Delivery
“It’s Brian, I have your delivery,” his voice came through the phone, agitated and borderline bored.
“Ok, give me 10 minutes.” I hung up. I rushed my shoes onto my feet, my jacket onto my back, and my bag onto my shoulder, and I was out the door in three minutes. The sky was grey as if the prelude to the day, the clouds hugging the tallest trees as I drove the brief, seven-minute drive to the venue and pulled in to find the delivery truck already sitting in my parking lot. Having opened the gate themselves, they basically let themselves onto my property. I immediately felt an unease.
There was a passenger this time, sliding out of the massive truck cab on the far side of where I was pulling in. Brian, I had to assume, didn’t notice me for a minute. The cases of beer were
stacked five high on a hand truck, and this savage was perched on top, hunched over, engrossed in his electronic appendage.
Comfortable? I thought. Can I get you a chair? My mind playing it out. Though nothing reached my mouth as I hurriedly paced towards my door. Inside, I took a deep breath, keyed off the alarm, briefly looked toward my hidden panic button, and unlocked the delivery door. The unease grew.
The building is nestled a ways back from the main road, about a hundred and fifty feet or so. Sitting partially hidden from the main road by the local Chinese takeout. It was dark inside. It is soundproofed, and I was alone.
I was twitching with anger. How dare he sit on my order? I was angry. Definitely angry. I was disappointed, and I was disgusted. And yet I said nothing. I wanted to inspect every single one of
those cases to ensure my product wasn’t damaged, as a boss should do. I didn’t. I smiled politely, though the smile never reached my eyes. I don’t know what stopped me. I don’t know why I couldn’t voice my concerns, as I’d had every right. I was the owner. I paid for this product. Why didn’t I say or do
anything?
Brian and I exchanged the usual pleasantries about the weather as he nonchalantly rolled the hand truck in and shimmied my stack of cans onto my bar floor. No visible signs of damage from his lack of professionalism. Certainly, nothing was leaking. I didn’t touch the cans. Something inside of me was
stopping me.
“Thank you,” I managed as he punched the keys on his digital invoice machine and began making conversation with questions about my business. How dare he? I couldn’t even think straight. I didn’t want to talk to him about my business. I didn’t care to talk to him at all. I was suppressing a rage that I was familiar with and yet couldn’t deal with.
I was starting to get upset. I took the warm slip torn from his tiny printer, we said our goodbyes, and I ushered him out towards the door to meet his passenger.
The door closed behind him. I immediately locked the door. I didn’t like what I was feeling. I didn’t feel relief. I felt safer, sure, but not relieved. Brian and his buddy couldn’t hurt me now. I should feel better. My eyes stung with the tears beginning to well. What was I crying about? I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t threatened. I have done a lot scarier things in my life than this! Get it together, girl. You’re Axel, a top-ranking axe thrower. You’ve up and moved countries—twice! You’ve flown an airplane! Hell, you’re a
gun-carrying firearms instructor! You’re not some helpless female.
So, why was I crying?
Shaking my head and trying to act like the forty-year-old woman of the world that I was supposed to be, I went back to the bar. I hurriedly put away the cans. I didn’t even want to touch them. They were a reminder of the situation, and I didn’t like it.
I couldn’t reconcile my feelings, and anger filled me as I packed up my stuff, locked the axe house back up, and headed home.
Why can’t I just stand up for myself? If I haven’t up until now—will I ever?
as Published in "Essays for Strangers: Volume 1"
