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Written by Dolan Morgan
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Delivery [by Dolan Morgan]
I’m reading a book in my room, on my bed, with the lamp on when the doorbell rings. It’s somewhat of a hassle to get up -- all I have on is my skirt because I only half undressed after getting home from the doctor’s. I throw on an old t-shirt and head into the living room toward the door. I really need to clean, I think. It’s a small place -- simple, with just a couch, a coffee and end table, a television. Peering out the hole, it appears to be some sort of delivery agency out there, one I’ve never heard of, a man in a green uniform, strangely well fitted. I don‘t often get packages, so this is something at least to make the day stand out from the others.
“Ms. Elsta?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Rough day?”
“Excuse me?”
He fumbles a bit, looks shortly at the bushes outside my window.
“I have a delivery I need you to sign for.” He hands me an electronic device, surprisingly lightweight for its size. On closer inspection, too, this man I think could use a haircut and a shave. That’s my taste, though. Best not to judge, especially delivery men, rude though they may be.
I hand back the device after awkwardly scrawling with a plastic stick onto a screen what might in the dark only barely pass as my signature. “Okay, here ya go, now I hope it’s a fair trade.”
“I think it’ll be a bit more than fair, actually.” I don’t know what that could possibly mean.
He steps around the house into the driveway where he parked, and is gone for quite a while. Eventually, the nose of a cart comes slowly around. The man is pushing it forcefully, straining, and getting a little sweaty in the heat of the afternoon.
The package itself is no package at all, it’s an ark -- huge and wooden. The delivery man pushes it right into the living room, sets it down from the cart with a great deal of effort, brushes his pant legs off, tips his hat to me, and steps out. He doesn’t say anything -- as if he has just done something magnificent, too wonderful for words. A few moments later, I hear the rumble of the engine, gears changing.
So, now, I have to open this box. First, I check around the edges, look it up and down. No return address. It’s about ten feet tall, and for the first time ever, I am glad for my exceptionally tall ceilings. It’s like a large wooden phone booth with no entrance. When I was younger, I loved the book The Phanton Toll Booth, but it’s been a long time, and I don’t really have much hope for there being a booth inside. A booth could be nice, though. As nice as anything I suppose.
I go into the kitchen and grab a hammer from the drawer. The hammer is like a spoon against the size of this box. First, I stare at it for a while, but then decide I had better open it, just open it right up, no more hesitation. Like a band aid, I think. A whole side of it, which I lovingly dub the front side because it is so much more agreeable than the other sides, comes off after a few good yanks of the hammer. Within there is no more mystery. It is clear as day.
There is beef. Slab after slab of red, packaged meat. Ten feet high and three feet thick, meat. Steak. Sirloin. London broil. T-bone. Everything. There is a little note, professional looking, like a card on a dozen roses. “100% Beef,” it says in bold letters. Yes. It is true. I have this 100% beef now. And in many ways, it is glorious. So, I get my book, a cheap paperback, and bring it into the living room. I sit on the couch and I read with the meat entirely satisfied. Sitting there with the book, rhythmically moving my eyes and concentration, however, I get a little more rational. As impressive as thirty cubic feet of beef is, I really don’t know what I’m going to do with all of it. I certainly can’t eat it all before it goes bad -- I’d have a preemptive heart attack. I don’t have the space to freeze it -- my house is only somewhat larger than the box itself. And, really, I just don’t have the money to go shipping it to the local soup kitchen. This thing must have cost billions of dollars to ship. A blue-collar father probably lived and died in the pursuit of this one delivery, his family never the wiser. I’d have it mailed to them, but if they were decent people, they’d just end up sending it to the family of the man who will die trying to get the delivery from here to there. Onward the box of beef would travel, lives wasted in its wake. I can’t kill any more people for this meat. I have to draw a line somewhere.
I look down at my stomach, and then think about Bryan, who doesn’t know that I am pregnant yet.
So, now, I am angry with this beef. Really, I think it’s a cow. It must be an entire cow at least. And I am mad at this dead, butchered cow. It’s becoming a hassle in my mind. “You stupid cow!” I scream, and kick the looming box from the couch. A few packages fall to the floor. After yelling like that, I realize that I am actually not angry enough to be so loud. It’s like I put on brown socks with black shoes, mismatched.
“I’m going for a walk, and I am leaving you here, beefcow.” That feels nice, to be able to do that. I grab my favorite hat and head out the door. It’s nice out. Yes, this is right; I am angry enough to go for a walk on a nice day.
