bike down next to the door of the RBC building, hooking it to the disabled door pole and slides through the busy corridor.  Scooting into the elevator, he rides to the eighth floor, disdain clearly emitting from his fellow passengers at his aroma of sweat and his outfit of spandex.  By the time that he reaches his floor, the elevator has emptied and he races to the receptionist desk, package in hand.

“Right on time, mister.  I like that in a man,” the woman behind the desk utters before paging for her boss.  Sadly, the boss isn’t nearly as quick to pace and now minutes are burning from the time Pancho could be making more deliveries.  He sits in a chair by the desk, impatiently waiting and flipping through a magazine.  The woman is confused by his presence.

“I can pass it on to him.  I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“No offence, but I have been shorted too many times by a sentence like that.  I’ll wait.”

The woman is offended and resumes her typing with only small glares ride over the computer monitor.  Pancho continues flipping, being not even remotely absorbed by the banker’s choice in magazine selection.  Fishing, sports and airplane magazines fill the side table and Panch is only too happy when finally the boss appears.  Straddling out with a pale grey suit, an older gentleman with reading glasses and a quizzical look greets him with a smarmy grin.

“A personal touch to your work, I see.”

Pancho hands over the package, just as quizzical of this older man, and begins to collect his saddle bag when the older man places a hand upon his shoulder.

“Do I even get to tip your service?”

“Of course.  I appreciate anything you can give.”

“Good.  Here’s a twenty for your effort.  I will recommend your services to the floor.  Whom shall I ask for?”

“Pancho.  My name is Pancho.”

The older man gives him an odd look before retorting in a clever fashion: