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Norb

Alexander Smith

    So, I’m a nightowl. I guess that’s what people used to call people who were just naturally nocturnal, and I’m not super certain that it’s appropriate in modern vernacular, but you get the idea by now. There’s a lot to consider, with this kind of natural cycle. “What’s open?” is usually the chief deciding factor on what you do, and do not get to do. Waking up to get to the bank is a chore and a half. The Post Office is usually out of the question.
    Everything that gets delivered just mysteriously appears on your doorstep, so when this box came, this box that only read “Norb”, written in shaky marker across damp brown wrapping, with no return address, showed up when I was awake, you’d be safe in guessing that my reaction was more confusion than curiosity. Both were present, of course. The arrival of the box, other than it’s timing and vexingly non-descript appearance, wasn’t spectacular. There was no cryptic note, no chanting in the woods, no squealing tires of a panicked deliveryman.
    The box didn’t wheeze, or smolder, or rattle. Whatever it was, it was solid. You could shake that thing all day, and not get so much as a shuffle. The doorbell just rang, and there it was. Humid air, tons of mosquitos, a porch light that buzzes for reasons that I can’t parse, the box, and me. I mean, I guess the thing that rattled me most about it, when it showed up that is, is that my name’s not Norb. Or Norbert. My name doesn’t even start with an “N”, and the guy who owns this place has a name that starts with a “B”, so it wasn’t his.
    It took a lot of staring, and a lot of prodding with my bare toe to decide to take it in. And shake it, like I mentioned. I knocked on it, tried to listen to it. I even tried to smell it. It just smelled like damp paper. You ever see those posters in the post office? They say that if something sounds, looks, or smells weird, it’s probably a bomb, or whatever the scariest thing is this week. I don’t know what a bomb smells like. I don’t think most people could sniff one out with a gun to their head.
    After determining that the package, who I’m just going to call Norb, at this point, was probably not a bomb, or at least I wouldn’t know if it was one, I had a debate with nobody over whether or not to open it. “Tampering with the mail is a federal offence”, I said. “But who’s gonna call the cops? You?” I replied. There was no counterpoint to that one. It was solid. Unassailable, even. I had my own number.
    Resolving to commit what would be the perfect crime, I set about grabbing something to get Norb open. There would probably be tape, under the paper after all. Knife in hand, I bore down on unsuspecting Norb.
    But.

    Something about this little lost thing kept me from pulling it apart. It wasn’t for me, it just wound up here. I could empathize. I thought “I didn’t mean to come here either, Norb. I just kind of got stuck.” The now-mentally-anthropomorphized package didn’t respond. Of course it didn’t. It was a package. “People get stuck all over the place, don’t they Norb?” That one got out. “Life takes us weird places.”
    I didn’t ever wind up opening Norb. He sat on my shelf for a week or so before I threw him out.

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