scott d. feldstein

I jinxed myself. That’s what happened. A few days ago I blogged about my new martial arts shoes as if I had them in my hands already. In fact, they were on a UPS truck for delivery. That delivery never happened. This is the my tale of woe. It is a story of intrigue, suspense and betrayal. Read on if you dare.

I always cringe when my internet-ordered goods ship via UPS. Like lots of other people, I’m sometimes not at home to receive them. That’s okay if it’s coming FedEx; if their delivery fails they hold it for me in an office a mile from here. I drive five minutes and pick it up. But UPS is different. If they cannot deliver they hold packages in a far away warehouse that’s inconvenient to reach. In fact I’d never actually been there, although I knew it’s general geographical location. I’ve always managed to meet the truck during one of their obligatory three delivery attempts. But not this time.

They attempted on Thursday and again on Friday while I was at work, curse them. But victory (and the shoes) would soon be mine. On Monday the kids would be here for the third attempt. The delivery truck would come, the driver would knock on the door and the kids would sign for the package. Neither of them is 18, but I doubt the UPS driver would ask for IDs. I advised the kids that a packaged would come.

Imagine my surprise when I got home and found, instead of my package, a sticker on the door which read: failed attempt at third delivery. I asked the kids what happened. “We must have been sleeping,” they shrugged. So much for victory. As I counted to ten I resigned myself to making the trip to the distant and unknown UPS warehouse the next day.

Turns out it’s not that hard to find, but it is still a challenge to get there in between work and evening activities such as J. K. Lee, doctor’s appointments and whatnot. On Tuesday after work I attempted it. I took highway 18 home instead of the interstate. It’s much slower, but it is a straight shot from work to home – and it passes the UPS warehouse at the midpoint.

Traffic was bad and I missed the turn the first time. And once I did find it, the place itself was rather unpleasant. The parking lot was large and ringed by chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Attached to the back of the warehouse was a small, poorly lit office with no furniture and no counter at which one might hope to get service or attention. I stood with my door sticker in what I hoped was the right place and eventually someone did offer to help me. I explained that I’d come to retrieve a package. The woman disappeared with my sticker for a few minutes only to reappear empty-handed.

“This package is on the truck for delivery,” she said.

“I don’t understand,” I said, not understanding. “The notice says ‘final attempt.’ I even called the number at the bottom,” and here I pointed at the 800 number; “the automated phone thing said you have the package at this address.”

“Well, it’s not here,” she assured me. “Next time why don’t you call this number to make sure–”

“I just told you I called the number. Twice. It said the package was here.” I was annoyed.

“Did you talk to a real person,” she asked?

“No. It didn’t give me an option to do that.”

“Well, if you press zero…”

But I was already walking away, furious. I was going to be late for class, and for what? Nothing, it seemed. But wait! She said it was on the truck for delivery. I quickly called Paige. Was she home? She was. Had UPS come yet? There was no sticker on the door. That means they’ll be there any minute! I instructed her to receive the package when it came while I went to class. (I wasn’t all that late for class; 20 pushups penance and I joined warmups already in progress.)

Wednesday I didn’t have time to stop at UPS. I had to dash to Waukesha for my chiropractic appointment and then out to Milwaukee again for drinking Liberally. It wasn’t until this evening that I had a chance to revisit the maximum security prison UPS warehouse. I simply walked in and wordlessly presented my sticker. The woman didn’t even ask to see my ID this time. She must have remembered me from before. She walked away and returned… with my package in hand!

I thanked her. I signed. I took my box and walked away. It had been a harrowing experience, but, hey, life is like that. In the end, everything worked out. I don’t hold grudges. All was forgiven in that moment as I walked to my car. There was even a singing bird perched on the barbed wire.

Unable to contain myself, I took my pocket knife out of my backpack and zipped the box open. Inside was a smaller box – a shoebox with an Adidas logo on it. Inside thatbox was a new pair of size 10 martial arts shoes.

In the wrong color.

In truth, I had considered the black ones, but decided the white would go better. I don’t know whose mistake it was, mine or karate depot’s – and I don’t care. I’m not sending them back. I’m chalking it up to the curse. I jinxed myself by blogging my shoes before they hatched and this whole misadventure was the terrible, terrible price I had to pay. I would slink away, keep the black shoes, and not look back.

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 24th, 2006 . You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.