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Amazon

Patricia Ann Bowen

    Clara’s house sits at the end of a long private road bordered with live oaks dripping Spanish moss. The dark grey van with the smiley stripe on its side cruised down her driveway almost daily. Its energetic driver would shift her vehicle into Park in front of Clara’s house and run up the stairs to the open porch to deposit her package. She’d ring the doorbell, carefully lean the package against the entry, snap a quick picture, and dash off to her next stop.
    Rain or shine, just like the postal service, but better – the only mail Clara got through them anymore was mostly junk and a few stray bills that couldn’t be paid online. There used to be the occasional letter from her sister in Pittsburg, but she was gone now, and updates from her college alumni club but they had petered out ages ago. Now, junk, junk, and more junk. But not from Amazon; they delivered just what she asked for.
    The old woman would watch for the driver, and sometimes catch up with her before she ran off. “Got time for a cool drink, Lula?” Clara would ask hopefully, trying to engage the young woman in conversation. “I can fix it up to go.”
    “Oh, thanks, but I gotta run. Got a quota to meet, y’know. And anyway, I keep a whole case of Gatorade on my front seat. Maybe next time.” She’d smile courteously and off she’d trot. Clara would watch the attractive girl, attractive for her ‘git er done’ attitude, for her physical ease, for her youth – ah, to be a driver like her who’s able to play someone’s Santa Claus every single day of the year.
    The one and only time Lula did stop and take Clara up on her offer, they sat on the porch for almost ten minutes and exchanged abbreviated life stories, sharing the highlights as only women can do. Clara was a retired high school teacher. Lula’s mom had taught, too. Clara was widowed, no children. Lula was divorced with two little girls.
    Those few precious minutes cost Lula three times that in rush hour traffic at the end of her shift. Dinner was late. Sorry girls. Never again.

    Clara spent hours every day browsing, comparing quality and pricing, and updating her shopping list, her wish list, and a couple of custom lists she created herself for gifts and donations. She even had grocery lists for food delivered to her door, from Whole Foods of course, right from the Amazon.com website. It was so easy. And she was able to do it all courtesy of the laptop she’d purchased from them, on sale. It was a lifesaver, her link to the world.
    She ordered necessities like bath tissue and towels, underwear, packs of 100 batteries for her clocks and flashlights. She often requested just one item at a time because she enjoyed the reliable comfort of seeing that van roll down her drive almost every day. Hot chocolate mix in the winter, iced tea mix in summer. When she ran out of things to order, she’d skim the best-selling large print books, paper versions, (digital deliveries were no fun at all), and order some to pretty up her shelves. She especially enjoyed sending birthday gifts to her nephew in Chicago, and he’d email her a digital picture of the package delivered to his front stoop. But lordy be, Amazon sent her more emails than he did!
    More than once she ordered items she’d forgotten she already had. Boxes of chocolate truffles and hazelnut crème wafers began to pile up in the cupboard. She had enough nightgowns and warm socks to last her ten more lifetimes. But it was a relief to know they were there for her when she needed them.
    Store shopping was out of the question for Clara anymore, but that was okay with her. Shopping on Amazon was more fun anyway. Her eyesight was failing and she dared not drive except for dire emergencies, like the time she cut her thumb, almost sliced it off, and had to get to the doc-in-a-box down the road in a hot hurry. Thank goodness her car even started; it’d been sitting idle in the garage for so long. That fandangled electric knife was a gadget she’d never use again.

    It was more fun until last Wednesday that is, when Clara’s Amazon driver dashed up to her door, as usual. While Lula was dropping off Clara’s latest package, she noticed Monday’s box still on the porch. She rang the bell, twice, and knocked on the door, too. No reply. She didn’t have time for this, but she did it anyway. Lula pulled her mobile out of her pocket and punched in those three digits, as she was trained to do.
    “911. What is your emergency?”
    “This is Lula Arnold. I’m an Amazon.com driver. I’m concerned about a customer of mine who hasn’t picked up a package I delivered two days ago. Can you please send someone to do a welfare check on her?”
    “Of course. Give me her name and address and I’ll send someone right over.”
    Lula did, then stacked the two boxes near the porch door and sped off to her next delivery, already running late.

    The front door was unlocked, and the two young officers found Clara slumped over her laptop, the one she bought from Amazon last summer, her head resting on her arm that was nestled on the keyboard. There was a faint trace of a smile on her lifeless face. When the policewoman touched the side of Clara’s neck to confirm the absence of a pulse, the side of her hand depressed one of the computer’s keys and the screen lit up, displaying a red Santa hat, lined with white fur, on Amazon.com.

    Lula swung by and checked with Clara’s neighbor at the end of her shift and got the sad news, the few details of how Clara was found slumped over at her kitchen table, probably planning to place a holiday order. She cried all the way back to the warehouse depot.
    She died shoppin’ and payin’ my way while I’m knockin’ myself out drivin’ this junk to her every single damn day. What a circle of pain. We’d both a’been better off just sittin’ on her porch and watchin’ the world go by.
    Lula sat there in her van for a long while, collecting her emotions. She should quit this gig and do something else, find a job where she could slow down and get to know people, where she could come home at the end of the day with energy to spare for her daughters.
    She slid out of the van, went inside, and dropped the keys on the desk. The dispatcher asked her his usual stupid questions. “Anything exciting happen today, Lula? Run over any dogs? Any old ladies?”
    “No, not today, Ronnie. See you in the morning.” Dream on, girl. Maybe someday...

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