Page 1 of Playbook
ONE
Ihold my breath and adjust the packages in my hand to avoid the stench. When that doesn’t work, I shuffle the red envelope that smells a lot like it was dipped in cheap perfume to the middle of the stack in the hopes of smothering the scent. I can’t tell if I’m successful because the terrible smell is burned into my nostrils.
The line for the mail counter is out the door of the main lobby area and growing. Before I had a PO Box, I was completely oblivious to just how busy this place gets. Don’t people know you can print postage at home now? Who would ever willingly stand in this line?
I guess me. But only because I need to talk to someone.
The room is filled with quiet whispers and heavy sighs. More than one person has commented on the smell as they’ve stepped up to the back of the line. The person directly behind me keeps inching backward, giving me a wide berth and shooting annoyed glances at me as they bury their nose intheir shoulder.
I’m next up to be helped, thank god. I can’t wait to drop these packages and get outside to breathe in the fresh air.
“I can help the next person in line.” The woman behind the counter already sounds like she’s had a long day. They opened an hour ago.
Rushing forward, I set my mail on the counter. “Hi.”
She takes a step back and waves her hand. “I guess I don’t need to ask if you’re mailing any perfume today.”
I’m pretty sure that’s judgment on her face. I don’t blame her. I’m judging the person whose mail this is too. Which is not me.
“I don’t need to mail anything,” I explain. “I just wanted to talk to someone about my PO Box.”
Covering her nose with one hand, she moves tentatively back into position. It seems that is as much of an opening to continue as I’m going to get so I proceed.
“I am getting mail for whom I assume was the previous owner of the box.”
“We have a bin where you can place items for previous box owners in the back corner.” Her thin lips pull back in a sort of forced smile that doesn’t feel the least bit friendly, but more like she’s thrilled to move another person out of her line. “Next.”
“No, wait.” I glance back at the impatient person stepping toward me to take my spot and give them an apologetic smile, then back to the woman whose name tag reads, Beverly. “I have been doing that, but it’s a lot. It’s taking up my entire box. I actually talked to someone else last week and…”
Beverly doesn’t look like she wants to deal with my problems today, so I stop talking. I’m going through a bit of a pessimistic phase so sometimes my words don’t come out hopeful or cheeryenough to win over friends and influence people. My roommate Alec calls me grumpy, but that’s just a fun word people like to use. I am perfectly sunshine-y under the right circumstances. They’ve just been few and far between lately.
I divvy up the mail into two stacks. Mail addressed to me—a couple of envelopes that look like junk mail and a package I’ve been expecting with the most amazing red shoes inside—and everything else. Then, I motion in front of the stacknotfor me. “This is just from the last two days.”
Today’s bounty includes a dozen envelopes, two bubble mailers, and a small box. All of them addressed to Brogan Six.
Beverly arches a brow and picks up the one on top. It’s a brown box, fairly small, and taped together with clear shipping tape stamped with little red hearts. It looks like it could be a Valentine’s Day present, if it weren’t August.
“I will take care of them,” she says with a sigh and a begrudging look in her eye. Who said customer service was dead?
“Thank you. And is there any way to stop future packages from being put into my box? I’m the only person on the contract so if they aren’t addressed to London Bennett, they aren’t mine.” I aim for a cheery tone, but I can tell I’m not winning any points with this woman by continuing to stand in her line and speak. No matter how friendly.
And I know it isn’t her fault that the previous owner forgot to forward his mail, but it doesn’t seem like that much to ask that the PO Box I pay for each month containsmymail.
In the two months I’ve had the box, it’s always contained more mail for Brogan than for me, but it’s gotten worse. This is the third time I’ve talked to someone. I’m sure they have bigger problemsto solve, but it’s annoying. My box isn’t that large, so they put my packages in another box and leave the key in my small metal bin. It’s twice as much effort. And sure, that’s not really that big of a hassle, if the packages were actually for me.
They almost never are. And they’re odd. His name is written in neat, loopy feminine penmanship in red or pink pens, covered in lipstick kisses or spritzed with perfume. Brogan Six is either a teenager with several pen pals or is having a dozen relationships with women by snail mail. An old-fashioned love affair. It’s almost romantic. Except for the smell. I suppose if I were going to spray perfume on a love letter, I might be tempted to use my oldest, cheapest bottle. But now I know better. Only the expensive stuff for my future pen pal or nothing at all.
I have no idea when I might get to use that very important life lesson since the closest to a love letter I’ve written or received lately is the automatedthank you for your ordertext I get every time I order DoorDash, but I’m tucking it away for the future.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Beverly says. It isn’t the “It won’t happen again” I hoped for, but it’s something. She places the packages for Brogan behind her and then uses hand sanitizer. Good idea, Bev.
I shove my mail in my purse and thank her. My fingers are crossed that I won’t be intercepting any more mail for my former box owner. How has he not realized he’s no longer getting his mail? Maybe he was separated and moved out of his house, hence the need for a PO Box. He found some women to fill the void while he tried to win back his wife, and then she finally took him back and he moved back in and forgot all about his harem of pen pals.
It’s a long shot, I know. My dad is in family law, so I know the statistics of married couples staying married. Or separating andthen working it out. Still, I hold on to that image as I head to brunch with my sister.
I drive with the windows down, letting the hot air whip through my hair and remove the stench from the mail depot. Not a small sacrifice since it’s already over ninety degrees outside. We’ve reached peak Arizona summer when the only pleasant time to be outside is when the sun is down.
At the restaurant, the hostess leads me out to a back patio where, to my surprise, my parents, sister, and her boyfriend, Ben, and his parents are all already sitting.
