What follows is an embellished version of actual real events.
Last evening whilst watching the Crawley’s deal with one of Season 3’s many dramas, I heard a package drop on the front porch.
“Splat-a-splat-plop.”
That stirred me mildly as it was expected that a purveyor of pet happiness was to make a plop at our address. Upon investigation, however, I saw a box in the wrong shape for what was expected. I hefted the box to the interior of the property, observing that it had quite a bit of mass about it.
I briefly pondered what the contents could be. It’s not out of the bounds of belief that I could have ordered something fun and interesting and forgotten about it. But just as I was bringing my Swiss Army blade to a taped edge, I looked closely at the address label. The recipient was a fellah named Abbot.
I am not Abbot.
I know who Abbot is, having conversed with him several times while taking the odd neighborhood walkabout. He is about a half block up the street.
Okay, I pondered to myself. This happens. Packages get delivered to the wrong address. As it was late and nearing the time of pillows and blankets, I determined to take the package to Abbot the following morn.
Rant: One of my peeves is when recipients of misdirected mailpieces throw words into online spheres to cry that they’ve received something in error rather than delivering it themselves or notifying the intended recipient directly. Poor form, I say.
The next morning, after making an online appearance at the money-creating place and disappearing my first cup of hot bean water, I headed out to take the package to Abbot (uphill).
As I mentioned some words ago, the package was somewhat heavy, but I figured propped up on my shoulder, a brief walk would be okay. That was until the first blast of cold hit me.
I drove.
Though I kept my hybrid locomotion device in all-electric mode. SAVE THE TREES!
Abbot has a doorbell, whose button I depressed. I heard the clang of imitation bells, after which I stepped aside, ready to be greeted.
I waited.
The cold, aided by swiftly moving air, undefeated by my light hoodie, caused me to crave warmth and comfort.
As I stood by, I could hear voices (emanating from the house, the ones in my head were frozen into silence). I lingered.
After an adequate number of minutes had ticked by, I gave up and left the package by the door and hustled back to my conveyance.
I had just opened the door when Abbot popped outside and exclaimed “Ahoy!”
Yes, a chocolate chip cookie would have, at that moment, gone down quite well.
I figured he might just say a quick “Thank you” and that would be it. But no…he casually made his way out onto the sidewalk. I might add that he was attired in very light, casual in-the-climate-controlled-house clothing. He was decidedly not in appropriate garb for the weather conditions. He was not deterred.
Abbot had a phone to his skull area.
“I’m on hold with PlopEx right now! They are arguing that they delivered it last night – I’m telling them I didn’t get it. They say ‘See the delivery confirmation image.’”
Abbot showed me the image. His phone displayed an image of the very same box I just released from my possession, lying on a piece of concrete. Presumably MY concrete (since that’s where I found the box), but it could have been ANY concrete.
Or is it cement?
Abbot: “No siding, no house number in the picture. I don’t know where they put it!!”
PlopEx returned to the line.
Abbot, using elevated vocal intensity: “My neighbor just showed up – doing your job – thank you very much!”
If he could, Abbot would have slammed down the receiver. (Kids, the receiver is the part of old telephones that…oh, you don’t care).
That should have been the end of the encounter. You might think that. I sure did. We’re both wrong.
Abbot went on to tell me that PlopEx hires contractors who in turn hire OTHER contractors. These sub-contractor persons then rent a van and affix a PlopEx sticker on the door and go about trying to plop boxes at addresses.
He continued to explain that they don’t get to use the official PlopEx delivery software so they’re on their own to navigate. Apparently, they get paid $7 for each delivery. They have to deliver everything they’ve been given that day by a set time. Failure to deliver everything by that time and they don’t get paid anything for the day. So as long as they toss a box and take a picture, they get paid.
Seven bucks a plop.
I don’t know. I think I’m a tad dubious on the complete factual nature of those statements.
Abbot got his thingamewatzit and I returned to my second cup of hot brown water.
Surprising though this may be, life went on.