Some people get a fistful of mail every day. It’s mostly crap from publisher’s clearing house – promises of becoming rich somehow. I don’t get it. Anyway, sometimes they send styrofoam packages out. Well this lady, this one who gets all the letters all the time, is getting her styrofoam junk prize today. I go to her front door and ring the bell.
She opens it a crack and looks me up and down, like many people do (safety first.) I tell her I have a parcel for her and…
“Oh. Could you? Could you just walk around to the back door?” she asks.
“There’s no room. There’s no room up here.”
“It’s just this…”
“To the back door,” she suggests again.
But, what? No room for what? I just have to put this in your hand and then you have to pull it through the door way and into the rest of your house. It’ll fit because it’s smaller than you.
“Sure.” I say reluctantly. I walk through the deep snow covering her lawn, open her back gate. She opens the back door.
“Come in,” she says.
I shake my head in frustration. “Thanks.” Of course, I don’t mean it. “Here. Here’s your parcel.” I say handing her the same thing I asked her to take at the front door. She reaches to her purse. “No, no,” I say. “I don’t need money for it or anything. I just have to hand it over to you and that’s it.” I do so. “Have a good day.”
And then I opened her door and I left her.