Wednesday, June 10, 2020

I wait in line at the small grocery store to pick up my packages. I had been there yesterday, but the postal terminal froze with a Blue Screen of Death. The shopkeeper, grumpy as always, said I would have to wait for fifteen or twenty minutes. I had to go to work. I’m back now. I have gotten phone alerts that two more packages have arrived. I have never gotten more than one at a time. When it’s my turn, I tell the shopkeeper that I have three packages. “Yes, thank you for telling me.” He says it with an exaggerated politeness that suggests that I have done something dumb. He picks up the first package. “ID Number?” I tell him. He types it in. “Sign there, Joseph.” He has never called me by my name before. I didn’t think he knew it. I sign on the screen with the tip of my finger. I look on my phone for the codes for the other two packages. “Joseph?” he asks, then again, a bit louder, “Joseph?” I look up. He is already holding the other two packages. “Here. You’re done.” I had thought that I would have to tell him their codes and sign for them again. Apparently not. I take them from him and thank him. “Next?” he says. I head out to the recycling box and open the packages. Each contains a separate order from the same shop in England: a new biography of Ornette Coleman, a recent book of poetry by Ron Silliman , and a beautiful small edition of Thoreau. I stuff the packaging into the recycling box. I stuff the books into my shoulder bag. That takes longer. With all the other things in there, including my tablet, its keyboard, and my lunch, they barely fit. I head on to work. I would rather just get some coffee, sit on the bench outside the shop, and read.