© 2000

Melanie Gibson eased her beat-up, rusted-out lime-green Dodge into the circular drive of the soaring office building at One Atlanta Plaza. This was her last delivery for the night and she prayed she'd find an open parking space. She craned her neck, peered around, and sighed. Not a parking spot in sight. A solid row of cars lined both sides of the wide driveway.

She looked at her watch. Ten past seven. If she didn't deliver the order of food in the next five minutes, the customer wouldn't have to pay for it. That was the guarantee of the Pampered Palate-Gourmet Food To Go.

"If we don't deliver on time, it's on us," Melanie muttered under her breath. "Since I was clearly insane when I came up with that slogan, I'm making an executive decision to change it tomorrow to, 'You'll get your food when you get it, and be damn glad about it.'"

She glanced at the large warming container of food in the backseat and made another executive decision: If she pulled around to the back of the building and parked in the lot, she'd never make it in time. Almost two hundred dollars' worth of food. She could not afford to be late. She pulled up alongside a dark blue Mercedes and double-parked.

I'll only be upstairs for a few minutes, she rationalized, hauling the heavy red-and-white-striped warmer into her arms. Besides, whoever owns the Benz will be here 'til midnight, working overtime to afford it.

She slammed the car door with a thrust of her hip and awkwardly maneuvered herself and her ungainly package through the revolving door. She'd certainly be glad when she got her bank loan and could buy her catering truck. Then she could use the special delivery entrances and forgo this double-parking/revolving door ordeal.