My apartment building is equipped with a closet in the lobby meant for packages. I think when it was built in 2013, packages weren’t as big a deal as they are now, but with the rise of Amazon, the closet has become a central part for all of our lives here.
On a normal day, the UPS and FedEx guys burn by, dump their parcels off in the lobby, and then, supposedly, the building’s manager will put them in the closet for the tenants to come pick up like it’s fucking Christmas every day.
I say supposedly because among the many duties our manager handles, shoveling the packages into the closet is way down on the list. Consequently, the deliveries just pile up. These drifts and dunes of boxes bother my slightly compulsive nature and so I started organizing them into the closet. It appealed to my urge to tidy things up and it also meant when I was waiting for a package I didn’t have to dig through the piles every time I went down to check.
Shortly after I took on occasionally being Mr postman, I bumped into my neighbor Andre and found out he too straightened out all the packages. He’s a real sweetheart; aside from organizing deliveries, he also waters the newly planted trees out front, and he always is good for gossip about our neighbors. Also he looks like this:
I don’t mean he resembles this picture, this is literally a picture of him. Right after I met him he told me he had been a model for Colt Studios, the gold standard of smut. Of course I immediately scurried home and looked him up.
Apparently Andre has been out of town during these holiday times, I think he knew how bad this week would be and went oon the lam to avoid it. Bright boy. The whole Black Friday Cyber Monday consumerist madness meant the packages have been coming in hot and nobody was handling them and so a couple of days ago, I had had enough and decided to just dig in and master the closet.
It’s really just one of those tasks that’s not difficult, merely onerous. Without even talking about it, Andre and I developed a system where packages are labeled with the apartment number and then organized on the shelves by floors. Envelopes that are small enough go in tubs on the floor next to the boxes that are too big to be up on the shelves.
So there I was, deep amongst the parcels bringing order out of chaos to my little OCD heart’s content. I was closing in on finishing when some unattractive youngish nerd appeared over the horizon and began to make vague noises as if he would like to get in the closet.
“I’ll be through in about 10 minutes,” I said to which he continued his hazy sounds. I surrendered and he stepped into the closet and looked around as if he had never seen cardboard before. I pointed out all the packages were organized by floors, but that didn’t seem to penetrate his fog. After he had poked around ineffectively, he announced he would call his mother and see what she had sent him. It wasn’t clear how that might help him find the package, but I was all for anything that required him to leave.
My relief was short-lived though, because he was back almost immediately. Obviously his mother was no more interested in spending time with him than I was; I felt she and I had bonded. We went through the same song and dance about how the packages were organized and where it would make sense to look. He looked around like a cat confronted with a spelling test, eventually he shuffled away and I returned to my tidying.
I was down to the very last envelopes, when who should re-appear, but the gormless wonder himself. I didn’t even wait for his murky noises, I just stepped out of the way and let him have at it again. Few things annoy me more than someone slowing me down, especially when I’m doing a good deed. While I was glaring at him, I noticed he’s one of those men who only comb the front of his hair and leave the back the way the pillow shaped it. Obviously he needed to be dragged out back and shot.
He had ducked under the shelf to have another look at the packages there. I knew from experience that it’s easy to forget about the shelf above you and straighten up only to smack your head. As I was looking at the mess of his hair in the back, I was thinking “bonk your head, bonk your head, bonk your head.” I realize that was a petty prayer to send up, but imagine my delight when that is exactly what the little schmoe did! Heeheehee.
And then he announced he’d found his package. Maybe the concussion had helped. Maybe looking at the same pile of packages 3 times was what his tiny brain needed. I congratulated him and shooed him off. He never said thank you, but watching him smack his head was gratification enough.
Imagine being the neighbor to look out their window and see that looking back.
Did you lose a contact? I’ll help you look for it.
I’m pretty sure this is another Colt model, one Steve Kelso.
I don’t understand why some people have problems with redheads, I find them irresistible.
Studious, humpy, AND tidy. What a catch.
I know it’s a little blurry, but you get the idea.