Hot Josh and the Package Delivery Emergency

I ordered something online.

What it was doesn’t matter.

It was important.

Extremely important.

Important enough that I selected two-day shipping.

Not three-day shipping.

Not standard shipping.

Two days.

Because patience is a virtue I prefer other people to practice.

The package was scheduled to arrive Thursday.

Excellent.

I woke up at 7:02 a.m.

Checked my phone.

And there it was.

OUT FOR DELIVERY

Three beautiful words.

Out.

For.

Delivery.

I smiled.

My package was on its way.

I imagined a delivery truck pulling out of a warehouse.

A driver gripping the steering wheel.

My package sitting securely in the back.

Possibly surrounded by other packages.

But clearly the most important one.

At 7:45, I checked the tracking page.

Still out for delivery.

At 8:15, I checked again.

No change.

At 8:47, I refreshed.

Nothing.

This was concerning.

At 9:03, I received an update.

YOUR PACKAGE IS EXPECTED BY 8:00 P.M.

Eight.

P.M.

I stared at the screen.

That was nearly eleven hours away.

What exactly did “out for delivery” mean?

Was it out sightseeing?

Visiting relatives?

Taking a scenic tour of the metropolitan area?

I opened the tracking map.

There was a little truck icon.

Beautiful.

Technology.

Transparency.

Accountability.

The truck appeared approximately four miles away.

Four miles.

I could drive there in eight minutes.

Possibly six.

Depending on traffic.

And enthusiasm.

I watched the icon.

It moved.

Closer.

Closer.

Then turned left.

Away from me.

I sat upright.

“Where are you going?”

The truck continued moving.

In the wrong direction.

I refreshed the page.

Still wrong.

I considered whether the driver had received incorrect instructions.

Perhaps the navigation system was malfunctioning.

Perhaps the truck was lost.

Perhaps the company hadn’t explained that my package was the priority.

I called customer service.

“Thank you for calling. How can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m calling about a package.”

“Of course. Do you have the tracking number?”

I provided it.

She checked.

“Your package is out for delivery.”

“I know.”

“Great! It should arrive by eight tonight.”

“That’s the problem.”

She paused.

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s currently 9:26 in the morning.”

“Yes?”

“And the package is four miles away.”

“Okay.”

“So why isn’t it here?”

She explained that drivers follow assigned routes.

Routes.

Interesting.

Apparently my delivery was being governed by a prearranged sequence of events.

“Can the driver change the route?”

“Unfortunately, we can’t request that.”

“Why?”

“Because the driver has many deliveries to complete.”

I nodded.

“Understood.”

Then asked the obvious question.

“How many of those deliveries are mine?”

She paused.

“Just this one, I believe.”

“Exactly.”

Silence.

Powerful silence.

I continued.

“So the driver is prioritizing packages belonging to strangers over a package belonging to me.”

“Sir, all customers are important.”

I smiled.

“Of course. But some customers are currently on the phone.”

She laughed.

I didn’t.

Well.

Maybe a little.

“Can I speak with the driver?”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t connect customers directly with drivers.”

“Can you send a message?”

“No.”

“Can I wave at the truck if I see it?”

She laughed again.

“You’re welcome to wave.”

Progress.

At least one communication channel remained available.

I thanked her.

Hung up.

And returned to the tracking map.

10:14.

The truck was now six miles away.

Six.

It had increased the distance between us.

This was no longer delivery.

This was avoidance.

I made coffee.

Opened my laptop.

Attempted to work.

Failed.

Checked tracking.

11:02.

Still out for delivery.

11:47.

No change.

12:16.

The truck was three miles away.

I stood up.

Finally.

The operation was back on track.

Then the truck turned again.

Away.

I stared at the screen.

“Unbelievable.”

At 1:30, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I walked outside.

Looked down the street.

No truck.

Looked the other direction.

No truck.

A postal vehicle passed.

Wrong company.

I waved anyway.

The driver waved back.

At least somebody understood customer relations.

At 2:18, I received another notification.

YOUR DRIVER IS MAKING DELIVERIES NEARBY.

Nearby.

A wonderfully vague word.

Nearby could mean two houses.

Two streets.

Two towns.

Apparently geography had become subjective.

I refreshed the map.

The truck was less than a mile away.

Excellent.

I stood by the front window.

Waiting.

Watching.

