The Package

I knew the package wasn’t mine because I didn’t have, you know, money to order anything. It would have made sense if anyone cared enough to buy me a Christmas present, but it wasn’t that close to the holiday. My instant thought was not that it would be a bomb- which is was- but maybe that Gina had remembered me fondly and wanted to pay me back for my three dollar kindness. The delivery man walked all the way up to my apartment. That was weird, I should have known then the whole situation was shady… But I was happy to see someone. This weekend has been, to put it simply, bad. I sat on my bed. I rolled over. I went to the bathroom, stared at myself in the mirror, thought about crying. Crying sounded like too much of a hassle. I sat in the bottom of the shower and pretended the rain washing over me was relaxing. When I got out, I wrapped myself up in a robe made of old towels and sat on the bed again. A bird was sitting on the ledge. I thought that was cute, right, and I watched it hop around. Then, as it flew away, that bird hovered above the window a second too long, leaving the remnants of streaky white poop staining the glass. Great, I guess, even the birds wanna take a dump on my day. So I was debating calling a window washer when I realized someone was knocking on my door. 

“Hello?” I didn’t open the door just yet. Not an idiot, despite what most of my teachers told me. Not an idiot, at least, when it comes to opening doors. “Who’s there?” 

“Delivery for Cadoc Perry.”

That’s my name. Cadoc “Nah” Perry. I knew it was for me. But I didn’t know how. Or why. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, man, I didn’t go through your mail. It’s a box.” 

“Oh.” That made sense. I opened the door. The delivery guy was wearing sunglasses. He seemed like someone who would have bullied me in high school. “Can I have it?” 

He sighed, “You have to sign for it.” 

Right. I glanced around for a pen and found a partially melted crayon on the radiator by the door. Noel probably left it there. “Okay,” I held the crayon aloft, “Can I sign for it?” 

The delivery guy shrugged. “I don’t know, man, can you?” He shoved a paper at me. “Go ahead.” He wrinkled his nose. Did I smell like something that bad? 

“Do I smell that bad?” 

“You smell like expired beef sticks, yeah.” 

Figured. “Thanks. Uh,” I scribbled off my signature, “There.” 

The delivery man turned to leave, but I grabbed his sleeve. “Dude.” He blinked at me venomously. “What do you want?” 

“I was wondering what your name was? I think I’m supposed to tip delivery men. People. I’m not sure. Do women deliver packages?” I smacked my head with the heel of my hand. “Gosh, I’m stupid. Of course they do. It’s the 21st century.”

“My name’s Walt Spiskin.” He wriggled away from my hand. “You’re really weird.” He sighed. “I hope you have a good day.” 

“Oh,” I wasn’t expecting that, “Thank you.” 

“Bye.” He turned around. I shut the door. The package was the only thing he left behind. As I heard his footsteps fall away, I realized that even if I was supposed to give him money, I didn’t have any. Walt Spiskin, delivery man, could have been me in another timeline. He looked like someone whose mother loved and appreciated. I bet even my mother would like him better than she likes me. Anyway, I was still milling through these deep, Walt-related thoughts when I finally sat down to open that box. Which brings me to now, because there’s a bomb in my bathroom. 

I thought it was a doll. When I opened the box, there was a doll in it. Which is why I thought it was, you know, a doll. But, you see, I took the doll out of the box and I was like, hey, that’s pretty weird. Cause who would send a whole grown man a doll? That’s pretty creepy. I’m not someone who is into horror- like, at all- but even I know the connotations of a doll in the mail. It was a heavy-ish doll, with sad eyes and curly hair. Kinda reminded me of my sister, but I didn’t have a sister. I put the doll beside the box and looked for a card. While I was looking, though, I heard the distinct noise of something ticking. It sounded, really, like a bomb. 

If you’re reading this 

You should know 

That we think 

You’ve got to go 

You kicked us out 

We’re kicking you 

From the earth 

You loser blue 

The doll is ticking 

The bomb is set 

Do you regret 

What you did yet?

You have three hours

To get it away 

But you can’t leave home

I’ve got the key. 

Love Willow

And Noel 

But we hate you 

Go to 

Smell 

You smell bad

You stupid turkey 

Stupid 

Idiot 

Not appreciative dude

And by the time I was done reading that delightful snap of literature, the doll was glaringly a weapon of mass destruction. I feared, of course, for my life, and ran to the door, shaking it almost off its hinges. But, as the poem said, I was locked in the apartment. Someone- well, there weren’t too many options- had locked me in. My bets are on that delivery guy. I should have dragged him in here while I could have. Being the man I am, I panicked. I knocked the doll off the table. I picked it up. I screamed. I ran to the bathroom and chucked it in there, slamming the door and scrambling back to my bedroom, chest heaving. I have a little less than three hours to, you know, not die. If I was giving up, I’d call my mother. If I was giving up, I might try to find my best friend/ex-roommate and tell him I’m sorry for ruining his life in the most menial way possible. But instead I’m on the computer, typing out what may very well be the last entry in this blog. No one reads it, I don’t know why I write it, but there has to be something… Sometimes I need something to look forward to at the end of the day. 

Anyway, I wish I knew how to disarm a bomb, but it’s not something they teach in school, exactly. Maybe if I’d gone to school somewhere like New Jersey, right, but I didn’t and so I have no idea how to disarm a bomb. One time I was at the sandwich shop across from my mom’s house and this dude jumped in through the window and handed me a huge box and told me to hold it for him while he ordered his food. I did. Later, on the night news, I saw him. He was a serial killer. Does this count as trauma dumping? I feel like it may. I read that word on an Instagram story, somewhere, and it made me think of the time I told my local grocer about how it made me feel when my grandma wasn’t actually dead at her funeral. I remember leaning over the open casket to give her a final goodbye squeeze, but then her eyes opened.  It was terrifying. She lived another four and a half years. 

That is the kind of thing that happens in my life. I seem so boring, yeah, but then there’s… There’s all these little freakish events that make me probably the most interesting person I know. Not that you’d know, whoever you are, but I wish, well, I wish a lot of things. The main ones are that I had better judgement in roommates and that I could disarm a bomb. Speaking of the bomb, though, I can still hear it ticking away in the bathroom. I should go check on it.