My cellphone rings. It’s Bryan. I’m not answering that. I can’t talk to him now. Fucking asshole. Fucking asshole.
On my walk, I pass a few dogs leading their owners around, but they aren‘t much of a distraction from the huge tower of meat. I wish I had caught the feminist wave, so then I might be able to read into this invasive tower of beef, but that’s never been my game. Still, all that bloody red beef. So much. I start to think about abortions, and how I should probably have one. Yeah, right. It’s that simple, isn’t it? Abortion? Yes? No? Sure! I look down at my tummy underneath the old t-shirt.
“Hello,” I say and wave.
This just isn’t when I wanted to have a baby. I need a few more years before I’m ready for that, really. Still, I don’t know if I could go about this whole business of abortion. All the power in the world to other women who do it, you know, but this is my baby and that’s different. Not that I think they have an easy time of it, either, but -- fuck, this just isn’t the ideal situation for babies. I don’t have enough money, I’m not ready to commit myself to that responsibility, that limiting of choices in life. There’s things I still want to do! And I like drinking, think I‘m pretty good at it. Is that selfish? I’m sure baby would want to do things, too, given the chance to think about it, but I‘m not sure whether babies think or not. Maybe I should find that out.
It’s a funny parallel, I suppose. Now, I’ve got all this beef in my house, and I’d love to get rid of it, but it‘d be a shame to let it all go to waste. I suppose I should see how I feel after I throw that out before I try throwing a baby out.
As I walk back to my house, I notice a truck in my driveway. UPS this time, and a man is at my door ringing the bell, peering through the shades. I hurry over to him just as he is giving up. “Hi,” I say, “were you looking for me?”
“Are you Jill Estra?”
“The one and only.”
“Honestly, that’s not true.”
“What?”
“Nothing, somewhat of a coincidence, I suppose, but I actually delivered a coffeemaker to a Jill Estra not four blocks from here yesterday.”
“Yes, I imagine there are more of me than jut one.”
“Well, not you spec-”
“So, how big is this delivery?”
“Well, why don’t you sign for it first, then I’ll go get it.” He could be trying to trick me. Do delivery men do that?
“Can you bring it over before I sign for it?”
“Well, would I be bringing it over here before you sign it on the off chance that you might not want to sign?”
I pause. He’s got me. “Yes.”
“Well, okay, then I don’t really want to carry it back and forth if you don’t mind. I carry packages all day, and well, it’d really be a blessing if I only had to do this once.”
“Fine, fine.” I take the little electronic device and sign again with a plastic stick. The guy, a short little man, heads off in half trot to his truck. I go on into my house and hold the door open, waiting. Again, it takes some time before the man appears coming around the corner, pushing a very large box. More meat?
He barely gets it into the house, wheezing more than breathing. Either this package is much heavier than the last, or Mr. Delivery Man could do with a little exercise.
“That’s a heavy one, lady.”
“So it seems, fella.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Thank you.” He doesn’t move, kind of looks around.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I say.
“I’m pretty thirsty.”
“You’re pretty thirsty.”
“Yes.”
He looks at a painting on the wall, whistles. Cocky son of a bitch.
“I’ll get you some water then?”
“Oh, I don’t mean to put you out, but if it’s no trouble?”
“No, no trouble at all.” I step into the kitchen, grab a glass, and fill it. Ice? He didn’t ask for ice, but he very well might when I bring him the cup. But, as well, he might not have wanted ice. He didn’t ask for it after all. I grab some ice in one hand and walk out with the cup in the other.
“Here you go.” I hand him the water.
“What’s that ice for?”
“Nothing really.”
“Oh.” The doorbell rings. The delivery man is sipping his water slowly, examining the beef. I answer the door, and there stands another delivery man, FedEx. He’s older, gray hair, leather face.
“Hi, is Ms. Estra at home?”
“That’s me,” I say resolutely.
“Well, I’ve got a parcel for you. Please sign.” He hands me the electronic device and I hand him the ice. Reluctantly he takes it. I’m noticing now that this device has a lot of buttons that I could not imagine uses for. Maybe this is the luxury model.
“I don’t want anymore packages,” I say.
“I see.” He thinks for a moment. “Would you please take this package?”
I’ve never heard that before. The man looks sad, pathetic even. I can’t say no to this face. He’s still holding my ice.
“Fuck it, sure. Send ‘er in.” I put my signature down and hand him the little machine.
