The Annie's Delivery Boy

I spent this summer doing econometric research about migrant workers in China. After traveling through rural Southwestern China surveying thousands of migrant workers, I was frustrated that I had not had the chance to get to know a single one of them on a more in depth, personal level.  The night I arrived back at my apartment in Beijing, frustrated and disillusioned with my research – but also tired and lazy to go out – I decided on delivery for dinner. I carelessly reached for the Annie’s take-out menu, the cute little Italian restaurant whose menu my family (as Westerners in China, once they found a place with good pizza, stuck to it like a thumb in a bottle) kept next to the telephone.  A voice over the phone spoke to me in heavily accented English: “OK, a numbah nine frutti mari delivery to building six Lishui Garden. Someone will be right ova.”
When that someone knocked on the door, I answered it and saw a small boy – who looked about 17 or 18 – dressed in a yellow Annie’s shirt, black dress pants and shoes, and a cute little red cap on his head. He cheerfully addressed me, “Hello, Annie’s delivery!” “That’s ok,” I told him, “I can speak Chinese. How much do I owe you?” However, when I reached into my wallet, my face flushed bright pink with embarrassment; I did not have a single currency of cash on me. Certain that my family must have some cash hidden in the apartment, I asked him to come in and wait for me to find the money. He politely refused to enter, preferring instead to stand outside the doorway. This made me feel quite uncomfortable, as I had my suitcase sprawled right in front of the doorway and had been unpacking, my clothes splayed everywhere in the entrance. The delivery boy was obviously unaccustomed to such a living arrangement, and must’ve contented himself with the explanation that I was moving soon. My anxiety heightened as I flipped through drawers and turned out pockets but could not find a single bill. At last, the only choice I had was to ask him to accompany me to the nearest bank (since I had no idea where it was), and to wait for me to withdraw some money. So we set out, me in my pajamas, him walking his Annie’s delivery bike. “Busy day at work today?” I asked him. “No, not really, just like every other day,” he replied. “Does this happen to you often?” I joked. “No, you’re pretty particular in that respect”.

As we chatted, I began to learn more about his life. And the more he told me, the more I was hungry to learn more. He had migrated from his rural hometown to find work in the city, just like the other thousands of migrant workers I had surveyed. I asked him about his background, education, family, motivation to migrate, difficulties encountered. He had so many experiences that when he finished walking me back to my apartment, I knew I had to keep talking to him. I gave him my business card and told him he could feel free to call me. Before he left, he told me he would think about me, but I never really thought I would see him again.