On Releasing the Package

12.07.02.
Yee-haw! Online ordering rocks! My Christmas shopping is complete and I haven't set foot NEAR a mall. I smile and feel smug and confident. Nothing to do now but sit back and wait for the toaster oven to be delivered.

12.11.02
I arrive home from work to find a green Fedex Ground slip on my door. "WE'RE SORRY!" it fairly screams at me. Apparently they tried to deliver said toaster oven around 1 p.m. that day. Who's home at 1 p.m.? I have a job, you know. And the "MUST SIGN IN PERSON AT DELIVERY" is checked. Dammit. I'll just call them. I call the 1-800 number, and finally speak to someone who says they'll schedule a delivery after six, you know, when I'm actually not at work. He gets a phone number from me so that I can be contacted should there be any problems.

12.12.02
My phone rings at 8:15 a.m.

"Hello?"

"Uhhh, yeah, this is Steve from Fedex. And uhhh, yeah, we're trying to deliver a package to you."

"Yes, I know. You tried to deliver it at 1 p.m. I have to work during the day. Someone is supposed to deliver it today after six."

"Uhhh, yeah. Yeah, we don't actually SCHEDULE deliveries." Oh, that's nice. THEN WHY DID SOMEONE SCHEDULE ONE WITH ME? This is just like the to-go order from Chuy's. The to-go order that included tamales. The cheerful girl on the other end of the phone cheerfully forgot to inform me the Chuy's doesn't make tamales. Didn't stop her from taking my order and assuring me it would be ready in 15 minutes.

Silence. I guess I'm supposed to run with this one.

"Okay, well, then what would be the best way to get my package? Do I need to come pick it up?"

"Uhhh, yeah. Yeah. Thanks."

"Wait! Where do I go?"

Steve rattles off an address; I'm vaulting the desk chair with a lipstick in one hand to find some paper before Steve severs our precious connection. I can barely get the address down—I ask Steve to repeat the name of the street, and he does, but with a huge sigh. Where the hell is that? I want to ask him. But I figure he won't be much help, so I decide to figure that part out later.

I arrive home that evening to find another stupid delivery notice with "SECOND ATTEMPT" checked. Didn't we straighten this out? I wonder, and look at the delivery time. 2:15 p.m. Nice.

Fedex is on speed dial now. I let them know—again—that I am NOT home during the day, and will pick up the package. PLEASE do not return to shipper, okay?

12.13.03
Another day. Another slip. "FINAL ATTEMPT" Well, no shit. Didn't I tell them to STOP attempting? Twice? This is ridiculous. And below the "FINAL ATTEMPT" a helpful phrase: "Please call us at 1-800-Go-Fedex. If we cannot reach you, the package will be returned to the shipper." Yup, that's what I've been doing—calling that number. Has it gotten me any closer to my package?

"WHERE IS THE PACKAGE?" I ask Marie, my latest Fedex operator/friend.

"It looks like it's at our ground location."

"Great—can I get an address for that?"

"Just a minute." I hold the line. She returns. "Round Rock."

"OH MY GOD." So that's why I didn't recognize the street name Steve provided me.

"Is that far away from you?"

"Ummm, yeah. When can I get it?"

"They're open tonight but the package is still on the truck. When the truck returns, I'll have someone call you."

"Are you SURE it's in Round Rock?"

"Yes." Suddenly Marie is cold. As if I could possibly doubt the information someone at Fedex would provide.

"Okay. Sure. Have them call me."

I hang up the phone. And realize I've failed to give her my number.

After another phone call and a couple of beers, my phone does ring. My package has arrived back at the Fedex Ground location in BFE. I look at the beer in my hand, know that I will NOT be traveling there this evening and inquire about Saturday hours. The guy I'm talking to is about as helpful as Steve of the 8 a.m. phone call.

"Yeah, sure. We're open."

"Okay, when?"

"9-5?" He sounds both doubtful and bored.

"Okay, I'll come get it tomorrow."

12.14.02
It takes me about fifteen miles and several wrong turns to find the stupid Fedex location. When I get out of the car, I find the gate is locked and I need to walk around the entire parking lot to get inside the building. I pull open the door and walk into the office. It's a ghost town. No one. Nothing. No sound.

I keep snooping, though, and I finally locate a Fedex Guy behind a counter in another room.

"Uh, excuse me, I need to pick up a package.

"What? Who told you to come here today? We're closed."

Funny. The DOOR WAS UNLOCKED. Instead of pointing this out, I tell him that SOMEONE on the phone—I've forgotten all their names; it's like I'm drunk when I talk to these people—told me I could indeed come on a Saturday. He frowns.