“Great,” he says, gives me back my ice, and heads off for the truck. Through his thin gray hair, smooth skin shines in the sun. Jesus Christ, I think, that man is old, really old. Too old to drag another one of these boxes in here. He might die. The man could die. I toss the ice into the yard and wait at the door.
After some time, more than usual, he comes creeping around the corner. This box is big, bigger than the last two. He pushes it up to the door but can’t seem to get it over the step. After a few tries, he lets out a loud deep cough. That’s it. He’s going to die, I think.
I grab at the box, try to pull it in, but its just too heavy.
“Hey, you,” I say to the UPS guy with the water.
“Yeah,” he says, not looking in my direction, reading my TV guide.
“Help this man.”
“What?”
“Give this man a hand.”
The UPS man looks up and at the old FedEx guy struggling with the box. I see that their eyes meet, and some new tension enters the room.
“I don’t think so.” He goes back to the TV guide.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m not helping him.”
“You little brat,” the old guy yells unseen from under the box that he’s holding up.
“You’re FedEx man, I could lose my job for that.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. I walk over to him and stop in front of him. He looks at me and I look at him. I grab the water from his hand and say, “Help that man.” Apparently seeing the correlation, he heads over to the box and tugs. The two of them just barely get the box over the step after a few loud grunts. When it’s all settled in the living room, the two of them lean onto the box, panting.
“Would you like some water,” I ask the old man. The UPS guy glares at me.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he says, stretching his back.
“Okay then. Thanks, gentleman. Now, if you don’t mind I have some -”
“No worries, ma’am, I was just leaving.,” FedEx says.
“Me too,” UPS chimes. There is a brief pause, heavy with years of competition, veterans and new blood, but then they head out the door together, gone quicker than they arrived. After the door closes, the slam trails off, I am left alone with the boxes, and it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
So, I throw on some music and grab the hammer. Two new boxes to open. One is taller than the other, and giving a few preliminary pushes, I notice they differ significantly in weight. So, in all likelihood, there is something other than meat in at least one of these boxes. I maneuver around and between them, seeking a good angle in a now very crowded room, and settle for an area between the newest box and my end table.
Again, a few yanks of the hammer, and a side peels of easily. Within, as I predicted, there is no meat to be found, but instead leafy greens. Roughage. Lettuce. Spinach. But not just leafy greens, I see. Sprinkled throughout, there are bunches of tomatoes, whole onions, olive upon olive upon olive, entire wheels of cheese, and walnuts - the makings of, from what I can tell, the largest salad ever. And, of course, to my chagrin, it’s all perishable.
I think about just not opening the last one, to better contain more food bound to rot, but the idea occurs to me that one of these boxes very well could be filled with dollar bills. Would I want to leave that closed until garbage day? Absolutely not. I crack the last, much heavier, box open and peek inside. Immediately, a creamy substance spills out onto the rug. Ice cream, melting fast. Tubs of it. Maybe thirty, fifty, a hundred gallons of ice cream, I don’t know.
Meat. Salad. Ice cream. It’s dinner. A huge, three course meal.
Well, now I have to sit down. No one is supposed to receive this in the mail. That is the only resolution I can muster. Perhaps I actually haven’t? That would tie things together nicely, I think. But no, no, clearly, the boxes are here filled with dinner. And then the doorbell rings. I don’t get up. It cannot be, simply cannot be another delivery person. Dinner is over! Salad, entrée, desert, fin. That’s it. No more.
I get up, open the door, and yes, of course, it is another delivery man. I had no idea that there are so many delivery services in the world. He’s wearing a red outfit, a rather yucky brownish red at that, and he has already brought over the box. It is again, huge.
“Jill Estra?”
“Yes.”
“Delivery.” He stares at me for a moment. Smiles. And then leaves.
“Hey, where you going?” I yell after him. He stops, peeking his head around the corner at me.
“There’s other people in the world besides you, ma’am.”
“Yeah, but I can’t lift this, I don’t even want it. Where’s the little signature thing?”
“We’re a small company, we don’ really do that. Sender Inc. The whole things a mess if you ask me -- don’t invest.” He checks his watch. “Bye.”
“Asshole!” So, now I have another box on my doorstep, and I am not happy. I don’t want to open it, but how can I not? I have to open it. I have to. What the hell is in there? And then another truck pulls up, passing the Sender Inc on its way out. US Mail, it appears. How can there be more? What comes after dinner? I jump and stomp my feet.
