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I’m keenly aware of how quickly bratwurst goes cold. I blast the heat in my car and point the vents directly at the food sitting in my passenger seat. I merge onto I-94 and, kids, do as I say not as I do, average 87 mph until I hit my exit. I exit, drive a reasonable speed on Huron heading for downtown and almost don’t hit the brakes in time to avoid a car swerving into my lane, cutting me off, then swerving three lanes over into oncoming traffic, smoke billowing out of the front of the car.

Huron is four lanes wide and at our current location, the maniac car and I were three blocks from Main Street. At midnight, there’s still plenty of traffic on the streets. I whipped out my phone and dialed 911, connecting with the operator just as the car in question stopped completely in the far right lane across from the YMCA. I pulled into a parking lot and while describing the vehicle and the situation, the the car made a lazy three-point turn across all four lanes and headed back towards Seventh.

The delivery driver’s oath (I assume) contains a clause about chasing maniac cars while on duty, so that’s just what I did, narrating my pursuit to the 911 operator and watching the perp weave in and out of the correct two lanes and into the incorrect oncoming lanes. It turned right on Seventh, narrowly missing a man taking out his trash, and came close to clipping an oncoming car with its lights flashing and horn blaring. The 911 operator warned me to keep my distance, but justice had to be done.

The front driver’s side of the vehicle was bashed in and the smoke billowed from a completely shredded tire, sparks flying off the rim. The car took another few turns into a neighborhood, then pulled over on the wrong side of the road and stopped. I parked nearby and reported this development to the operator, who suddenly seemed much less interested in my adventure. She took my name and phone number and hung up.

I turned my car off and waited for the cavalry. But no cavalry came. Three minutes. Five. Eight. No patrol cars. I smelled the bratwurst and remembered I was a delivery driver. The first point in the delivery driver’s code—deliver. I took a lazy drive past the car, surveying the damage and unable to peek into the semi-tinted windows, then sped to my destination and completed my delivery, the food still fresh and warm and the customers happy.

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