Last night, while watching season 3 of Deadwood and eating pizza, someone pounded on my door insistently.
I was a little alarmed. After all, it was nearly 8pm, the husband’s out of town, and the knocking sounded desperate. When it came again, I paused my episode, removed my headphones, and dusted off pizza dough crumbs. Opening the door, I saw the FedEx guy, completely winded (we’re in a third-floor walk-up). Next to him was a big bike box. The hell?
“Oh my god!” I couldn’t help it, it just came out. “Are you okay?”
The poor FedEx dude gasped for breath. “I’m so glad you’re here. I need a signature on this.”
So I signed, spelled out my last name while peering at the box. “I had no idea this was coming. Thank you for bringing it up.” I stared at the box in confusion until it finally clicked. “Holy hell, this is my brother’s bike!”
“Your brother’s bike?”
“Yeah, he’s moving here in a few days.”
The FedEx guy shook his head. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to redeliver.”
I felt bad I didn’t offer him bottled water — yesterday was a hot one in the DC area. My brain was not clicking at all. If you are forced to return, FedEx dude, I shall offer you water then.
I dragged the box into the spare bedroom. I’m pretty sure the bike is intact, but I sincerely hope my little brother doesn’t think we’re going to lug this box down three flights of stairs and drive it to wherever his new place is (it wouldn’t fit in our car). That’s so not in our deal. We said we’d give him a place to stay while he looked; I never said I’d help him move. (I am not one to volunteer with people’s moves.) However, I think he got rid of most of his stuff and is buying new furniture in DC.
I was surprised by the bike because he had told me he was going to sell his two bikes. I’m hoping he sold the second one, at least for the FedEx guy’s sake.