The PKG by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Miles McMacken, a 57-year-old Caucasian accountant, had taken Friday, July 1st (2016) off to give himself a four-day 4th of July weekend. He wasn’t planning on doing anything outdoors, as it was typical Charlotte summer weather: a sauna. Miles wanted to use the time to repair an N-scale Santa Fe locomotive that he ran across in the attic while looking for a box of old coins. 

After eating a slice of yesterday’s Portofino (an Italian restaurant on Eastway Drive) takeout, he got back to work on his project. Various parts of model trains were laid out all over the dining table. He began testing the locomotive’s motor with a voltmeter. Maybe one of these hair-thin red wires has become disconnected. But, which one? This may take all weekend.

Suddenly Miles hears a knock on the front door. Is June [his wife] coming home for lunch? That’s odd. Why didn’t she tell me that last night? Maybe she wants to surprise me.

He gets up and walks to the foyer. Miles looks through the peephole and sees an African American UPS (United Parcel Service) driver walking back down the asphalt driveway to his brown van. Oh, he must have left a package. Has my Z-scale boxcar set already arrived? That was fast. I thought that the arrival date was Tuesday, July 5th. Maybe the seller shipped it immediately. 

He opens the door as the UPS van pulls away. Miles grabs the craft-paper-wrapped package and brings it inside. He places it on the table and carefully cuts the packing tape with an X-acto knife.

To Miles’ supreme surprise, the cardboard box’s contents are several zip-lock plastic bags inside shrink wrap. He looks closer. Oh, my eyes! This is a package of pot! [marijuana] It’s probably a kilo. [kilogram; 2.2 pounds] of weed. Who would send me such contraband? Dave knows that North Carolina is not Colorado. This stuff is still illegal here. And he knows that I don’t smoke anymore. Wait, maybe it was mis-delivered. 

Miles then looked at the eBay shipping label. It was addressed to NXT WRLD Concepts, 1668 Carolyn Drive. (Miles and June’s address was 1686 Carolyn Drive.) Ah, the UPS guy transposed the last two digits. 1668 is three houses down. Ah, that’s the new couple from California. [He had seen their cars’ front plates.] NXT WRLD Concepts? What a cover name. Do vowel-less company names really look less suspicious? Ah, weedheads these days.

Miles then opened one of the zip-locked bags. The marijuana odor was pungent. He felt one of the buds and gave it a pinch. Oil was secreted onto his right thumb and index finger. He licked it off. Wow! I bet this stuff is primo. When was the last time I smoked any herb? Eight, nine years ago? Can’t remember. A few puffs wouldn’t hurt. Might even be fun. June won’t be home until 5:30. That’s five hours of high time. But, I can’t smoke it in here. And, what am I going to smoke it with? I gave all my pipes away. Wait! In the shed, there’s a vaporizer. Yes, that’s the ticket! I’ll smoke a gram [.035 oz.] in the shed with the vaporizer. That solves the lingering odor issue. June never goes in that old shed because of the spiders.

And with that line of thinking, Miles clipped off a piece of a bud and put it in his shirt pocket. He then resealed the opened zip-lock bag, and then rewrapped all of them in the shrink wrap. Next, he hid the package of pot in the basement behind the water heater.

Miles then marched out the back door to their metal storage shed. He unlocked the padlock, slithered inside, and slid the doors shut. Hope the neighbors didn’t see me. But, if they did, so what?

He found the vaporizer right where he had put it a decade ago: behind a large can of bolts. I remember ordering this from Australia. Hope the plug adapter [for American receptacles] is still in the box. Yep, here it is. We’re good to go.

He placed the budlet [sic] on the little tray and set the clear, glass globe over it. Then he plugged the vaporizer’s cord in. Six minutes later, the little circular plate had reached its maximum temperature. A light gray mist soon filled the globe. Well, it’s toke time. 

Miles took a deep draw from the flexible hose that was connected to the base. He coughed. Woah, that was too much. Need to go a little lighter. We’re not 22 anymore.

He inhaled seven more times over the next 13 minutes, until there was just an ash corpse on the round tray. Well, I am definitely high. No doubt about it. Time to get back in the house. It’s hot as hell in this shed.

Miles packed away the vaporizer. He then locked the shed and started walking back to the house. I sure hope that no one came to the front door while I was in there. Did UPS tell the California couple that the package was inadvertently left on our porch? Oh, crap! Oh, no. Calm down. That’s most unlikely.  

A neighbor, a recently unemployed 40-something Caucasian man named Mark, saw him just as he reached the back door. “Take the day off, Miles?” he asked.

Miles was startled to hear a human voice. He turned towards the sound and saw Mark at the edge of the four-foot-high chain-link fence. “Uh, yeah, Mark. Decided to extend the holiday weekend.” He sure had an extended stay in that shed. Why would he close the door on such a hot-ass day?

“Did you hide the gold?” Mark asked with a silly grin. So, Mark saw me go in the shed. Damn!

“I wish,” Miles replied. “Well, I’ve got to get back inside the house. The stove is on.”

“Baking green brownies again, Miles?” Why did he say that?

“No, just some white chocolate cookies. Have a good one, Mark.”

“You, too, Miles.”

Miles then entered the house, closed and locked the door, and sighed. Such bad timing. / Old man Miles is up to something.

Miles went to the front door, opened it and looked around. He saw no one, not even nosy Mark. The coast looks clear. Maybe I should just walk the package down to their house. Both of their cars are gone. Now would be the best time to place it on their porch.

Then Miles heard his cell phone ringing on the dining table. He rushed inside and closed the door. On the fourth ring he answered it. “Miles here.” Hope I didn’t miss any calls.

