SURPRISE PACKAGE

I’ve been having trouble sleeping this past week and as I lie awake staring into the darkness on a makeshift bed on the living room floor, I wonder what else can go wrong with my life. When I went to work last Monday, my boss called me into his office. I had been expecting a promotion or at the very least, a substantial raise after fifteen years of hard reliable work. I’m a mechanic and I work, should say worked for a large national company that has a fleet of big diesel trucks that transport goods all over America, even Canada and sometimes Mexico. But last Monday, as I sat across from my boss, his jowls jiggling on his man-boobs protruding through his sweaty white shirt while shuffling some papers around on his desk, he informed me that the company was letting me go, they were upscaling, and my position had become obsolete. I couldn’t believe I was being fired by someone who was wedged into a chair, tighter than a walnut in a shell that would take a crowbar to pry him out, after he’s finished eating the two boxes of donuts sitting on his desk. He was a heart attack waiting to happen. It’s not my fault that I couldn’t figure out how electric trucks work, even after they sent me to school to learn about them and I almost electrocuted myself—electricity and I have never gotten along.

I’m only thirty-seven years of age, and besides losing my job, things haven’t been going very well in my family life either. My wife had been nagging me about not earning enough money and constantly reminding me that my best friend has been rapidly climbing the corporate success-ladder in the same company where I work and had recently received a huge bonus, which included an all expense paid vacation to Dubai for a month. Although I received two months’ pay and I could apply for unemployment insurance, as I gathered up my tools and said goodbye to my fellow workers last Monday, I knew my wife would tear a strip off me when I got home. So, instead of going straight home, I dropped into the nearest bar to help drown my sorrows. And wouldn’t you know it, when I left, I had barely driven two blocks before I was pulled over by the cops. They gave me a DUI (drinking under the influence) ticket for being impaired and impounded my car. With only $1.37 remaining in my threadbare pockets, I didn’t have enough money to hail down a taxi or even enough to catch a bus that would take me within walking distance of our apartment.

As I staggered towards home, thinking about something to say to my wife that would smooth things over, like I would find a better paying job, we’ll take a little holiday, not to Dubai but maybe camp somewhere for a couple of weeks, everything sounded rather lame, even to me. As drunk as I was, I needn’t have worried about saying anything because when I opened the door, the apartment was empty. Not only had my wife and my little girl moved out but all the furniture was gone as well, even took the dog and he had belonged to me before we had been married. Besides my clothes strewn across the bedroom floor and hanging in the closet and a few personal items, she had left a note, a very short note on the kitchen counter.

What had I done to deserve this I thought? I had been a faithful husband, had never even thought about cheating on my wife, well that part might not be true, the pretty blonde receptionist at the front desk had a set of hooters I had a hard time taking my eyes off whenever I saw her. I loved our daughter, often read her bedtime stories and played with her on the weekends. I made love to my wife as often as she desired, however, it did seem to be waning for most of the past year. But besides that, I had bought her a car, always made sure she had nice clothes, was able to visit the beauty salon regularly and took her out to dinner at least once a month—I wanted her to be as happy as possible since she was a stay-at-home-mom.

My wife must have been in a rush to leave the apartment because I could barely read her scrawling handwriting: I’ve already made arrangements for a divorce and you’ll soon receive the documents. Don’t bother getting in touch with me for awhile because I’ll be in Dubai.

As I lay on my hard bed, still trying to get a grip on things, losing my job, my wife running off with my best friend, taking my dog even if he liked her more than me, my mind wouldn’t shut off, kept on going round and round in circles, continually thinking about all the things I could have done to preserve my marriage, I suddenly heard a noise outside the apartment door. When I hear a knock, knock, knock and looked at the clock sitting beside me on the floor and saw that it was almost 3AM, I couldn’t imagine who would be coming to see me unless, getting my hopes up…but no…when I open the door dressed in only a T-shirt and my undershorts, it’s not my family, only an enormous package wrapped in brown paper and tied with thick twine that silently greets me. Quickly looking up and down the hallway to try and catch a glimpse at whoever had dropped off the package, nobody is in sight. How strange I thought as I curiously observe the suspicious package more closely—no name and no address—but clearly it was outside my door, so it must be meant for me.

I don’t know why, but because it was such a big package, stood as high as my shoulders, I thought it would be heavy but it was as light as a new born kitten, when I lifted it up, carried it into the living room and set it down on the floor. Just my luck I thought—someone sent me a neatly wrapped, empty cardboard box—probably one of the neighbours playing a joke on me.

Inquisitive about the box’s contents, even when I shake it as hard as I can and quickly put my ear next to it, the silence of a tomb comes to mind. Maybe that’s it, the package is filled with poisonous gas, perhaps my wife wants to bump me off but I don’t understand why since she already took everything and I’ll be paying child support payments until my daughter becomes an adult.

Lying back down on my uncomfortable bed, I strike a match and wait for a flame. As the smoke billows around my relit cigarette stub, I keep staring at the huge package as if it might have a life of its own, suddenly start sliding around the apartment or hover overhead like a UFO. But no, it just stands patiently and as lifeless as its contents. I ponder whether to open the package or not. A part of me really wants to, like a small boy at his birthday party eyeing the largest wrapped present. There’s really no reason not to open the package and no one is here to see how embarrassed I’ll be if the package is empty and then make fun of me, so why shouldn’t I? But I just can’t shake that awful feeling that I’m still being taken advantage of and I don’t want it to happen again, even if I’m here all alone in my empty apartment. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just can’t seem to get my courage up and am not sure what to do about the parcel. I consider placing the unusual package in front of a neighbor’s door, one that I don’t particularly like who lives just down the hall, but I want to see what’s inside this huge box. Suddenly, an idea occurs how to do just that, secretly observe the package’s contents, if indeed anything is inside. As soon as I quickly dress, I take the box down to my car, which cost me an arm and leg to get released from the police compound and gently lay it on the back seat. Because it’s still very early in the morning, the streets are almost empty when I slowly pull the car to the curb in a district where a lot of homeless people live. As quietly as possible, I carry the big box over to where a grungy man is sleeping on the ground near the entrance of a rat infested alley, from the look of the empty bottle of wine wrapped in a brown paper bag lying next to him, he’s probably a wino. After I gently and quietly set the enormous package down next to him, I nudge the sleeping man with the toe of my scuffed up worn out shoe and pleasantly say, “Parcel delivery.”

By the time the homeless person rubs the grogginess from his eyes, I’m sitting back inside my car and I can tell by the way he’s gawking around that he has no idea where the person who dropped off the gigantic parcel has disappeared to. I can hear him groaning as he stands up and I watch as he slowly withdraws a box-knife from one of his coat pockets, pushes the sharp as a razor blade out and begins cutting the thick twine away and then the top of the box open. When I see him stick his arm inside, then move it around and his hand comes out empty, except for a tiny piece of paper, I have to laugh, especially when he cuts the other end open, places his bedding inside and then crawls into the box and goes back to sleep.

At least the rummy has a dry home for awhile I thought as I drive back home and try to catch a few Z’s.

When morning arrives, I jump back into my car and drive off for an interview, a possible position as a mechanic, one I’m almost positive to get. As I’m waiting for my order, a cup of coffee and a bran muffin at a drive-thru restaurant, I hear on the news that a homeless man found a blank cheque for a million dollars from an anonymous donor and that nine other people in the city had discovered similar cheques taped inside big boxes that had been left outside their doors.

Just my luck I thought, if I had any luck at all, it would be bad luck and as I put my foot down on the gas pedal, the car shakes, bucks, snorts and sputters to a stop—empty—just like my life.