Parcel Problem

It’s time to stiff upper lip it. I’m talking stiff like no twitching, no sniffling, no nothing. I’m gonna walk right up to him and give him a piece of my mind. Him with his stupid boxers and fuzzy slippers. I can already see him walking down the steps to his house, right to the gate that looks directly across from mine, scratching his ass and sticking his hand into my mailbox. It’s like he has a superpower. He knows when I have a package coming and he manages to get there quick enough to take it from me but long enough that I always see him walk away. 

This time, it’s lozenges made from honey bees in Algeria that I saw online four weeks ago. I got an ad for it and I’ve been looking forward to it ever since. I have an unusually dry throat, my doctors have said. I’ve been sitting by the chair every day in my window, watching, staring at the mailbox. Tracking numbers are inaccurate. It could come at any moment. My mother always said I had an anxious mind, but I like to think I’m imaginative at bad times. Bad times like when my teacher in first grade told me I had to be paired with Thomas Jasper, who has two first names, and I cried so hard I threw up because I was convinced he was an elf. My therapist, Dr. Dermat tells me all I have to do is just tell my neighbor he’s taking my mail, that it’s probably an accident anyways, and he’ll stop. But I say, how could he not know! Does he not read the packages?? Doesn’t he realize that he didn’t order Instant French Tip Shellac for Sensitive Toes? I can’t just tell him to stop cause here’s how the conversation would go:

“Stop taking my mail.”

“No.”

And then he pulls a gun on me, kills me, and then takes my mail. 

When I was thirteen, the guidance counselor suggested I go to an after school camp for kids with “delicate self-esteem.” They made us stand up in front of everyone, microphone in hand, and tell everyone our insecurities. So I had to stand on stage --by the way it’s sweltering by mid-afternoon-- sweating from my upper lip into my mouth, and it’s getting mingled into my braces cause there is no AC in the multi-purpose room and tell everyone I didn’t like my muffin top. The truth was, the muffin top wasn’t the problem. The problem was that on the last day of camp, all we had to do was say one nice thing about ourselves and I forgot how to speak English. My parents in the audience, Dad’s in a Hawaiian shirt of parrots smoking cigars and Mom’s wearing a bowtie and big glasses, and they watch their dork shudder across the stage just to say, ‘me llamo…’ and then pass out mid sentence. When I came to in the hospital bed, pretty sure I had a grand mal seizure, the nurse told me I had anemia and a mild panic attack. 

And sure, Dr. Dermat has been a big help. I ordered coffee at a coffee shop last week, and when they spelled my name wrong, I corrected them. She said:

“So a flat white for Holeen?”

“That’s not even close.” 

The barista spelled it Holeen anyways, but that’s not the point. All that is to say, that I was ready for this. In fact, I’ve seen the oaf lumbering in and out of the house since he moved in sixteen months ago. He came in with his loud moving crew of his buddies, and they stayed up drinking all night which is fine by me but then he left his beer cans all over the lawn and they rolled into the street which I have to walk on. Since then, I’ve watched him spit on the sidewalk one-hundred-and-fifty-six times, I’ve watched him throw gum into the dumpster nineteen times with his bare hands, and I’ve seen him wave at me every single god damn morning right before he takes my mail. 

I’ve been up since five am just waiting because it says that my lozenges were delivered and sure enough I watched as the mailwoman put them in the mailbox. I squint as his front door cracks open. Today, he’s not even wearing a shirt. In fact, he’s just wearing a tattered, fuzzy robe loosely crossed at the hips. I can see his graying chest hair and that big ugly cross he wears, not cause it’s a cross but because it has the Playboy Bunny on it which sends a very confusing message (one I have not yet deciphered, mind you). I fill my chest with air. Today’s the day. I stand. I want those lozenges. Outside shoes on? Check. Outside jacket on? Also check. Sunglasses to protect my eyes? Check again. 

The sun hits me immediately like a laser beam of fire. It burns! IT BURNS! 

“Mornin’ neighbor!” comes the bellowing voice of an older gentleman taking his snarling chihuahua on a walk. He passes quickly though. Each step towards my gate agony. My lawn needs trimming. My feet are lead. I am chained to the earth. I am Sisiphus. I am almost at the mailbox.  He’s already standing there, scratching his ass, and opening up my mailbox. 

“Hey there. Aren’t you that kid from the news who won the state prize for longest ponytail?” he asks me.

“What?”

“It is you!” he laughs, “damn that thing is long.” 

I ignore him. This is clearly a ploy to get my attention away from the mailbox. 

“You’re going to take something out of my mailbox.” 

“Now how do you know what I’m gonna do?” he chuckles. 

“Cause you do it every morning,” I say, “you come to my mailbox and you take my packages.” 

“Listen kiddo, I don’t mind you insinuating anything, mostly cause your hair is truly impressive to me, but also cause I’m not taking nothing out of your mailbox.” 

He grins. He has a tooth gem on his left canine. He wants me to trust him, but I don’t.

“You do. You took my anti-stress retainer. You took my weighted blanket, and you’re about to take my lozenges.” 

Then he looks at me for a second, dumbfounded. Then he laughs. 

“Well I’ll be damned, you're the woohoo that’s been sending me all this psycho-munchausen-cure-alls I get every week. Bless your heart.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” 

“HOA’s musta gone and changed our mailbox numbers when I moved in and gave me yours,” he says, “you wait here.” 

I stay put. I watch as the sun rises further in the sky. I watch as a school bus full of rambunctious kids smearing snot all over the windows hurtles past me. Birds fly overhead. A sprinkler goes off. I turn around, and he’s there again. In his hands, a big pile of unopened packages.

“Some kind of mixup. Anyways. It looks like you should get out more. I’ve seen vampires paler than you,” he laughs and dumps the packages in my ungloved hands. 

“Thank…you?” I mumble.

“Change your address or somethin’, but don’t worry if you forget. Just knock on my door, I’ll let ya in!” he smiles, and with that he’s hurried back up the stone steps to his house. I turn on my heel and walk back to my house. I shut the door behind me and look at all the packages and I realize I’ve been putting in the wrong mailbox number.