“My man Miles. How have you been? It’s Steve.” Steve who? Oh, Steve from Ohio. I’m so high I’m forgetting people.

“I’m ok; still mutilating model trains when not crunching numbers for the bank. Are you still in Cleveland, Steve?”

“Yes, I am. Hey, did you see where we finally won a freaking championship after 52 long-ass years?”

“I did see something about the Cavaliers winning in seven, Steve. Did you go to the parade?”

“No, I just watched it on TV. I’m too old for that now. So, what have you been up to?”

“Like right now?”

“Sure. Like right now, Miles. Is your wang [slang for penis] in a knothole?”

“You always were a funny guy, Steve. That’s why I moved down here: to get away from you.” Miles then started laughing.

“Remember when the Browns won the NFL title in ’64, Miles?”

“Vaguely, I was only five.”

“I was six, but I remember it. I was beginning to think that would be it for national professional championships in my lifetime. What a sweet surprise. The upbeat vibe is a refreshing change. Not so many downward-looking faces in the city anymore.”

“Well, that’s great to hear, Steve. Our old town needed some joy, especially after the Indians lost a pair of World Series in the 1980s.”

“Are you ok, Miles? We lost two World Series in the ‘90s, not in the ‘80s.” Oh, yeah; he’s right.

“Oh, what was I saying? I meant a pair in the 1990s: ‘95 and ‘97. Atlanta was tough, but losing to the Marlins in an 11-inning game 7 was the worst.”

“And we had a 2-1 lead going into the bottom of the ninth, Miles. Remember?” That’s right.

“Yes, I remember now. Gut-wrenching stuff. I remember you saying that Cleveland would never win at anything ever again. You were incensed, Steve.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t a happy camper that night. Well, enough of sports. So, what’s up?”

“Well, I’m not at work. I took the day off, Steve, to work on a model train locomotive. You can insert a nerd joke now.”

“No, I think I will wait until later. Continue.”

“Well, a package got delivered to our front porch just about an hour ago.”

“Let me guess: HO-scale train stuff?”

“No, I only fool around with N and Z scales now. It saves layout space. June doesn’t like these train layouts taking over the house. But, no, it certainly wasn’t model train stuff.”

“Was it the Maltese Falcon?”

“No, but that was the size and weight, I would guess.”

“Was it ticking?”

“No, it wasn’t a bomb, thank God.”

“Well, I’m stumped. What was it, Miles?”

“It was a kilo of high-grade pot.”

“And you opened it and smoked some?”

“How did you know?”

“Your speech pattern, Miles – it’s all over the place.”

“Oh.” I guess I should avoid people for the next few hours.

“How did the package of dope get left at your door?”

“The UPS driver got the last two digits mixed up.”

“I see. What kind of label was on the package?”

“An eBay shipping label. What do you think I should do, Steve?”

“Somebody’s going to be regally pissed when they don’t get their $8,000 weed shipment, Miles. I would seal up that package as professionally as possible while wearing gloves – no fingerprints now – and somehow get it on the addressee’s front porch.”

“You think so, Steve?”

“I know so, Miles. Since they used an eBay shipping label, the package was scanned when it was dropped off at your front porch. It is now in the system as ‘delivered’. The sender and the receiver can both see this now.” What product is actually listed on eBay?

“Ok, thanks, pal. The addressee only lives three houses away. They aren’t home now.”

“Then get off the phone with me and deliver it pronto!”

“Ok, over and out.”

“Good luck, Miles.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

Miles quickly got the package from the basement. He put on some latex gloves and wiped down the zip-lock bags and shrink wrap with an almost-dry sponge to remove his fingerprints. He then carefully and neatly cut out a torn area in the shrink wrap with his X-acto knife. I think this looks much better now.

Three minutes later Miles was exiting the house with the rewrapped package under his left arm. He looked down the street. Miles was in luck: There were still no cars at the addressee’s house. Steady your nerves, old boy.

He quickly walked up the driveway and left the package on the true recipient’s front porch. Miles then turned to retreat back to his house … and he saw a California-plated blue sedan pulling into the driveway. Oh, crap! Get ready for some fast talking. Stay smooth. Don’t panic.

A slender, 30-something, brown-haired Caucasian lady stepped out of the car. She had a red skirt on with a high slit up the left side. “Can I help you?” she plainly asked.

“UPS dropped your package off at my house by mistake.”

“Oh, thanks for bringing it over.” She seems very nonchalant. She’s either very good, or her husband has her in the dark.

“Sure, no problem. My name is Miles. My wife’s name is June. We live three houses down.” I think that sounded ok.

“My name is Beth. My husband’s name is Ben. Glad to meet you.”

“Likewise. Well, take care. I guess we’ll see you around.” I hope not.

“Sure. Bye.”

Miles was still riding a nice premium-cannabis high, yet he felt that he had performed exceptionally without a single blunder. When he got back in his house, he sat down at the dining table and started to work on his locomotive again. Ok, where is that darn X-acto knife?

He looked everywhere in the house for the round-handled, razor-blade-holding knife to no avail. He even searched the shed. No luck. It’ll probably turn up somewhere crazy, like in the refrigerator.

He then checked the refrigerator. And the freezer. Still, no luck. I’ll just buy a new one tomorrow.

The California couple would stay in their rented house for six more months. In that time, neither Miles nor June spoke to Beth or Ben. They would casually wave when their cars passed, but that was it.

Two days after the Californians moved out – Wednesday, January 4, 2017 – Mark saw Miles in his front yard and accosted him. “Miles, Ben said that this is your X-acto knife. He asked me to return it to you.” Damn, it was in the package!

“Thanks, Mark.”

“So, what’s the story, Miles?”