The Old Lady and the Hungry Box Maker

Click. Clatter. Clank. Fingers type a new order on faded letters. Address. Name. Package number. The box machine is brought to life across the office. Thrum. Thump. Thzzz. A custom order from Tuesday is finally being completed. One thousand small boxes. One thousand medium boxes. And one thousand big boxes. Paperwork needs to be done by today, he thinks.

The clock on his phone reads 6:31pm. He sighs. Only thirty minutes left. The warehouse is quiet of chatter from customers. The space is empty except for boxes and three others—his brother, Spencer, and the New Guy.

Grrr. Gurgle. Growl. Not distracted from physical work, the Box Maker feels the hunger from eating nothing and working everything. He clinks on the well-worn keys, completing bills, orders, and incoming shipments. The hunger becomes too much. The work becomes too much.

The chair pushes away from an abrupt stand. The papers will wait for him. Pains in his stomach pull him towards the nearest restaurant. Ring. Rsshhh. Rattle. A new customer enters the automatic doors. Clack. Chink. Clink. Determination strikes through the shoes as the lady squints at mountainous stacks of boxes.

The Box Maker slinks in near defeat, as Spencer only works in the back, the brother is delivering far away, and the New Guy has no experience with customers. He roughly sits on the familiar chair, preparing for the onslaught of another customer.

Tk.Tk.Tk.Tk. Thith. Thwok. But there is no time to prepare as the lady thumps the unmade boxes unto the wooden counter. Jingle. Jangle. Jabber. She begins the onslaught before the Box Maker even jumps from his office.

“Hello. I would like these three boxes to be packed and shipped. I need some antiques to be shipped to my brother up in Ohio. His birthday is tomorrow, and I want it to be there for him. I miss him so much. His grandkids are so adorable I could just eat them.”

As the lady speaks, the Box Maker is able to see the wrinkles encasing her eyes and smothering her lips. He estimates her to be five years older than he is: an old lady. He trembles.

“The boxes are for five dollars each. Packing antiques costs seven dollars because they’re more fragile. I need the specific address or post office to give you a cost. Unfortunately, we can’t get those shipped by today. UPS already came by. We can get it shipped out tomorrow and it will probably arrive by Monday.”

“‘Probably’ doesn’t cut it. Why can’t you ship it out today?” The Old Lady does not dismiss her glare.

“UPS won’t accept anything else tonight,” he sighs, clenched to the wooden counter, fingers yellowing with pressure. “I can pack and ship it out tomorrow.” Gaggle. Gurrhr. Gargle.

Tch. “Fine,” she relents. “But I want a discount.”

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. “I’m sorry, but we don’t do discounts.” The light of his phone shows a single text: “Me.” Hzzz. Hzzz. Hzzz. And then another: “Me hungry.”

“Make an exception or I’ll write a bad review.” An unheard threat rings in the silence.

Blumf. Boff. Boosh. Another slumped man trecks his way to the front. “We don’t do discounts.”

Outnumbered, the Old Lady accepts her defeat. Hmph. “How much will it be?”

The Box Maker rings up her order and asks for the address. Sshh. Swoosh. Squeak. The automatic door screams.

As the Old Lady steps into her vehicle, the Box Maker’s face is illuminated.

6:59pm.

The doors are locked. “On way. Albasha?”

“Cool :) tell when home.”