- The Amazon Parcel
The Amazon Parcel
By Didi Gorman
An Amazon delivery truck has just pulled into our driveway.
That’s odd. I haven’t ordered anything from Amazon recently.
“A delivery for Didi Gorman,” the delivery person hands me a large parcel as I open the door.
I look at the name and the address on the parcel. It’s my name and my address alright.
But seriously, a microfiber burgundy duvet cover set? I really didn’t order that. I don’t even like burgundy!
I have no time to ponder this enigma, however, because right at that moment I catch a glimpse of yet another Amazon truck pulling into our driveway. A much larger parcel emerges out of the back of the truck and, judging by how the delivery person strains to carry it, it’s quite heavy too.
“Are you Didi Gorman?” he huffs when he makes it to the door.
“Yeah…?” I say hesitantly.
“Here’s your convection toaster oven,” he lowers the parcel to the ground.
“My what?” I’m not sure I understood.
“Your convection toaster oven.”
I don’t even know what ‘convection’ means. But whatever it is, my name and address are on the label. I mumble a thank-you, shut the door, and drag the box into the living room.
I’m about to log into the Amazon website to look into this mystery when my seven-year-old invites me to play a game on his iPad. “Look, mommy, I’m gaming! Let’s play this cool game together! It’s a–”
“Not now, sweetie” I cut him off, “I need to sort something out first.”
Where was I? Ah, yes, logging into the Amazon website to look into this mystery.
Hang on. What’s that sound coming from outside? Is it not that of an Amazon truck driving up the street?
The vehicle materializes in our driveway and I watch in dread as the delivery person disappears behind the back of the truck and reappears hauling a cart, atop which a huge box is secured. It takes him a good few minutes to maneuver the heavy cargo on our icy driveway, but after considerable effort and much heaving, he manages to reach the front door.
“Are… you… Didi Gorman?” he pants as I open the door.
“Y-es?” I say faintly.
“Here’s… your... electric… snowblower,” he’s almost out of breath.
I mutter an unconvincing thank-you, shut the door, and go back into the house.
“Now can we play my new game on the iPad?” asks the seven-year-old when he sees me.
“Not yet. Mommy needs a drink,” I murmur and head to the kitchen, where I stay for a few minutes to regroup.
The knock on the door makes me jump and I nearly knock my drink over. My hands are trembling as I open the door to yet another Amazon delivery person.
“Are you Didi Gorman?”
“No,” I say. “Didi Gorman moved to Australia. Cancel the order!”
“Ha, ha, ha, nice sense of humor!” he chuckles. “Where would you like me to leave the indoor chicken coop, Mrs. Gorman?”
An indoor chicken coop? Is that even a thing? Don’t we need chickens for that?
“Just leave it by the convection toaster oven,” I motion feebly towards the middle of the living room.
He’s soon gone and I’m finally logging into Amazon, searching the ever-so-elusive Customer Service contact details. My seven-year-old spots me, peers at the screen, and calls out, “Mommy, why did you start gaming without me? The imaginary store is MY game!”
What is he talking about?
Uh-oh. I have a premonition. Did he just say he was playing an imaginary store?
I peek at his iPad. The Amazon website is on full display and my young buyer is tapping on various items with gusto. I’m transfixed as he clicks on an image of a red leather recliner. ‘Add to cart?’. Click. ‘Purchase now?’. Click. ‘Confirm order, Didi Gorman?’ Click.
And just like that, in the blink of an eye, I’ve become the proud owner of an unsolicited red leather recliner.
“See?” he says triumphantly, “I beat you to it! I bought a sofa in five seconds, and all you did was to stand here and stare!”
“W– what else did you buy in this imaginary store?” I ask when I finally find my voice.
“A wireless security camera, a treadmill, and a portable wood stove!” comes the jubilant answer. “And you didn’t buy a single thing! You’re so slow!” he adds for emphasis.
In one swift click I disable the automatic sign-in function, a move that puts an abrupt end to the gleeful juvenile shopping spree. The youthful consumer is devastated. He loved Amazon profoundly, and I have a feeling it was mutual.
Now that this saga is over, you would think I’d cancel these orders. But on second thought, why cancel? They could come in handy, after all. The microfiber burgundy duvet cover set, for example, will cover the indoor chicken coop and the convection toaster oven and, if it’s large enough, possibly the treadmill and the portable wood stove that will soon accessorize my living room.
Besides, the burgundy will match perfectly with the new red leather recliner, which, one must admit, is the best purchase yet. I mean, I could sure use a red leather recliner right now, just to calm down.
As for the security camera: How else will I be able to tell if an unbidden Amazon delivery truck is pulling into my driveway?
Moral of our story?
Disable ‘automatic sign-in’.
Alternatively, you could be like me and quickly log into the Amazon website to add a bottle of stress-relief capsules to one of those orders that’s about to journey to your driveway. I’ll even switch off my new security camera for that, because the stress-relief capsules are what I need most right now!
** Author’s note: No seven-year-olds were used in the making of this story. All people mentioned in the text are purely imaginary. I don’t even have a seven-year-old. **