My Family Took Over a Parcel Station for Free. Then Our Home Became a Waiting Room.

My family took over this parcel station without paying a cent.

The second owner left the keys on a neighbor’s windowsill. “Take the equipment,” she said. “I don’t want a penny.” Her phone was dead the next day. She had rented the neighbor’s house, couldn’t keep the station running, and asked my family to take it. The old man said he was idle. A sign went up in our courtyard: Parcel Station.

After that, the iron gate stopped closing.

At 6:10 in the morning someone bangs. The old man pulls on a jacket. Oil in the wok is smoking. At noon he lies down, and the door rings. At 11 at night someone stands at the gate shouting a pickup code. Halfway through the toilet, someone calls for a parcel. Food burns. The wok bottom goes black. He scrapes it with a spatula. Scrape, scrape, scrape.

People tell me to close on time. This is a house. A station in a compound can shut off its lights at six. My home cannot. I cannot sleep on the street. Some ask why we don’t rent a space. The compound is small. Renting a space to run a station does not make money. The first two owners did not fail because they lacked ambition. They failed because the numbers did not work, so they ran. Others tell me to be tough, to glare like the station owner in their compound. I have lived here for decades. The people around me are aunts, uncles, third grandpas. If I glare, word travels. If I rented in another compound and faced strangers, I could glare. But this is my home.

The courtyard turned into an exhibition.

Someone buys a finished cabinet. The box is longer than a door and lies across the millstone. Someone buys live creatures: goldfish in bags, loaches in a basin, silkworms in a shoe box, a hamster cage by the leeks. Someone buys durian and leaves the husk by the wall. The smell stays for three days. Someone buys a furry toy spider and sets it on a parcel. The wind moves it. A toy snake writhes by itself and looks almost real. I push it aside with a broom.

Many people open parcels in my courtyard. They slash the tape. Foam flies. Bags go under the jujube tree. The cardboard sells as scrap for a few coins. That is one small benefit. During the pandemic, more people opened packages outside so they would not carry the box home. I saw hamsters, ant farms, sugar gliders, dormice, chameleons. Rodent pets turn my stomach.

Couriers drop parcels and leave. Some arrive damaged. A milk carton dents. Liquid runs down the seam and pools on the concrete. Duck eggs break in the box. Egg and straw mix. A toy breaks, and a child cries in the courtyard. Adult product packaging splits. The buyer looks down. I look away.

The old man starts receiving customers.

An old person brings a phone and asks for help returning an item. He pushes his glasses onto his forehead and drags a finger across the screen. Handwriting input turns “return goods” into “return or.” I show him how to check delivery. He nods. The next day he comes back and says he forgot. Someone buys something and forgets it. A box gathers dust on the top shelf. The tape yellows. At the bottom sits a 2021 pickup code. The oldest parcel has been there more than three years. We usually have thirty to fifty unclaimed parcels.

An old man comes in angry. He says we gave him the wrong package. He bought a wok on Pinduoduo for 19.9 yuan. Inside was a small wooden spoon. I open the app. The ad shows a big wok. The 19.9 yuan option is the spoon. The wok costs one or two hundred. He sits on a folding stool and says he was cheated. I process a return. He cannot type. His phone is in handwriting mode. I reset it. He watches my finger tap the screen and says the phone is hard.

Shopping addicts bring their families.

A daughter kicks a box of supplements to the doorway. The mother sits on a stool and says she spends her own money. The old man stands under the jujube tree and curses. The daughter says her mother only buys. The mother says it is none of her business. I sit on the threshold and say nothing. Some family members ask me to refuse the parcels. The shopper tells me not to. I say whoever picks up first deals with it.

A family member takes a parcel home and does not tell the buyer. The buyer comes in and says it is lost. I show the footage. His wife carries the box into the entrance. He stands in the courtyard and asks why we gave it to his family. That is between them. I cannot referee.

Someone buys something and dies. Some died after the pandemic opened. Some had heart attacks or strokes. One was electrocuted by a water heater. The parcel stays on the shelf. No one comes. Days later, unfamiliar relatives arrive. They want it now. I ask a few questions. They refuse to answer and threaten to call the police. I do not know who died. Death does not send a notice to the parcel station.

A drunk driver came once. He had been stopped at the gate. He ran into the station, pretended to look for a parcel, and stood still by the shelf. The traffic police came in and led him out. I watched from the door. A dog barked twice.

Dogs cause the most trouble.