"No one's here. They're all making deliveries."

I sigh. "Do you think maybe you could help me? I've got a tracking number. I mean, it's supposed to be here…" I try and sound plaintive but it's a fine line between that and argumentative. I'm sure I paint a fabulous picture: no makeup, hair in a messy ponytail, sporting my favorite B.U.M. sweatshirt. I don't know that batting my eyes and pouting will work right now.

"Sure, I'll try. What's the number?"

Triumphantly, I whip out one of the many Fedex slips I'm proud to own. Uttering a scream of disbelief, I stare at it. "I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!" I tell Fedex Guy. "There's no tracking number. He didn't write a number…he didn't write a number…" I almost curl into the fetal position while muttering "he didn't write a number" repeatedly. I mean, I have FOUR of these slips. I bring the one without the precious all-important key to knowledge: THE TRACKING NUMBER. It's like the Social Security of package delivery.

Instead of laughing at me, Fedex Guy attempts to find my package anyway. (Can't he look up my name and address?) Ten minutes later, he's got nothing and he's asking for my phone number and address so that we can arrange a way to deliver the package. (Again, hello—wouldn't those items also have been helpful in your search?)

Why is this so hard? Don't you guys do this FOR A LIVING? Isn't DELIVERING packages YOUR BUSINESS? Instead of saying these things, I mildly point out that (1) I've talked to six different people at Fedex and they've all told me six different things (2) I COULD stay home from work on Monday if I can be assured the package will actually arrive and (3) No, I don't have my work address handy so they can attempt to deliver it there, where it will undoubtedly get lost in the bowels of the building. I once had a coffee mug mailed to me in exchange for filling out an online survey; it took four months to get to me and arrived with a nasty note from the mail guys about including Mailstop in my address.

Fedex Guy swears he'll get the package to me Monday if he has to drive it to my house himself. I'm just a bit scared by that.

12.16.02.
My cell phone rings at 2:45 p.m.

"Hey Shakira. It's Fedex Guy—just wanted to let you know that your package is with the courier and will be delivered within the hour."

"Within the—where?"

"At your house."

"Yeah. I'm at work," I smirk into the phone. Did we agree to this? Did I agree to stay home from work on Monday? I don't recall this incident.

"Well, what time do you usually get off?"

"NOT at 2:45," I assure him. "Don't worry about it—I'll get there. Thanks."

I put down the phone and let out a scream.

"Fedex again?" Madame V calls from her cube.

"I gotta run—I've gotta intercept them!" I respond, gathering my purse and flying out of my cube and down the highway at about 110.

There is another slip on the door when I get there. No, I'm not kidding you. I bet I just missed the guy. Time on the slip? TIME ON THE SLIP? TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE. TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE. Yes, Fedex Guy, that's within the hour all right. IF YOU GO BACK IN TIME. IF YOU GO BACK IN TIME AND ADD AN HOUR.

I now have the direct phone number to the Round Rock—aka BFE—location stored in my cell phone. Fedex Guy's gotta love that. He and I have another chat. I explain that his little courier friend was here in the distant past.

"Did he release the package?"

WOULD I BE FUCKING CALLING YOU IF HE RELEASED THE FUCKING PACKAGE? "You mean, did he leave it here? No. No, he did not."

"Oh. We'll have to try again."

"Would it help if I signed this little slip where it says AGREEMENT TO LEAVE SHIPMENT?"

"Yeah, try that," Fedex Guy agrees.

So, let me get this straight. All these times I've been calling these people and explaining my predicament and our inablity to hook up at convenient times…I COULD have signed the AGREEMENT TO LEAVE SHIPMENT? I asked and was told NO. I ASKED FEDEX GUY ON SATURDAY and he told me no. But now, it's okay? What the HELL?

12.17.02.
Home from work. No package. No phone call. No slip. Nothing. I don't bother to call. Instead I drink several glasses of wine at dinner.

12.18.02
My call-waiting beeps as I'm talking to Mom on the way to work. It's a number I don't recognize. Or do I? It's Fedex!

Another phone call to the BFE location; where of course they don't know who I am or what the hell I'm talking about. Tracking number MY ASS—you people are making my life a living hell! I'm promised a phone call as soon as this person hears from the driver.

No phone call. I'm starting to feel like I'm in a bad relationship with Fedex Guy.

However, it is my birthday. Fedex must have known. That afternoon, I discover the package from hell is on my doorstep. Now what was so hard about that?

-Shakira 12.26.02