“Here, hold this.”
The big guy with three days’ stubble and whiskey breath leaned just inches away from my face and shoved something hard into my ribs.
“I’ll be right back,” he grunted.
I noticed a big oily stain on the back of his denim jacket as he shuffled away.
Only 10 a.m. and it had been a long day already; up before sunrise, an hour’s drowsy meditation, a numbingly bland plate of low-fat cottage cheese with a sliced too-ripe half banana, and now an interminable wait in line at the post office on Broadway and a pushy early-day drunk in desperate need of a bathroom.
Ah well, I thought, just breathe.
Of course, he never came back. Meanwhile, the post office line inched ahead as one clerk after another disappeared into the dark and mysterious recesses of the building. I finally took a look at the small, wrapped package that had been unceremoniously thrust into my protection; it seemed to have the same type of oily stain that I had seen on his back, kind of an oblong circle with what looked like bunny ears at one end. Then again, I tend to see smiley faces in the carpet. So what do I know?
I held the package to my ear, and gave a little shake. Something knocked around inside, like a peanut in its shell with room to move, but only just enough. The elderly woman in line behind me, a five-foot short, beautifully dressed dame in a white-collared blouse, two-piece navy-blue suit and a gold parrot brooch pinned to her jacket was staring at me.
I nodded and said, “I don’t think that guy is coming back.”
“Do you know how much it costs to mail this envelope to Denver?” she asked.
I shrugged. The day was getting longer fast.
The line seemed to have come to a standstill. I took another look at the package the stranger had given me; it had a recipient’s name and address, carefully printed in neat capital letters, but the return address was all but illegible. Nobody, I realized, has the name Gleb Swandig, and Pong Street made no sense either.
On the other hand, America is a stew of cultures; we are all just celery, carrots and potatoes. I flashed on the warnings at the airport about not taking packages from strangers; sweat began to bead on my forehead. It was then that I noticed the smell; a chocolaty, coffee-like aroma with a hint of clove drifting in languid waves from the package in my hands. It was heady and exotic, and as I brought the bundle to my nose my eyes closed reflexively; suddenly I found myself in my mother’s kitchen, sitting by the stove while something indescribably delicious baked in the oven.
“Next!” The clerk roused me from my reverie.
My eyes had filled with tears. I walked up to the counter, “Two rolls of first class stamps, please. Still have the stamps with fruits and vegetables?”
She nodded, “Anything more?”
I paused. “Yeah, I have this package; how much for first class?”
She took it from me and turned it in her hands. For some reason she put it to her nose and took a sniff.
“Nice,” she said, smiling broadly like a school girl, despite her drawn and tired features, “$4.81. Want insurance?”
I shook my head no, counted out five sawbucks, took my stamps and decided I’d call Mom when I got home. Turns out, it was a pretty good day.
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