Some people bring dogs. A teddy lifts its leg on a parcel. The owner of the parcel shouts. The dog owner hugs the dog and says it does not bite. A large dog with no leash and no muzzle walks toward the yard. I say something. The owner looks hurt and says the dog does not bite. I put iron railings at the gate and a rod beside them. Dog owners must loop the leash around the rod. Inside, people collect parcels. Outside, dogs bite dogs.

Online names add confusion. Many people born in the 1960s use “Spring Blossoms,” “After Spring Blossoms,” or “Waiting for Spring Blossoms.” Parcels go to the wrong person. I check the footage. Most returns come back. Some people refuse. They say once it is home, it is theirs. One person opened clothes, wore them, then came for his own parcel. Arguments start in the courtyard.

Neighbors who brush orders get scammed. I warn them. They do not listen. New ones keep trying.

Vietnamese wives come in. They do not speak. Their phone says “pick up parcel.” They stand. I ask questions. They smile and show a translation app. Later I hear some wives return to Vietnam. Their husbands follow. The children speak both languages.

I stopped giving out plastic bags. I used to buy large bags and keep them under the counter. Someone with a fist-sized parcel would ask for a big bag. They smiled and spoke softly. The bag was the point. In the morning they use senior cards on buses and the subway. In the afternoon they come for a free bag. I stopped a few months ago. Bags cost money.

Couriers change often.

During 618 and Double 11, the bags are heavy as iron. One mother weighs maybe eighty or ninety jin. She is thin. Male couriers carry bags on their backs or with both hands. She grabs the opening with one hand. The bag scrapes the ground. At the threshold she stops, breathes, and drags again. One courier brings his child. The child sits in the passenger seat and plays on the phone. The father drives and curses. One brother-in-law bought a van and hired his wife’s younger brother. The younger brother slacks. The brother-in-law complains but does not dare say much. One junk van goes zizz, zizz, yah, like a dying man. One courier threw parcels at my door to avoid the drop fee. I caught him. He denied it.

For valuables, use SF Express. Pay more. Be polite to couriers. Their faces are tired. Their voices are tired. Their tone is short. If you talk like you own the street, one of them may bury your parcel in the back of the warehouse. Then it moves slowly. You return it, buy again, and lose time.

Anhui migrant workers came once.

The old man received them. He speaks Shanxi dialect. They speak Anhui dialect. They gestured. The site manager came to translate. They wanted to send something home. They opened a snake skin bag. Jujubes poured out. The compound has many jujube trees. When the fruit ripens, not many people eat it. It falls and rots. The workers picked it or gathered it. They wanted to send it to their parents and children. The old man squatted and picked up jujubes. He said the postage costs more than the fruit. The workers said Shanxi jujubes taste good and are hard to find at home. We sent the bag. A neighbor later gave me jujubes. I saved some for the workers. They thanked me and offered cigarettes. I do not smoke. Then they took out money and asked me to mail the jujubes home, for the family.

Some customers have paralyzed parents and buy diapers. One old person had been paralyzed for ten years. The family cared for him for ten years. I once cared for a paralyzed old person. I know what those days cost.

During lockdowns, our home was sealed first. The community said the station was a high-risk contact unit. The seal went on the iron bars of the security window. Rice, flour, and oil came through the gap. The old man counted eggs inside.

Knowing more people meant getting sick more. I used to catch few colds. Then I met people all day and had headaches and fevers. I get a flu shot every year. We have an air purifier, a fresh air machine, and an air disinfection machine. Staying out of crowds helps.

People tell me to install cameras, call the police, and leave the station unattended. Cameras do not find what is lost under them. I have called the police. Cars get scratched. Tires get punctured. I have reported it. People over seventy cut cameras and break internet cables. They get a talk and go home. Unclaimed parcels cannot be thrown away. In funeral homes, unclaimed bodies have lain for over twenty years. Most places do not dare cremate them. People who have not done the work fill in the industry with imagination. They try it once and learn.

Some say old people can use smartphones, pick up and return parcels by themselves, and I am too soft. If you have time to argue, go home and talk to your own old people for fifteen minutes. Most people cannot remember the last time they did.

After the station, the words “pick up a parcel” make my brain ache. On the street, an electric three-wheel delivery cart catches my eye. I think it is heading to my home. A few months ago I was traveling. Beside a scenic spot, one of those carts flew past. My brain reached for my gate. Then I remembered I was away. I stood there and laughed at my own reflex.

My family is trying to get the old man to close.

He turns the “Open” sign over. The back says “Rest.” Someone still bangs at the door. He stands in the courtyard with the scanner gun. He looks at the sign. He looks at the gate. Oil in the wok is smoking. He turns toward the kitchen and sets the scanner on the millstone. The red tip stays lit.