Stumbling onto Sturdy

The white clapboard house with two front doors had an OPEN sign taped in the window.  Our phone’s GPS had directed us via the walker’s route to the vintage Vermont structure masquerading as a UPS shipping center about 2.9 miles west on Main Street, just past the Dandy Doggie Groomer and across the street from the furniture mart.  Walking parallel to the river alongside the busy road, we made the picturesque trek, motoring briskly--both to get there on a Saturday before it closed at 2:00 pm and to keep step with the anxiety that had ballooned around the misplaced package of medical supplies my friend and travel buddy had to have.

So far that morning, the only intel we’d been able to glean about the over-nighted package’s whereabouts was that it had been loaded on a truck in Burlington to be delivered to our hotel by noon. But at half an hour after, all the front desk had to offer for the third mind-numbing time was, “Our Post Office is closed for the weekend.”  A response as confusing as it was unhelpful. I reiterated, “The package was NOT addressed to the Post Office. It was express shipped through UPS to this hotel . . .” 

“Ohhhhhhhh,” the young girl at last acceded, the facts finally funneling their way through her ears to her brain. “UPS already dropped off today. There is nothing for you here.”

I bit my lip and shook my head. 

We needed to track down the package. We wanted someone to care.

The New England Colonial shipping and receiving center was our last hope. Inside the creaky door with a clanging bell attached to the top, sat a seemingly sparingly used kiosk to the left, stacks of boxes--- some still towering on a dolly, some in piles that looked like dunes--to the right, and a cluttered counter dividing the front of the room from the back.  Beyond a cluster of cardboard, seated at a desk in front of a computer, a man in a flannel shirt and jeans called out, “How can I help you?” the voice arriving several distracted seconds before the face. 

Fighting the urge to rifle through the mounds of mail ourselves, we paused, waiting for the shipping expert’s full attention.

Then my friend began, “We have a bit of a dilemma . . .” 

She told the man in rugged plaid how much she had paid for express shipping. Then she explained why she had done it.  The package contained a breathing machine that keeps her lungs clear.  She requires medical treatments routinely twice a day, and she had already been one night and a half day without expulsion. Another night without a treatment could send her lungs spiraling dangerously out of control.

As she pulled up tracking numbers on her phone, she began to recount the “he said/I said/she said/we said” order of events from the day, the time sensitive nature of her predicament reflected by her rate of speech. We took turns telling the story in fits and starts, each stepping up to fill the air when the other was busy pulling detailed information from her phone.

Our man without a name tag listened, not entirely disingenuously, but it appeared, to us, perhaps with half his heart. When we finally paused for breath, however, we recognized his subtle superpower. Competence wrapped in kindness without too much ado.

A clearly experienced hunter and gatherer, the keeper of the shop asked a couple of clarifying questions, punched a couple of things into his IPAD, and then said resolutely, “Sam has your package in his truck. He’ll be here before the end of the day.” 

We looked at each other and then at him like he was Santa. He capped it with a casual been-there-done-that smile.

SuperUPSman took my friend’s phone number, and then mine for insurance, just in case. He said he’d call when he had the package in hand and that they’d drop it off at the Inn where we were staying. 

We walked away without the worries we’d brought in.

Then we discussed our luck in finding such a sturdy man. 

We’d stumbled upon a stranger who handled it all—our anxiety . . . the ineptitude of others . . .a ticking clock . . .the laundry list of things on which you simply cannot always just depend.  He held it so we didn’t have to. We were at ease because he was staunchly sure. 

And he came through. Of course.

Good humans clear the way for one another. Sometimes they even help us breathe.

P.S.  An oldie but goodie... get past the first 30 seconds of talking lyrics and it’s worth it, I promise.