“What? What what what!” I yell. Pissed, I realize I am still holding the hammer, and I tear into the box that just arrived, smacking a couple holes into it. Inside I see silverware, knives and forks and spoons. Right. To eat dinner with. Great. It all makes absolute sense now. Silverware. The box must weigh at least a ton, and I have absolutely no idea how that Sender Inc man got it over here. He didn’t even use a cart. I know one thing for sure, though: it’s not moving from this spot anytime soon.
I rifle through the silverware and am relieved only to find two kinds of forks, one kind of spoon, and one kind of knife. I can at least rest assured that no more food will be arriving. I simply would not have the utensils to eat it, would I?
“Oh, hello,” the US mailman says as he rounds the corner, surprised to see a woman standing outside with more silverware than exists in the world. “Are you Jill Estra?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, I have a delivery here for her.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Sure.”
He squints his eyes and tilts his head. Looks at me, then the box. Looks toward his truck, back at me. “Okay. Well, can you sign for her?”
“No.”
“Alright, I’ll come back another time.” Damnit. I can’t take it. These people will just keep trying to deliver. Through rain, sleet, and snow. There’s nothing I can do. Anyway, I need to know what’s in these boxes. They could come for the rest of my life, I realize, and I would have to accept them. I look at my stomach. “Yes. I’ll sign for it,” I say sadly just as he’s about to turn around.
He smiles and hands me the little device. That little device. I sign with the plastic stick while he’s off getting the package. He comes around the corner, slowly but surely, pushing an equally large box. He stops in front of the silverware, realizing that he won’t be getting past it.
All these men bringing me things I don’t want, can‘t afford, don‘t have room or time for. There are metaphors in my brain and the air seems thick with them. And, honestly, I hate metaphors. “Aren’t there any mailwomen,” I ask him, handing him the device.
“Yes, yes there are,” he replies in a way that makes me want to stop talking all together. “Well, where do you want it?”
“Inside would be perfect,” I say hopefully. I look inside and realize there is absolutely not enough room for the two of these boxes in there, not without a great deal of planning, strategy.
“I’m afraid not,” he says. “Here looks good. Have your husband get it in for you. It’s not supposed to rain.” I’m still holding the hammer, as well as a fork. “Well, have a good one then,” he says, tips his hat and leaves.
“Bye,” I say. I don’t have a husband, asshole.
So, a new box. Plates? My guess is plates. Or napkins. I take the hammer and open it up, right there in front of the house and silverware.
No plates, no napkins. Condoms. That’s what comes after dinner. And they are spilled out all over the lawn here. I am standing in front of my house in a pile of condoms. Enough to kill a horse. I decide that it is time to go for a walk. I don’t think that I should be accepting anymore packages like this, because suddenly it seems like it is getting a little weird. Yet I know that I will accept them, given the choice. So, going for a walk is the best option; if I don’t know about the delivery attempt, I won’t be bound by curiosity to take the box. Besides, I recently quit smoking, and receiving a tower of cigarettes would not make it any easier.
But I don’t have time to leave. Another truck is pulling up, another generic delivery service. My heart begins to pound. How long can this go on? Shit. Please don’t let it be cigarettes. I hear the door slam and a man briskly comes around the corner.
“Hello,” I have a package here for you. He holds up a very small box and pushes the signature machine at me. I sign, confused. Normal packages seem foreign, strange.
“Thank you,” I say and take the little box. As he walks off, I tear it open. Within there is no bulk, no horde, no huge amount of anything, but it is certainly no normal package.
Inside: a note that says, “Will you marry me?”
Underneath it, a ring. Just one.
In seconds I am dialing Bryan.
“God damnit, Byan, what the hell were you thinking?” I say into the phone.
“You at least have to give me points for delivery, Jill.” He is quiet, but I know that he wants to laugh. So do I. I’m not going to.
“Come on, it’s funny Jill. It‘s romantic.” He seems pleased with himself.
“No, it’s really not actually.”
“Yes it is, Jill -- candlelit dinners for the rest of our lives? I mean, I would have won myself over.” He laughs.
“Candlelit?”
“Wait, you didn’t get the candles?”
“Jesus, Bryan, you sent one of those boxes with candles, too?”
“Yeah, I mean it was kind of the point. Damnit. Fucking people.”
“There really were better ways to ask me to marry you, Bryan.”
“So, will you marry me?”
“I don’t think that’s one of them. We’re on the phone.”
“Well, I was trying to be minimalist. You didn’t like the grandiose method.”
“Bryan, this is really a little sudden, don’t you think?”
“Well, I realized you’re the one. After all that crap, all the bumps, I love you.”
