It came on a particularly shitty Tuesday.
A simple brown box. No markings. As advertised.
It was smaller than Gary had expected, barely shin height, and it was two days earlier than the promised delivery date.
“You gonna sign for it?”
Gary closed his mouth. He could tell from the way the delivery woman was looking at him that he’d flung the door open way too fast, and he’d been gaping. She’d taken a half step back off the porch, startled probably. A built woman, frizzy hair poking out of her grey, nylon ball cap, flush in the cheeks. It was hot out there. She rolled her tongue around a cheek, and raised her eyebrows.
Gary felt his own cheeks flush, and damned them. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said.
Behind him, he heard a voice call out. Bridgette, asking about the doorbell.
“I got it,” he called, wiping his forehead and wagging a hand toward the tablet-thing the delivery woman held in her paw.
“What is it?” Bridgette called again from the interior of the house.
“I GOT IT, BRIDGE!” Gary yelled. He smiled at the delivery woman, trying not to grind his teeth. She handed him the tablet, and a small metal stylus.
Gary scanned the screen, looking for the line to sign, but it looked like gibberish. He was scanning too fast. He knew it. He had to calm down. He couldn’t. Not with the box sitting right there at his feet.
“Just right there, sir.”
The woman was looking at him. He’d been staring at the box. He hadn’t even realized it. She tapped the very bottom of the signy-thing.
“Yes, yes, of course.” He’d said that already. Fuck.
He signed.
The delivery woman took back the device and the stylus, too. Then, she didn’t leave. She rolled her tongue in her mouth, staring at him.
“Something important, huh?”
Jesus fucking Christ. “Yeah. I mean, no. Just…just, hot is all, and you took me by surprise.” He was looking at the box again. Staring. He squinted back up at the delivery woman. Bridgette could walk up behind him any minute. Anyone could. “How…are you?”
Gary wanted to shoot himself. Ask the woman how she was? Right when she was about to leave?? Was he fucking nuts?!
“Hot.”
She was a woman of few words. Good lord, thank you.
She turned to leave, and Gary was halfway bent down to pick up the box when she stopped mid-stride, still halfway off his porch. She pointed toward the box. Gary felt his heart skip a beat.
“Be careful with that,” she said. “It’s heavy.”
Gary plastered on the biggest smile he could fake, and nodded probably seven thousand times.
The woman left. Big strides down his driveway.
Gary wrapped his hands around the non-descript box. The cardboard was slick, the good stuff, thick and sturdy. The shipping label was addressed to him, Gary Gary, 107 Northridge Lane; the return label was an address in Texas. No company name. No logos. No odd shapes. Nothing to betray what was inside.
He lifted it.
And promptly fell back on his ass, knocked his head on the door behind him.
On the street, the delivery woman cackled a laugh that sounded like grinding rocks, or at the very least early-stage emphysema. “Toldja,” she waved, and then drove off.
“Gary?” Bridgette yelled again, sounding interested.
Gray scrambled to his knees, wrapped the box with a bear hug, and lifted with his knees this time. Balls, the box was fucking heavy. Or he was out of shape. Probably both.
“I said–” he wheezed, stepping back inside his house, and hooking the door with his foot, “I got it!”
The door slammed shut on cue. He shuffled as quickly as he could down the hallway, knowing he had to beat her to the basement door. She was either in the living room watching the tube, or fussing in the kitchen. That was what she called it, “fussing.” He hoped she was in the former. Further away.
But, she wasn’t. Kitchen was dead ahead, with the door leading down to the basement to the right, just before it. She was at the kitchen table, hair up, fanning herself while she sweated, and reading something.
The door to the basement was slightly ajar, left to hang that way after Gary’d burst through it at the sound of the doorbell. Bridge usually never looked up when she was reading, especially at Gary. Not any more. But, goddamn it, if this was the one time…
“Who was at the door?” she asked, and Gary felt his ticker knock his knees. She was gonna look up. See the box. Ask what was inside. He knew it.
Did you buy something? You did, didn’t you? Must be expensive if it’s that heavy. How much? Can we afford it? What is it for? Your writing? Must be, you’re hugging it like it’s solid gold. Like you won’t let it go. Can I see it? Were you trying to hide it from me? You were, weren’t you? Running around like that. I should have known; you never get the door. I want to see it. Can I see it? Fuckingfuckityfuckfuckduckingduck.
He was a yard away from the basement door. Run for it? She’d hear him. Look up even sooner. Or, slink it? Just pretend to be normal. Nice and easy.
He ran. Two big strides, stomping into his green carpet, clomp clomp. He wedged through the open door.
“Nobody,” he shouted back to the hallway as he plunged down the stairs to safety. The stairs squeaked with each hurried step, betraying him. He hadn’t dared to see if she’d raised her head.
“Nobody?” Bridgette shouted back.
“Wrong house! And close my door, will ya? I’m working!”
Gary reached the cool, concrete floor of the basement right as the door at the top of the stairs closed. He set down the leaden box and let out a sigh of relief so big, so deep, he felt like he could pass out right there. Just, melt on top of the beautiful brown packaging. Never even open it. Never gaze upon what was inside. Never unleash the power and majesty inside.
Nonsense.
It had been such a particularly shitty day, after all.
He rushed over to his desk, which showed the tell-tale signs of a bad writing day: crumpled paper, a pyramid of pens, browser windows of music and photos, and three coffee cups, none of them fully drunk. He checked no less than five fucking drawers before finally finding the scissors he was looking for, nearly stabbed himself while kneeling to the floor, and nicked his finger as he sliced three times into the binding tape; once across hot-dog length, twice hamburger on the sides.
The flaps popped up, released, inviting.
Gary realized he was trembling. And bleeding. He didn’t care about either.
He parted the long top flaps. Then the two short ones underneath. Molded packing foam obscured the device inside, holding it tight for shipping, protected. In the center, nestled in a perfectly sized indentation in the top the foam, was a shiny white booklet with five words printed in small, black gloss.
Are you ready for success?
Yes, he was. Oh, hell yes he was. Gary reached out to pick it up, and cursed when he smudged blood on it from his finger.
“Fuck.”
He wiped at the smudged corner, which kind of worked, but the white was unforgiving. Gary let it go. He opened the book. It said:
Meet your StoryGenius 3000.
Gary wept.