Wrong Hands

I watch the postal truck and know before he even stops that my package isn’t making it to my apartment. The postman doesn’t actually look at addresses. He just buzzes, waits for any door to open, hands whatever he’s holding to whoever answers, and drives off. My building number is on the box. My apartment number is on the door. Doesn’t matter.

So somewhere in this building, my package is waiting. On a shelf behind junk. On top of a refrigerator. Opened by someone who hoped it was theirs. I’ll knock on doors until I find it, or someone will eventually leave a note, or I’ll just give up and order a replacement.

The worst part is not knowing what got routed away. Could be a book I’d forgotten about. Could be something I’ve been waiting for. Could be a lottery ticket wrapped up as a diamond. Could be a donor liver I desperately need. Could be stacks of those old AOL CDs that promised five hundred hours of free internet and seemed like the most important thing in the world in 1996. The postman doesn’t care. He’s not thinking about any of this.

Sometimes I imagine what would actually work. The postman shows up, finds me specifically, has fought through deserts and jungles to deliver my package, arrives at my door covered in blood and sweat but victorious, gasps out Here, your package, and then collapses knowing he’s finally done his job right. That’s what I want. Even if the box just contains a Pokemon cookbook. It’s the principle.

But he doesn’t care. Nobody does. My packages stay lost somewhere in the building, and I stay in this state of uncertainty, and nothing ever changes.