Tourist Trap

This little dingy white moped was putting along just fine until I splashed through an oily puddle. Now it was misfiring like crazy, unspent fuel popping and snapping out of the muffler with distracting regularity. I couldn’t tell what was wrong with it—was there water in the air intake, or an electrical short? It didn’t matter too much as long as I got the pizzas delivered on time.

I wound my way through the crowded streets and narrow alleyways. A maze of piping and conduits wove across every wall. Premium sushi shops, quiet and dimly lit, sat next to American fast food chains. It all blended into a vague sense of familiarity despite only having landed the job an hour ago. Then I realized what it was: every street smelled the same. Clean, but with undertones of damp concrete, slightly burnt cooking oil, and gasoline.

My Japanese was terrible, but Pizza Hut’s recent expansion plan was to hire native English speakers and I fit the bill. It would have been better if I were American, but Canadian was close enough. Sadly my motorcycle license was still pending when I showed up today, so they plopped me on the owner’s son’s moped and here I was. Ruining the moped and probably letting the pies get cold.

I glanced down at my phone, and the GPS was spinning crazily. I had just missed my turn. Too busy reliving the awkward conversation about my license, probably. I slowed down and attempted a U-turn. Out of nowhere a truck backed up, leaving an alleyway at such speed that I couldn’t stop or turn to avoid it. The truck bed jutted out at head height. My only hope was that they would see me and stop before I collided with them. They didn’t.