Gerda and Heinz Have My Package

I hate—HATE, HAAAAAATE—when the postal carrier leaves my packages with a neighbor. Why does he do this? Maybe my neighbor is an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s who, the exact moment my beloved parcel lands in her sweaty hands, has already forgotten her own name is Gerda. Maybe she’s about to star in some emigration reality show and will spend the next three years in Canada, taking my belongings with her. Or maybe—and I think this is most plausible—she is a package-eating monster who has been waiting for exactly this moment, table already set with the good china, ketchup poised over my property.

The postal service has no idea what irreplaceable treasures might be inside. My long-overdue lottery winnings, delivered in diamond form? My urgently needed donor liver on ice? A set of AOL CDs offering 500 free hours of internet? How does he have the nerve to hand any of this directly to Gerda and Heinz?

All I want is for him to seek me out when I’m not home. To fight through burning deserts, humid jungles, dark caves full of dragons, and arrive at my door bloodied but upright, collapsing at my feet long enough to rasp: Here, sir. Your package. That’s not too much to ask. Even if it turns out to be a Pokémon cookbook I ordered from Amazon. It’s the principle.