Care Packages
by Charlie Cole
Walter Hardiman, ten years retired, sometimes saw himself as the struggling missionary in a heathen land, monitoring his neighborhood for the decline of civilization.
Returning from a walk, Walter noticed a box on his front porch. With Thanksgiving approaching, he accurately predicted the sender and contents. Every year on his birthday, Thanksgiving and the 4th of July, his sister sent a care package. This year the July package never arrived. Walter resolutely blamed his mail carrier, Billie Heston. In fact, he was so certain and indignant, he had given Billie the cold shoulder treatment ever since.
But today, Walter had a bounce in his step, pleased his Thanksgiving package had arrived. He thought of the homemade cookies and needhams. He gave the box a gentle analytical shake and was relieved he didn’t hear the rustle of small crumbs. Everything appeared in order, even the registered mail tag. But here Billie had broken with protocol: he’d delivered the package without getting Walter’s indisputable authorization, his signature!
“Sorry, Billie, but this sort of behavior can’t continue,” Walter said solemnly, dialing the Arlington Post Office.
“Post office. Schuyler here.”
“Is this the post office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is Walter Hardiman of 81 Pearl Street.”
“Is there something we can do for you today?”
“I have a problem. Your postman delivered a registered package when I was out, and I never signed for it. Wasn’t he supposed to have me sign for it?”
“That’s usually the case. What’s the name?”
“Hardiman, Walter. I live at –“
“No need for the address. We don’t have too many registered packages this early in the holiday season. I show it was signed for, sir.”
“But I never signed it,” said Walter.
“Maybe your carrier had a neighbor sign. It happens. Is the package alright?”
“Everything’s fine. That’s not the point. What’s your name?”
“Schuyler. How about I transfer you to the postmaster? He’s the complaint department around here.” Walter heard a click, followed by a dial tone. The call was disconnected! Walter set the receiver down on his desk conclusively, leaving the line busy; now they would have to apologize in person.
Schuyler “lost” the call. When he tried to call the gentleman back, several times, the line was busy. Either Mr. Hardiman didn’t realize the call was dead or he left the receiver off the hook purposefully. The guy was clearly upset so, per special instructions from Postmaster Keagon (a genuine “customer service” type), Schuyler visited Mosher’s Pharmacy. Mr. Mosher, who knew something about everyone, watched from the counter. Schuyler was the only customer in the store.
“Talk about customer service,” said Mosher on hearing the details.
“There are no apology cards,” Schuyler called.
“You’re wasting your time. You made a mistake, live with it.”
“That suits me fine, but not my boss. Do you know anything about Walter Hardiman that can help me?”
“I’ve known Walter since before you were born. He is not a forgiving man, not in the sense you and I might think of it.”
“So what do you suggest?” asked Schuyler. “I mean, I ‘m willing to make the effort.”
“There is only one way inside that man,” said Mosher. “Do you know how to cook?”
Back home, Schuyler read a recipe aloud.
“Mashed potatoes and coconut in a chocolate bar? No wonder this guy’s the way he is.”
The next morning, too impatient to coordinate with the carrier, Schuyler left the package on Mr. Hardiman’s porch, ahead of the day’s mail. Schuyler had gone so far as to stamp and cancel the postage on the box, for effect.
Walter noticed. Another package? Surely, the July package hadn’t finally been discovered. He looked it over carefully. The handwriting was not his sister’s and the package had not been sent “registered.” Still, to his surprise, he found homemade cookies and needhams inside, with a brief note.
Dear sir,
We regret any misunderstanding. Please enjoy.
The Arlington P.O.
Walter was taken aback. An apology? And one with “effort” enclosed. He sat on his porch swing, holding the package like a favored cat and reviewed recent events.
For Billie, the carrier, the day began with a reprimand from Keagon. He was late and completely unaware of Schuyler’s efforts. He hurried up the walk, fully expecting Walter to snap at him. He took a deep breath.
“Mr. Hardiman,” Billie said quickly, placing the mail on the railing. “About my being late, go ahead and let me have it. I already had my head chewed off once today. And if you’re still mad about me signing for your sister’s package, I only did it so you wouldn’t have to wait. It would have been just my luck that, somehow, it “disappeared” back at the post office by the time you came to get it. I thought you should know.”
Walter listened.
“Billie, do you know about the other package?”
“If you mean the July business, I’d like to put that one behind us,” said Billie.
“Then you haven’t heard the good news; it finally arrived.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I just got it today. Someone dropped it off.”
“Better late than never,” said Billie. “Did they say what happened?”
“Not exactly, but I have an idea,” offered Walter.
“You do?”
“We used the wrong delivery service,” Walter lied. Billie considered the solution, then he laughed, sincerely amused and relieved.
“That’ll do it every time,” said Billie.
“So I guess you’re off the hook,” said Walter.
“Sounds good. Wait till Keagon here’s this. Guess I should finish my route.”
“Would you take a cookie for the road?” asked Walter.
“Let’s see, they’ve been in that box since July. That’s a long time.”
“I suppose,” said Walter.
“I’m sure your sister’s a great cook, but that’s a really long time. Thanks for the offer, but I like my cookies a little fresher. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Walter. “See you tomorrow then?”
“Depend on it, and maybe not quite this late.”
“Whenever you can,” said Walter.
Charlie Cole lives with his family in Maine on land once owned by his great-great grandfather. Contact Charlie.
