A desk job

 The lady at the Post Office smiled a little when she saw me at the counter, a slip of yellow card stock in my hand and a glimmer of hope for a special delivery of caffeine. Hope that was instantly erased by the question she asked of me:

"I hope you brought your car," she said before turning away and heading to "The Wall," where all the oversized packages are stored.

Alas, the box that had arrived didn't contain the tin-capsule encased coffee pods I had been expecting with anxious mint-flavored breath. Instead, the Post Office Lady lugged a door-sized, flat-packed box into the lobby. Something clanged metallically when she tipped it sideways to slide it through the door.

"It's heavy."

For a moment, I blink repetitively into the blinding light of the unknown.

The package is non-descript. A beige box, without pictures, inscribed with the name of a beige company that doesn't give away any secrets about the product contained within.

The label has my son's name on it.

A memory floated back to me from within the window of shipping possibilities: it was of the boy visiting me on the living room couch late one evening as I filled myself with warm caffeine and fiddled with something or other on the computer.

"I have some money saved up. Is it okay if I buy something online?"

I usually ask him about whatever it is his heart desires, and we chat for a bit about computer games I don't understand. The discussions have evolved over the years from extracting from the boy an accounting of the level of aggression his games would engender.

Back then he would assure me that nothing on his wishlist had been rated M for "mature."

On this evening, however, I had been preoccupied. I hadn't stopped to converse. I'd just nodded my head and shrugged my shoulders.

"Sure, go ahead," I had said, assuming the biggest inconvenience would be a momentary lag in broadband as whatever graphics-heavy game he wished to own took its sweet time downloading. "Just leave the money in my jacket pocket. I'll get it later."

It occurred to me, as I wrestled the box into my car, schlepped it up the porch steps and into the house, that I'd never even checked the deposit to see what he'd spent. I dipped my hand into my pocket and came out with a fist-full of crumpled cash. Much more than the ten or twelve dollars I'd expected.

I called up to his room:

"There's a delivery on the porch for you."

And then there came a thunderous trampling of feet down the stairs, his tousled head tilting as he skidded to a stop in the kitchen.

“Which porch?”

I tilted my head ... “Side.”

“What did you get? It was heavy.”

“A new desk! I wanted something more modern and without drawers for my computer. Want to help me put it together?”

“No. You'll just have to wait until your father gets home. I'm going to wait here for my coffee.”