For as long as I’ve known what stirrings were, I’ve sensed that my own rather went against the mainstream. To me, of course, they made perfect sense:
- Sports-mad, snuff-dipping alcoholic who cheated on his girlfriend with his boss? Yes, but how he could draw!
- Impossibly narcissistic, cross-dressing pre-op who wouldn’t shut up about his fine, theatrical edumacation? What did I care, when he did it in that BBC-perfect, Standard British accent?
- Skeletal, mascara-wearing vegetarian with a penchant for White Russians and light BDSM? Sure, he wanted to watch me pee, but he had musical talent and an IQ of 170 and Breck Girl hair. I mean, what was I supposed to do, for chrissakes—resist?
Historically, the key to my heart—crush, fling, long-term romance, whatever—has always been the magical combination of freaky genius and utter unavailability. Tall, short, black, white, straight, gay—if you’ve got It and I can’t have you, I’m pretty much yours.
So what was it about the UPS man?
Charlie. His name was C-h-a-r-l-i-e, and he delivered my packages (ahem) for about two years, in the early 2000s. He was tall (I like ‘em tall). He was shy (good, sometimes — more of a challenge, adds to the thrill). And he had a fantastic set of sticks. I mean, world-class: sexy, exquisitely long-muscled, perfect-hair-distribution dream legs. In little brown shorts, right about eye-height (I’m short), so I could look at them every time I signed his clipboard.
I blame it on a confluence of events: the advent of high-speed Internet, and the lure of online deals; an illness that kept me largely house-bound; a hatred of driving. But clearly, it wasn’t just circumstances; after all, I didn’t fall for the mail carrier or the Sparkletts water delivery dude. Or the FedEx guy, for that matter. Blue shorts. So…efficient.
No, I liked my UPS man…my “aw-shucks,” brown-clad cowboy. (They are the last cowboys, you know, the UPS men. The way they sling themselves into their trucks, those trucks with the high-up seats and the skylight roofs and the no-doors—no doors, even on tight turns and open roads! The last, great gasp of the great move Westward. UPS. Shh-caww!)
He liked me, too. I could tell. The way he smiled shyly when I made small talk about this or that. The way he brought my packages up last, after everyone else in the building. The way he made me designated package-holder for my fellow tenants who were out.
Well, okay, I did that. But come on–tell me you wouldn’t.
I don’t remember when I found out, or how: he was married. That’s one thing I won’t do. Actively home-wreck.
But really, if I’m honest, what really killed it? His wife. She was the computer person in the family. He hated computers. This man, who’d delivered every Mac, every font CD, every piece of legal software in my possession hated computers. Didn’t get them. It’s the geek equivalent of when that impossibly beautiful checkout girl opens her mouth and the grinding tones of deep Bronx pour out. The end.
Still, when I happen to be on the 10 Freeway in the morning, headed west, and they start pouring out around me, flanking me, dancing around me nimbly in their hot, brown love machines, it takes me back to that first day. That first delivery.
Brrrrrrrrr.
Hello?
UPS…
