In the middle of my being sick the door bell rang. Rob had gone, so I was home alone and, for some reason, I felt duty-bound to answer the door. Why I didn’t just ignore it, I don’t know, but this was in the absolute worst of it, when I was fevered and having acid-trip like visions of Jesus sitting at the foot of my bed playing the banjo while Matty rocked out on the harmonica, so my priorities weren’t perfectly aligned.
I pulled on the first thing I grabbed, Rob’s robe, brushed past Jesus and hobbled down the stairs screeching, “I’m coming!” which was totally unnecessary, but I didn’t want to put all this effort into answering the door only to find myself alone when I finally got there, weakly mumble-whispering “Come back.” to the retreating delivery truck. I made it to the bottom of the steps, threw open the door, and scared the shit out of the UPS man. My hair was seventeen different directions of crazy, my face was mushed from a pillow and had drool dried all down one side of it, drool that was drying and crusting off into white flakes that I could feel, and rather than speak in complete sentences, I grunted. To top it off, when he handed me the package my robe fell open revealing cockeyed granny panties, one sock slumped glumly around my ankle, and two sad boobs that hadn’t seen the inside of a bra in days. I couldn’t see his face because I didn’t put on my glasses, but there was horror in his voice as he stammered “Uh… have a good day.”
“Ya don’ nemeta sign?” I asked.
“No!” he shouted over his shoulder as he made a retreat. I heard him running for his truck, and then he peeled out of his parking spot and was gone.
“He didn’ ne me ta sign.” I said to Matty, who had taken a break from his jam session to see who was at the door.
The worst part is that I have no idea what he looks like, so I’ll never know which one to hide from when he comes again. Maybe he won’t recognize me.