“Twelve for building A . . . eight for building B . . . ten for building—”
“This one has no unit number,” his trainee said.
The mailman looked up from his morning cup of joe. “Just leave it by the main entrance. They can check online if it’s arrived. It’s Amazon.”
“But what about porch pirates?”
“Just leave it! All right?”
His trainee nodded, scurrying out of the van. They each balanced a tower of boxes as they trekked across the parking lot.
“Now, here’s the key. You go inside, find each unit, knock twice, then move on. Got it?”
His trainee nodded again. “Which floor do you want?”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Oh. So, I do one building, and you do the next?”
“Nope. I’m gonna be right here. Trying to, eh, figure out which unit this box belongs. Now have at it, rookie. The future of Express Mail depends on you.”
His trainee sniffed before making the big climb to the top floor.
The mailman chuckled to himself, lighting up a cigarette. He let the flame die when he saw the “no smoking” sign frowning back at him. Turning toward the van, something tripped him.
“You, again,” he grunted, sizing the box up in his gaze. He bent over, having to squint without his glasses. “USPS. Priority Mail. Oh, you got instructions, do you . . . ? ‘Do. Not. Open.’”
He stood up, removing his Postal Service cap so he could scratch his bald spot, which was ninety percent of his head. What silly instructions, he thought. In his twenty years as a postal worker—he was retiring come fall—he never so much as peeked at the back of a postcard. Let alone cut open a box.
“Mr. Dan, hm?” he whistled. He knew the recipient. Knew which building he was. Which floor. And which unit. The packages he’d deliver there were always as light as air. As if they were empty. Whenever he’d rap on the door, he’d hear scampering, tripping, falling and receive a hasty nod from Mr. Dan, who would seize his packages before retreating into the dark of his apartment. He lived up there like a ghost in the attic. In a word or two, the man was batsh—
“Finished with the top!” the trainee cheered with a stretch before grabbing another Tower of Babel. He then stumbled up to the second floor.
“‘Do. Not. Open.’” The mailman focused on those words like a mantra. A glance upstairs. A glance across the parking lot. A glance at the camera that he knew didn’t work.
And a glance down at the box.
He had a utility knife in his pocket. Tape back in the van. No one would know.
Getting down on one knee, he gently placed his hands on the box. Lifted it. Shook. Empty. Had to be. He was about to stand. But a thought held him down. Why order an empty box?
He fumbled for his knife, gritting his teeth. The postal regulations forbade him from opening mail. But what harm could there be in opening an empty box? The razor slit through the tape. He unfolded the flaps while looking behind him.
Like he thought. Empty.
“And easily twenty bucks in postage. But what do you care? You’re a Prime member,” he mumbled, refolding the flaps.
“Done with the second floor!”
The mailman shot up, kicking the box behind him. He watched as his trainee’s brown uniform disappeared into the first floor. Turning for the van again, he froze with a leg in the air. His frantic eyes scanned the entire property. What on earth . . . ?
He set his foot down. Rubbed his eyes. Rubbed them again. And again until they hurt.
Where he had left their mail van was a truck. Big. And brown. Just like . . .
“Finished!”
The mailman spun around. The logo on the UPS uniform jumped out like a spider.
“To the next building?” his trainee asked.
He nodded, pointing back to the van—or truck. He looked down. His own uniform was brown. What was going on? He worked for the post office. Not UPS. Not FedEx. And certainly not DHL.
“UPS Standard?” he said as he leaned over the box again. Frowning, he tore it open, no longer afraid who saw. Still empty. Standing up, he scratched his head before putting on his brown cap. Except it was no longer brown. It was dark blue.
“You coming?” his trainee yelled.
He cursed as he picked up the box, carrying it back to their white FedEx van.
This story was a writing exercise based on the following prompt: There is a box of yours that no one can open, and if they do, unexpected things happen.
