You Must be Kidney

The following yarn would no longer be possible in the age of cell phones and GPS.

I arrived in Philadelphia, in the early-to-mid-80s, newly married, and with no immediate job prospects. I had given up some things by relocating from North Jersey/NYC, and work I believed I had lined up in the publishing field in Philadelphia had not panned out. So while looking for a new job, I found temporary work with a courier service. I visited the "office" a couple times which was little more than a room in someone's apt. somewhere in South Philly with reams of paper, and carbons, and invoices, and all kinds of .... well.... paper scattered and piled up everywhere. Occasionally you would have to pick up a delivery at the office, but the majority of the pick ups were at the airport and delivered usually to Center City, sometimes the Northeast, or other parts of Philadelphia, rarely to Montgomery County and New Jersey.

I spent my days sitting in our apartment on 3rd and Pine, waiting for a call from the dispatcher. I often read to pass the time. There wasn't an answering machine on the phone, so I was more or less a prisoner. I wound up receiving one or two calls a day because I was at the end of a stable of other couriers who came from Philadelphia and knew their way around Philadelphia and neighboring counties. I'd only been in Philadelphia a few months, and the dispatcher and owner knew as much so they only used me as a courier of last resort.

As mentioned, most of my pickups were at the airport and I liked driving to the airport, observing all the comings and goings of air travelelrs without having to get on or off a plane myself. I absorbed the collective business activity that took place at the airport, if only vicariously, and I felt important in some vague way when I would sign for a package.

The weekday calls had begun to thin out, and I was becoming more depressed and ready to bag the courier gig to focus more earnestly on getting a real job. But early one Saturday morning in the fall, I picked up the phone thinking it was friend or family, and instead heard the dispatcher's voice. There was no one else available and they had an emergency delivery, so would I mind picking up a package at the airport and delivering to the hospital? I'd just gotten out of bed, I was kind of through with this courier service anyway, and began to decline because it was a beautiful fall Saturday morning. The dispatcher pleaded with me, and I needed the money, however paltry my hourly rate and mileage reimbursement. I agreed to pick up the package.

And because it was a beautiful Saturday morning in fall (early November, I believe), my newly-wedded wife offered to accompany me on the courier errand. We would make a minor date of it, stopping to buy some coffee or maybe heading to the diner afterwards. After all, like many newlyweds or couples in burgeoning relationships, we were often finding ways to be together. Even a delivery might be fun, and traffic on Saturday morning was not too bad. We drove to the airport (which by now I had the loaction of down pat) and I picked up the package---a one-foot square, fairly plain cardboard box, but with sensitive medical warnings labeled on it. I had no idea what was inside...

It was about 10:00 and we were running late to the hospital. We had gotten lost driving from the airport back to University City. I did not know my way to the hospital from Philadelphia, and though Vanna had grown up in Delaware County and lived in Center City, she'd never gotten a driver's license and therefore never had to pay close attention to directions or locations. I drove to University of Pennslvania Hospital because it was the only hospital I knew of in Philadelphia, and it was the largest, but I wasn't 100% sure if it was the right hospital. I though the dispatcher may have mentioned the word "Jefferson" but I was half asleep and on my first cup of coffee.

I remember a delivery entrance, glass doors and an intercom. I pressed the buzzer on the intercom.

"We're not expecting any delivery," a tinny voice told me. "What is the address?" I read him the address out loud.

"That's Jefferson. Do you know how to get there?"

"No."

"Hold on...."

A minute later the voice came back on.

"They're waiting for you in surgery."

"Really? What am I delivering? What's in the box?"

"A kidney."

"A kidney?"

"Yes."

I was quickly given directions.

"Is the kidney okay," I asked. "I mean, will it keep?"

"Yes, yes, it's on ice, but hurry, the doctors are waiting, surgery is being held up."

A kidney on ice . . . how nice . . .

I drove to Jefferson and a surgeon actually came out to greet me (he'd been expecting me after the call from Penn). I handed the doctor the box with the kidney on ice, which he neeeded for his patient. I told him I was sorry for being late, but he was very thankful and relieved and didn't seem particularly annoyed that the surgery had been held up because of my mistake. As I said, it was a beautiful fall Saturday morning, but with the kidney now in his hands (or the box with the kidney on ice in his hands) the doctor did not linger outside to chat with me about the weather. He had work to do.