“The UPS Man and His ‘Package'” #16

Posted on February 9, 2011

14


I’ve always had a thing for UPS guys.  They’re sexy and nice.  What more do you need?  So, when the doorbell rang and I ran down to open it to this cocoa-colored brother, standing 6’2” in his nicely pressed browns, how could my heart not miss a beat?  In my sling, I sign for the package addressed to my Mom; a vegetable spiral slicer that they scammed with enough bogus coupons and proofs of purchase.  It’s not even something they need, but it was free.  They duped the system for it, so it’s a real “coup d’etat.”

I flirtatiously ask Mr. UPS Man if he gets hit on a lot in that uniform.  After all, I’m in freshly washed sweats, and I combed my hair this morning.  Who wouldn’t want me?  But, he’s entering numbers on his gadget and not paying me too much attention.  Until Vito shows up.  Mr. UPS Man lights up.  I knew I got a Pit Bull for a reason.  Be it construction workers, garbage men, or delivery truck drivers, you want some blue-collar action – get a Pit.

We’re chatting about Vito’s obsession with gold chains, and he says he knows another dog that likes to wear jewelry, too.  He asks me about my arm that’s in a sling, and I say, “You should see the other guy.”  Ladies and gentleman, I’ll be here all week.  He’s about to leave.  As I always used to tell my friends when we went out to bars in the city, “I like to leave no stone unturned.”  I can’t just let this one get away, so I summon up my guts and say… “Hey, are you on Facebook?”  He walks back over and gives me his card.  I watch him walk back to his truck with his buns of steel.

I make Vito give me a high-five and I close the front door…to see sitting there on his Lazy-Boy throne watching the whole interaction, 2011’s version of Archie Bunker, my Dad.

“What have you got against Jewish men?”

I am speechless.

“Would it kill you to go out with someone white?”

What I would really like to say here is, “Well, you know what they say Dad, Once you go black…”  But, that is inappropriate.

My disgusted father continues, “Go help your mother in the kitchen.  I don’t want to see you any more.”

I reply, “Well, I can’t see you even if I wanted to, your stomach’s in the way.”

“Hee hee hee hee,” he responds in his evil sardonic Geisha laugh.  “Look at yourself, Myra.  Why don’t you go eat some more cookies?  You’re not fat enough.”

The comeback queen replies, “Well, at least I change my weight.  You can’t change ugly.”

“LINDA!  LINDA!” he screams until my mother comes into the living room like What the hell?

“Get her out of here.  She’s attacking me.”   Then, Vito starts growling at him.  “Get Guido out of here, too.”

My Mom walks back into the kitchen.  I follow her.  Vito follows me.  Archie Bunker calls out from the living room, “DON’T FORGET TO TELL YOUR MOTHER ABOUT THE SHVATZA YOU’RE TRYING TO PICK UP!”

I help my mother in the kitchen.  We’re going through piles and piles of coupons, cutting out the expiration dates (as if no one will notice).  She asks me if it’s true; if I really tried to pick up a black man.  Oh, here we go.  I say, “Yup.”

Then, to my surprise, she asks me about my pick-up lines.  So I lean in, and with my somewhat cocky confidence, let her in on my secrets.  My best one to date was when I went to a Wall Street bar with my friend Sharon in an attempt to meet finance guys.  I scoped the hottest guy in the bar, waited til he was texting on his phone, then went up to him, phone in my hand and said, “Are you texting me?   Because I haven’t gotten it yet.”  That guy wound up being a drunken idiot who threw up in the cab ride home.  But the point was…I got game.

I have my mother laughing.  It’s nice to see her happy.  I start telling her about my other slick maneuvers and how she can try them too and maybe meet some real men, when I see my father standing there, listening.  He says, “Get a job, Myra.”

Later I text the UPS guy; something witty, flirtatious, coy, yet elegant.  I wait for the return text.  I’m patient.  It’s not like I have a job or anything.  I hope to God he spells correctly.  Even I, at this point, have my standards.  He returns the text.  Spelling and grammar, check.  Okay, I’ll sleep with him.

We go out later to T.G.I.Friday’s.  He’s having a soda.  I’m having a martini.  He doesn’t drink, and I, at this point in my life, have to.  It turns out he has four kids from three different women.  Oh boy.   After some benign conversation, I insinuate that we should go to his place for a nightcap.  “Cranberry juice,” I quickly add.  He says that might not be a good idea.  One of his baby mamas is there.  Oy fucking vey.  Can’t a girl get some action around here?

He drives me home and pulls the car up in front of my house.  He puts his hand on my jeans.  “I think you’re really cute,” he whispers in my ear.

“Cute like a bunny rabbit or cute like Cindy Crawford?”

“Like, fine.”  He starts kissing my neck.

I say, “Okay, can we just go around the block, please?”  The last thing I want is for us to be watched out the window.  Because, I see Vito already is.    Having your dog watch you get some action is just not…right.

We drive around the block, turn the headlights off and start making out.  If you’ve ever tried automobile hanky panky with one arm in a sling, you know it’s challenging.  His hand goes up my thigh.  It’s getting really sexy, except the sweet nothings he’s trying to whisper are not sweetening me up; I love thick girls…I wanna lick that booty.  I’m hoping he stops talking.  You like black cock?  “Um, actually,” I reply in embarrassment, “I’m an equal opportunity employer.  I like them in all colors.”  The conversation somehow turns political, and he suddenly says something about “those liberals.”  I make a joke, “Stop it or you’re going to sound like a black Republican.”  But alas, he confirms, he is one.

That’s when I zip up my jeans, thank him for the classy evening and get out of the car.  I walk home, fly up the stairs and go to my room.  I say hello to Kermit and Gonzo and curl up with Vito.

This is not good, my boy obsession.  I wonder if I should get a job.  But, how would I get there?  My parents would have to drive me.  My Dad won’t let me take the car anywhere, because he thinks I’ll steal it.  This is where I would normally spiral into depression, but the new Myra takes control and thinks only of the good things.  I did get some action tonight.

And, a little action is better than none.  Go and deliver that!