Ready.

Then I saw it.

A delivery truck.

Coming down the street.

My heart raced.

It approached.

Slowed.

And stopped.

Across the street.

At my neighbor’s house.

I watched the driver exit.

Carry a package to the porch.

Take a photo.

Return to the truck.

Then drive away.

Without stopping at my house.

I couldn’t believe it.

He had been right there.

Right.

There.

I stepped outside.

The truck disappeared around the corner.

I considered chasing it.

Then remembered I was wearing slippers.

And had absolutely no intention of exercising for a delivery.

I returned inside.

Called customer service again.

A different representative answered.

“How may I help you?”

“I believe your driver has overlooked my residence.”

She checked the tracking.

“Your package is still out for delivery.”

“Yes, but he just delivered to my neighbor.”

“Okay.”

“And didn’t deliver to me.”

“That can happen depending on how the packages are organized in the truck.”

I froze.

“Organized?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re telling me my package may be physically inside the truck, but the driver can’t deliver it because it’s not in the correct organizational sequence?”

“That’s possible.”

I leaned back.

This was extraordinary.

A truck.

A package.

A house.

All within approximately fifty feet of one another.

And somehow logistics had defeated common sense.

I thanked her.

Again.

At 4:07, the truck returned to my neighborhood.

I saw it on the map.

Two streets away.

Then one.

Then finally…

My street.

I stood.

Walked to the front door.

Opened it.

And waited.

The truck approached.

Slowed.

Stopped.

The driver stepped out.

Holding a package.

My package.

I smiled.

He walked toward me.

“Good afternoon!”

“Good afternoon.”

He handed me the box.

“Here you go.”

I accepted it.

Then looked at my watch.

4:13 p.m.

Nine hours and eleven minutes after my first tracking check.

I looked at him.

“Busy day?”

He laughed.

“Very.”

“I noticed.”

He smiled.

“Been waiting for this?”

“Since approximately seven this morning.”

He laughed again.

“Well, it’s here now.”

I nodded.

“Yes. But I have a question.”

“Sure.”

“Why did you deliver to my neighbor six hours ago and not stop here?”

He looked confused.

“Six hours ago?”

“Earlier this afternoon.”

“Oh. Different packages are loaded for different sections of the route.”

I nodded.

“Interesting.”

He continued.

“We follow the route the system gives us.”

There it was again.

The system.

The invisible authority responsible for everything.

I considered explaining my entire morning.

The tracking.

The phone calls.

The map.

The emotional journey.

Then I looked at the driver.

He was sweating.

Tired.

Clearly working hard.

And still had a truck full of packages.

I stopped.

“Well, thank you.”

He smiled.

“You’re welcome. Have a good one!”

He returned to the truck.

I carried the package inside.

Placed it on the kitchen counter.

Grabbed a pair of scissors.

Opened the box.

Removed the packing material.

And finally revealed the item I’d been waiting for all day.

A phone charging cable.

A charging cable.

Not a medical device.

Not emergency supplies.

Not a critical replacement part.

A cable.

For a phone that was already charging perfectly well using another cable.

I stared at it.

Then at the clock.

Then at the shipping box.

I had spent nine hours monitoring the movement of a charging cable.

Called customer service twice.

Watched a delivery truck travel around town.

And nearly confronted a driver over a product I didn’t actually need immediately.

I picked up the cable.

Examined it.

Then plugged it into my phone.

It worked.

Beautifully.

Exactly like the old one.

I sat down.

Opened my laptop.

And returned to the work I’d been neglecting all day.

Then my phone buzzed.

HOW WAS YOUR DELIVERY EXPERIENCE?

A survey.

Of course.

I opened it.

Five stars.

I selected five.

The driver had done his job.

The package arrived on time.

Nothing was damaged.

Everything was exactly as promised.

Then I saw the comment box.

I smiled.

And typed:

Delivery was successful. However, I recommend reconsidering the definition of “out for delivery” for customers who interpret that phrase as “coming directly to my house.”

I submitted it.

Then looked at the charging cable.

And laughed.

The lesson?

Hot Josh believes that when a package is out for delivery, it should be delivered.

Preferably immediately.

Preferably before breakfast.

Preferably without visiting seventeen other houses first.

But sometimes the world doesn’t revolve around your package.

Even when you’ve spent the entire day tracking it like a missing person.