“No.”
“No?”
“It hasn’t worked before, it won’t work now. You can’t see through to the end of your choices - you want to marry me, you want to send me huge packages of meat and salad and forks. What the hell happens after that, huh? It‘s going to be pretty expensive to get rid of all this. And it must have cost you even more. I can‘t believe you, Bryan.”
“No, I put so much money into it just to show you how ridiculous I can be to get you back, how much you effect me, how much I love you, you know, all that.”
I look at my stomach and then at the ceiling. My hand squeezes onto the phone harder.
“Well, clearly we disagree about this, okay?”
“That’s okay, isn’t it? To disagree?”
I’m pregnant. My house is filled with dinner. I’m about to cry.
“Not about what a relationship is. It’s not going to work.”
“Yes it is, if you let it.”
I should tell him.
“See, that’s my point. We disagree.”
There is a fly buzzing on the salad. .
“You’re just disagreeing because you don’t want this to work.”
Why don’t I want to marry this man? I don’t know. He’s the father of my child, for Christ’s sake.
But I can’t tell him. I can’t. If he knows, he gets to say something. It’s not my choice anymore. It’s ours. Ours.
I don’t want that. And then the doorbell rings.
I open the door, cradling the phone to my shoulder.
“I do want this to work, Bryan, just on my terms. I don‘t know. I need some time.” The delivery man is smiling innocently amidst the boxes of condoms and silverware in front of my house. “Yes,” I say to him, “you have a gigantic box full of candles for me?”
“Well, yes it is a big box.” He looks confusedly at the box that he has brought over and the ones that he is surrounded by.
“They’re there now?” Bryan yells into my ear. “Put that man on the phone!”
“Shutup, Bryan.” I smile at the delivery man. “I’m not going to sign for those.”
“Are you Jill Estra?”
“You have to accept them, Jill.” Bryan is helpless.
“Yes, I‘m Jill Estra,” I say slowly, half into the phone, “but no, I don’t want them.”
“There is only one box, ma’am.”
“Yes, but it’s full of candles.”
“Oh,” he says, not seeing the connection.
“Besides Jill, what are you even saying?” Bryan is angry, I can hear that quiver in his voice, “What the fuck, when do you think you’ll ever get a relationship that works on your terms?”
Fuck. I punch the doorframe. The delivery man jumps, looks intensely at his signature device.
“Isn’t that what everyone wants?” I shake my head around, look up at nothing. “Isn‘t that what you want?”
“When is that going to happen, huh?” He’s yelling. Maybe he’s crying , too. “When is that going to happen, Jill? Actually happen?”
My hand slips a little and I don‘t readjust the phone. I look at the delivery man. He’s fat.
When is that going to happen?
When is that going to happen?
I’m not crying, but I may as well be.
“Ma’am?” The delivery man says. Bryan is screaming something. I’m not listening to him.
“What?” I say angrier than I want to. The delivery man is clearly nervous, his eyes wide. I wonder how often this happens to delivery men -- and I smile.
“Why don’t you want the package?” he asks politely. Are there trainings for this? I pause.
“I don’t want that box of candles simply because I am pregnant.” And that’s that.
“What?” I hear Bryan scream through the phone.
The delivery man is dumbfounded. “Yes,” he says, nodding, looking around. “Yes.”
I am suddenly angry at this anonymous delivery man’s ambivalence. I’m pregnant, it’s not easy, and this guy is just standing here like it’s any other day.
“Goddamnit, delivery man, you don’t care? Deliver my baby if you think it’s no big deal!”
Bryan is still screaming.
“All I wanted to do was deliver this package.”
“Yeah, you know what’s in this package? Candles! Too many candles.” I grab the signature machine and sign it, tossing it to the ground when I am done, heading for the box. “And you can have them. Every last one. You fucking brought them to me.” I knock the front panel off in two quick swats.
“Come back!” I hear Bryan yell, desperate.
The mailman has backed off quite a bit, perhaps anticipating an avalanche of candles. But inside the box -- there aren’t any candles.
It’s a phone booth. I put Bryan to my ear and open my mouth to say something, never taking my eyes off the box.
“Jill listen to me!”
“Shutup Bryan.”
I have no idea what is happening. Not a clue. Did Bryan do this?
“Jill? Oh thank god, did you take the candles, tell me you -”
And it rings.
The thing rings. Right there. In my yard.
Then, of course, I drop the phone, walk in, and answer it.
I had to.
And it’s so nice.
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