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The Big Box

Submission for the Mystery Box Challenge

By Mark R. CieslakPublished about a year ago 5 min read
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The Big Box
Photo by Justus Menke on Unsplash

The Big Box

I live in San Francisco. It’s great and not, depending on the day and how many tickets my vehicle decided to achieve.

It’s mostly apartments. At least, in this part of town. Homes are rare unless you muster the strength to hike up the hill for views,

over-priced,

but amazing views.

How many thousands does a view cost? I am not financially equipped for such banter. I have no ill will, they earned it and they are very allowed to spend it as they please. I’d rather not discuss anything at all to be honest. But if I must grumble, the intricate homelessness problem, the slow leaching of the soul of this city that once upon a time made me dance in streets, that will be my kip and usually that amuse bouche encourages the polite retreat or even better yet, just the silent turn and subsequent bliss of being forgotten once again.

I really am becoming the grumpy old man I was afraid of and laughed at behind tight little pink hands yesterday.

But I digress or at least have taken a left turn in this narrative.

So, apartments.

Some have iron gates that look impervious but really aren’t. (Insider tip and I shouldn’t tell you this but how do you think all that mail gets delivered? Do you think the postal carriers have 40,000 keys on hand? Of course not. It just so happens that in this city of nearly 800,000 residents there only 5 master keys to all the main doors and gates of most of the buildings. But I didn’t tell you that.)

If you don’t have a gate which any postal worker or delivery person can place your parcel behind, you get a slip stuck to your door. It’s not quite orange, not quite yellow, not quite brown. However, it is an admission of defeat that the postman was unable to reasonably secure a safe location to drop off your package and therefore, you are now required to visit the post office or annex in your area. The whole process is rather simple and usually uneventful, though I did witness a very ardent “customer service manager” with a German accent chastising the poor fellow behind the counter regarding a package missing. That is until the postal manager, whom he asked for, appeared. She gave him a proper and well-deserved verbal whipping for his abuse and not-so-gently reminded him that Customer Service Manager means you oversee customer service. My faith in humanity, +2 points.

Back to the package.

Therefore, with intimate knowledge of the stringent rules of package delivery, as afore described, that I found it quite remarkable what I witnessed next. Opening my door, a package, in plain brown box, approximately two feet wide and two feet tall was, in open view, setting upon the doorstep of my neighbor’s apartment.

I was setting out on my way for a morning mocha. I make a fine coffee mind you, but a not too sweet mocha, no whip, is an art.

It was early and the air quite crisp. Granted its always cold here, but crisp where you can just taste the eagerness in it for ice though it hasn’t snowed in the City since the mid-70s. I struggled with questions and awkwardly descended the stairs.

I watched the intermittent, grumbling dog owner who regretted their rescue at this hour, with their bedhead brandished like a badge. However, today, I didn’t smirk as they picked up the steaming, early morning reward for their altruism.

One or two over-achieving joggers, fully regaled in spandex, tried to make me feel bad but the feeling passed just as quickly as they did, and I continued my constitutional in haze.

My selfish ennui, this cramped but comfortable little prison I had built, was suddenly suspect.

A rather big box.

At this hour.

Just sitting out there.

The audacity and slew of questions which I had to mentally press conference were overwhelming.

First, it was just past 6 am…when was this delivered? Last night?!

Gasp!!

And secondly…well, there was not a second point, but I was shaken.

Of course, I composed myself quickly, I’ve seen all manner of atrocities in my tenure here (ask me about the alleyway on 6th…actually don’t). With pride at my single stuttered step, I continued onwards to Victoria Pastry. Not a single look back, but that box seemed to lean over me and watch my feet for the next few blocks.

I sat with my mocha, absently pretending to read some other early bird’s discarded newspaper. The sun climbed and the cold air fought back. I didn’t notice though because my mind was drunk with riddles. It wobbled back and forth, unsteady, unsettled, and unhappy.

“Why did they get a delivery of a box that big? I can’t get a t-shirt delivered at my steps!”

“It couldn’t have been delivered today, its far too early. But that means it was delivered yesterday and my God, how is it not stolen?!”

“Maybe the thieves all drove Honda Accords last night and that box would take up a lot of space…of course not all thieves drive Honda Accords, I’m sure some drive SUVs of some sort…actually, is stealing boxes profitable? What if its just toothpaste and a salad spinner? Who orders gold bars or rare paintings to be delivered?”

And so on and so forth my mind did gymnastics.

I didn’t realize that I had drank all my mocha until the empty cup admitted defeat with no reply to my questioning tilt. It was precisely that moment the foreman spoke his verdict in my mind.

I determined to take the box into my safekeeping.

Of course, temporarily, until the rightful owners returned from whatever trip they must surely be on.

A forceful toss of my recyclable cup into the appropriate bin and I was off with stalwart steps.

I lost track of the twelve-minute walk because trumpets heralded my crusade. They grew in fervor and then the altos of the choir added voice which were then supported and nay, even bested, by the baritones that lowed as guides for lost ships to seek harbor.

The symphony was reaching crescendo as I arrived and spied the package at the top of the steps. Strength, pride and courage coursed through me right until I read the delivery label…addressed to me.

Everything crashed and only a single, weak horn bugled off key and embarrassed.

humanity
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About the Creator

Mark R. Cieslak

"Our lives are madness. Trying so hard to make moments, take moments. Nothing but pianos in a storm."

"I hear the singing."

"What singing? You never said..."

"Ah boy, what singing indeed."

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