David wanted a simple supper after surgery and a cold. After a delivery driver stole his lunch for a $9 tip, David’s dissatisfaction became a viral life lesson that shocked the community and grabbed the attention of a big delivery firm.

I still can’t believe what occurred last week. I had a cold after surgery at 45. Sarah was working away from home, so the kids stayed with friends. I felt unhappy at home alone.

The living room was dark. A blanket and tissues covered me on the sofa. The itchy throat made it hard to open my eyes. The medicine cabinet fragrance remained from all the drugs I took.

“Great,” I said, getting another tissue. “Just what I need now.”

I hadn’t eaten much today. The prospect of cooking overwhelmed me. Just standing made me dizzy. I was too ill to drive and too tired to cook. Few old leftovers looked like a failed scientific experiment in the fridge.

I ordered food. I accessed the delivery app on my phone. A few streets away was my favorite deli. A little soup and sandwich would calm my stomach after all the medicines.

I added turkey sandwich and chicken noodle soup to the cart. Delivery cost roughly $30. I was disabled and pinching money, but I always tipped well. Working jobs where tips mattered was my experience.

“Let’s do $9,” I typed. So I knew that was a fair tip, particularly since I ordered the driver to drop the meal at the door. I didn’t want to share my cold.

I received a phone notice 20 minutes later: Your purchase has arrived.

I carefully got up from the sofa, wincing as my sutures strained. Walking to the door, I examined the doorbell camera for the bag on the welcome mat. Instead, I noticed something that made me pause.

A twentysomething delivery driver stood there with the luggage. He glanced down at his phone, then at the bag, then back. He muttered into the camera.

“Nine bucks? You kidding me? People are cheap, he sneered. “Don’t order food if you can’t tip.”

“What the heck?” I muttered, stunned by the screen.

He remained there for a moment before shrugging. “Guess this broke idiot can stay hungry,” he remarked, taking the bag and leaving.

Not believing my sight. With my dinner in hand, he left along the sidewalk. I was too startled to move. Did he take my meal because he disliked the tip? Disbelief, fury, and helplessness overwhelmed me.

“This can’t be real,” I said, peering at the screen. To rule out cold medication hallucinations, I rewound the film. Again, he complained about the tip and stole my supper.

Back on the sofa, I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

But I knew anger wouldn’t help. I wanted clarity. I opened the delivery app on my phone again. I clicked “Help” to talk with support.

“Hi,” I wrote, attempting to contain my anger. “My delivery driver took my food because he didn’t like the tip. The entire event is on my doorbell camera.”

“Hello, I’m sorry to hear that,” the representative said. “Can you explain what happened?”

I included my doorbell video and explained. Typing made my hands shake. It went beyond eating. Disrespect was the issue.

Customer service answered within a few minutes. Apologies for the experience. We’ll repay you fully and notify the driver’s management. Can we help you further?

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s fine now.” I reclined, looking at the ceiling. I received my money back but was hungry and irritated.

I needed to do more. I contacted the deli again.

“Hey, it’s David,” I remarked as the manager answered. “I wanted to update you on my order. Though not your responsibility, you should know about this driver.”

Mike, the manager, listened intently as I described. Man, that’s bad. I’m sorry, David. I’ll investigate this. I’ve never heard of this occurring in all my time utilizing their delivery service.”

I appreciate it, Mike. Just telling you.”

Thank you for informing me. Please ask if you need anything else.”

I sighed after hanging up. Still, it was insufficient. I had to act. But what?

My mind raced as I checked my phone. I began typing on Facebook. I was unsure how my plan would work. I posted on the neighborhood group to warn.

“Watch out for this delivery driver,” I wrote. “Apparently, a $9 tip isn’t enough, so he takes your food.” Uploaded the video and tapped “Post.”

I received alerts immediately after posting.

Once I shared the video in our neighborhood Facebook group, my phone began vibrating with notifications. “Unbelievable!” wrote one. “Hope he never orders food again.”

Another said, “Here’s a tip: don’t steal people’s food!”

The message went viral quickly in the group. Participants tagged friends and shared the post in local groups. The reaction shocked me. Comments and emotions rushed in quicker than I could read.

Pro advice: If you’re angry about a $9 tip, try an hourly job!

I laughed despite feeling sick from the cold. It was touching to see so many people supporting and laughing. It was a communal virtual embrace.

Someone proposed making it a game. “Let’s all ‘tip’ this guy in the comments with life advice,” they urged.

That was when everything took off. Sarcasm and life hacks swamped the comments.

A tip for the driver: Karma is a menu. You receive what you deserve.”

“Life hack: Not stealing pays the bills, but being decent might!”

Comments rolled in by the second. People were imaginative and gave amusing to insightful advise. Neighborhood groups around the city shared the message. People outside our community joined in.

Two hours later, a group member messaged me. The post on a prominent local news website was screenshotted. I knew it had exploded then.

“Wow,” I said, wiping my eyes. “This is out of control.”

As I processed this, the delivery company’s official account posted a remark. Tagged me in the post.

“We deeply regret this unacceptable experience,” they stated. This driver’s behavior is under review and will be addressed. Thank you for alerting us.”

Blinked at the screen. I felt awful since this driver’s mistake was visible. I knew he’d get it, however.

After many hours, the delivery business sent me a private message. They thanked me for my patience and said they were addressing it internally. A disciplinary action was discussed, not firing the driver.

Sighing, I relaxed. That satisfied me. I didn’t want to destroy his life; I simply wanted him to learn not to treat people that way, particularly when they’re good.

I felt almost triumphant when the dinner came. The soup smelled nice, and I couldn’t wait to eat. Even a handwritten note on the bag read:

David, get well. We support you.”

I laughed while I ate the sandwich. This order tasted better than the first. Maybe it was the extra compassion and support that made it unique.