March 24, 2020
Package From Amazon
Lewberg tells me I look like shit.
I say, “More than usual?”
He says, “Yeah, more than usual.”
I say, “I haven’t been sleeping. I am up every two hours to pee.”
He says, “Every two hours?”
I say, “You can set your watch to it.”
He says, “Well, you can do one of two things.”
And I say, “Okay, what?”
“Well, you can drag your bed into the bathroom. Or you can go see a urologist.”
Lewberg isn’t joking. I tell him I think I will go see a urologist.
Lewberg says, “Think I have a guy.”
Lewberg’s guy is a tiny shell of a man, Dr. Patel, who can hit the ball a mile. I know he can hit the ball a mile because my appointment is on the golf course. Lewberg has invited him as a guest to our golf club. He says he has played here before. With a former patient of his. Some Armenian chap. Dr. Patel speaks with a pronounced English accent. Lewberg and I can’t envision Zakarian ever bringing a guest, but perhaps he made an exception for the man who gave him his yearly prostate exam.
For seven holes, all we talk about is golf. On the tee on number eight, he turns to me and says:
“Every two hours?”
And I say, “Yeah.”
And he says, “How much urine are we talking about?”
And I say, “I don’t know.”
And he says, “Find out. Then get back to me.” Then he hits a six iron to within 10 feet of the pin.
When I get back from golf, I go on Amazon to order what I need. While I am there, I see it says that the iPad I ordered a few days before has been delivered. I go check my front porch but it isn't there. Then I take a look in front of the garage and it isn't there either. I go back to Amazon using the old iPad I had planned to replace and click on ‘Track Your Package.’ It says it was delivered at 4:00. It even has a picture of the package lying on the porch next to the front door. I click on the picture. I can see the package clearly.
Only, that isn't my front door.
I walk outside with the iPad, trying to match the front door with a front door of one of my neighbour’s. But the WiFi isn't strong enough, so I go back to the house, get my iPhone, and log back into Amazon and pull up the picture.
I walk up the street and find the door.
And my package.
It is three doors down.
I should really just walk up to the porch and grab my package but I don't want anyone to think I am stealing a package, even though it is my own package, so instead I ring the bell. A woman who I have never ever seen before, a woman who lives three doors down, comes out and I explain my package situation.
She nods her head and then says, “You’re the Canadian guy who lives three doors down?”
I say, “Yes.”
“Are you single?”
I am now kicking myself about having done the right thing.
I say, “Yes.”
She says, “I have a niece. Come in. I will show you a picture.” She insisted I call her right away and so, sitting on the couch in the living room, with my Amazon package in one hand and my neighbour’s phone in the other, I made a date with her niece for the following Wednesday.
To be perfectly honest, she was better looking than her picture. Much better looking than her picture. In the history of blind dates, when has that ever happened? She lived up in Fort Lauderdale and we were going to a play in Delray, and, since I was on the way, she offered to pick me up. I opened the door and there she stood, wearing a yellow sundress, smelling of lilacs, and holding a small Amazon box in her hands.
“I come bearing gifts,” she said with a smile, and I liked her immediately.
I invited her in and asked if she wanted a glass of wine. We had a little time before going to the theatre.
She said sure and I then asked red or white. She said she would happily drink whatever I had open. I went to the fridge and took out a bottle of Chardonnay I had been chilling in the fridge.
As I struggled with the corkscrew, she called out from the living room, “Shall we see what I brought you?”
I walked back to the living room, a glass in each hand. “Sorry?”
She relieved me of a glass and pointed to the box. “Can we see what you ordered?”
I liked her comfort and confidence. And like I said, she looked better than her picture.
“Have at it,” I said.
Now you have to understand I ordered and received packages from Amazon all the time. A week rarely went by without the appearance of a box or two. I ordered often and impulsively. I say this in my defence, because I really had no idea what was in the box.
She tore into it like a five year old on Christmas morning, finally holding aloft the prize: three plastic measuring cups. Each a different size, with red demarcation lines, some colored more boldly than others, and numbers on the side.
“Baking a cake?” she said with a smile.
Measuring cups. I had completely forgotten I had ordered them.
You have to understand I am a very good liar. I also pride myself at being quick-witted and fast on my feet. And this was an easy one. I could have come up with a dozen plausible reasons why I had ordered these measuring cups. So I am not really sure why I defaulted to the truth. Maybe it was the sundress. Maybe it was the lilacs. Maybe I just didn’t want to start this relationship with a fabrication. Either way, the words which then spewed from my mouth had probably not been used at the beginning of a blind date before.
“No,” I replied with a terse smile of my own. “I am using them to measure my nightly urine production.”
The end.