The Paperboy

If someone had given it to me in airport, I'd know what to do. but at my own front door, without so much as knock or a ringing of a bell. There it sat unceremoniously a one foot cube wrapped in brown paper. Securely taped from what I could see and then trussed up in twine--as if the sender--whoever that might turn out to be--was afraid that whatever was inside would get out.

I didn't see it at first, it was pushed up into the corner of my front step. I only noticed it because I couldn't get the door fully open on my way outside to get the paper. Ahh, the paper boy--that little rascal--this was probably his doing. And if it was, whatever was in that box was not going to be a surprise I'd want. He and I have had our differences--a lot of them. Why must paper boys be children? They are so totally unformed--there is no civilized way to deal with them.

So once I retrieved my paper, I moved the box to the side (it was unusually heavy. How curious?) and went inside. Surely once the kid sees that I've ignored it, he'll take it away. But I knew as soon as I thought it, that that was pure folly. The child could barely exert himself enough to get my newspaper to my block, let alone my yard or doorstep. So no, if he was the giver or prankster, he wouldn't be retrieving it when I failed to take the bait.

So after I'd read the paper and had my coffee, I reluctantly brought the box in. It truly was heavy and the contents shifted slightly when I moved it. I turned it carefully, examining it from all sides. Not a stitch of lettering, no marks whatsoever. it was beginning to creep me out a bit.

Should I call the police? Isn't that our instructions? If we find a suspicious package, and this package is very suspicious, aren't we supposed to call the authorities? It's true, we are. But a terrorist afoot on a side street in Bucoda, Washington, population 753---that's pretty farfetched even for my rampant imagination. Yes I know about the Unibomber and all those letter bombs in the late 1990s, and Bucoda is not without its quota of crazies--calling the authorities would probably drop me square in their midst, not to mention the talk all over town that would go on for, well, years really, probably long after I've passed on.

But still I couldn't open it--wouldn't open it. If it had been a gift, there would have been a card--even if the giver wished to anonymous. There was no card. Maybe it had blown off and is even now laying in my yard tucked between the petunias and spirea. Or maybe that irascible paperboy took the card as a prank. Truly the newspaper folks will hire any willing child---I'm certain they don't do a background check. They don't do drug testing on children either--I know, because I asked when I called to complain about the last paperboy. I know you don't want to hear this America, it ruins your Norman Rockwell version of the world, but paperboys a social deviants not to be trusted---if you only knew what they are capable of.

So I left the box. I didn't open it. It was nothing to me. I would toss it into the trash on garbage day and be done with it. I will not be the brunt of that paperboy's pranks. If I am not smarter than a paperboy, I deserve to die. No, into the trash it will go.

For five long days and nights the box rested on my coffee table. I placed my unsorted mail on top of it and my gardening gloves. I even stretched out a soggy newspaper to dry right over the top of it. And I'll admit my eyes have lingered on it longer than is prudent, but still I was pretty much resolved to toss it.

I am definitely going to toss it today. It's garbage day. The garbage is already out to the curb. I tell myself that I merely overlooked the package when I hear the garbage trucks turn up our street. Quick, I have to get this package to the street. I scooped it up and dash out the door, trip over the newspaper and do a face plant in the driveway. It stunned me. Maybe I even blacked out for a minute. The next thing I remember is the paperboy helping me up, asking if I was all right, said he'd called his mother and she was coming right over.

"I'm fine," I said indignantly, then softer,"I'm fine, really. Thank you. You go ahead and go on." But he wouldn't go, said he'd wait with me until his mother game. So we waited.

"What's in the box," he asked? "Can I open it?"

Isn't that just like a paperboy. You can't believe what they are capable of.