COLUMN: Mystery Box

I had it on good authority that the postman always rings twice. As it turns out, most times he doesn't ring at all.

The other morning started the same as most of my 2020 mornings now: me on the couch, nose buried in a laptop, trying to get some work done while cats crawl all over me outraged at my lack of focus on their every feline need. That's when I heard the roar of a lawn mower.

Yes, I pay someone to cut my lawn. Yes, I realize I'm a lazy oaf perfectly capable of doing it myself. But here's the thing. I'm also fully aware of my own ineptitude. If there's a way to mow one's foot off, I'd be the one to figure out how. Plus mowing means dealing with my sworn enemy: nature. Lawn care requires one to care about one's lawn, and I don't care about my lawn in the slightest.

But I also have a couple of hydrangea bushes that need to be trimmed back lest they become an unbridled jungle that could eventually consume all of Rock Island. I needed to tell my lawn guy to attack those bushes, so I opened my front door... and stopped cold.

There, on my porch, was a box. A HUGE box, and its unexpected presence on my porch really DID make me exclaim, "Whuhhhh?"

The smiling arrow on its side immediately informed me it was from Amazon. Last week, I ordered some masks, but if they came in a box THIS size, either they accidentally sent a gross of the suckers or the mask company REALLY over-reached on their "one size fits all" claim.

How it arrived is a total mystery. Whoever delivered it had such stealth it didn't even set off my security camera, which is supposed to activate whenever anyone even LOOKS at my front door. Then again, perhaps it couldn't see anyone looking because of the GIANT BOX in the way.

I looked at the slip. That was my address, alrighty. But it definitely wasn't my name. Now what?

I tried calling Amazon, but their phones were closed due to the pandemic. I checked their website, but none of their Frequently Asked Questions were "what do you do when a human sized box arrives at your door that you didn't order?" I tried UPS and was greeted by the most annoying automated phone system of all time.

"What would you like to do? Press one to track a package, press two to schedule a delivery, press thr--"

"CUSTOMER SERVICE"

"I didn't understand that. Say 'track a package,' 'schedule delivery,' 'bill'--"

"OPERATOR"

"It sounds like you want to speak to an operator. Is that correct?"

"YES"

"I will happily connect you. In order for the operator to better assist you, say 'track a package,' 'schedule deliv --'"

"AAAAARGH!"

If I were to suffer a fatal stress-induced stroke while housebound, would that technically count as dying from COVID-19 complications? I didn't want to find out, so I hung up and instead asked the Facebook hivemind what to do.

Most of my friends told me to just keep the package, or at least open it. Tempting for sure, but in situations like this, I tend to be an annoying do-gooder. Opening someone else's package just felt wrong. Besides, if movies have taught us one thing, it's that mystery boxes usually contain (a) an alien portal, (b) a date with Pinhead, or (c) the head of Gwyneth Paltrow. Hard pass, thanks. The LAST time I stumbled upon a mystery box and dared open it, it was chock full of moldy, maggoty muffins (true story). Lesson learned.

My friends had many theories as to the contents. Many assumed it was my long-awaited life-size Katie Holmes doll. One thought it might actually BE Katie Holmes, a disturbing prospect given the lack of air holes. Some speculated it was full of murder hornets or perhaps a killer robot. I thought I'd never know.

I called UPS a second time and managed to press the right combination of buttons to get through to an ACTUAL human being, who dispatched a truck to pick it up. Meanwhile, all afternoon I was getting texts from friends: "WHAT'S IN THE BOX?!"

Five minutes after the driver retrieved the box, I found out. That's when a knock at the door revealed the sad face of my next-door neighbor. "Did you happen to get a package today?" OH NO. I'd debated asking around the neighborhood, but I didn't want to go door-to-door in a pandemic like Covid Claus. I told her she'd just missed the driver by five minutes and she raced home to call UPS.

"Wait!" I hollered. "I have to ask because I'm nozy and 34 of my friends are texting me. What was in the box?"

"Oh," she said, "it's a vanity."

Hmm. Sort of anti-climactic, yet still better than murder hornets or Gwyneth Paltrow's head. I think I did the right thing, even if it was five minutes too soon.

Truth be told, only one of my friends correctly guessed the box's contents.

"I know what it is," he said on Facebook. "To me, it looks like your next column."