“Click-clack, click-clack,” she says with a head tilt for emphasis.
“Ah, the heels. First, good morning. Second, I’m on the hunt for the boxes I sent. Brad is also looking for them but suggested I check with you.” I put my hands on the front desk.
“Well, that’s unfortunate because Brad is a ding-dong and shouldn’t be in charge of anything,” Bea replies, giggling.
“Lucky me.”
“Don’t get me wrong—very sweet boy—but not very sharp. Kind of like his dad in that way. You know—” She’s shifted her weight with a hand on her hip.
Before she can launch into some small-town lore, I bring her back to the task on hand.
“I’ll pay to hear the story of Brad’s ding-dong dad. Really, I will. But we have to find my boxes first. I need them for the event which kicks off in a few hours.”
“I’d never take your money, but Iwilltake you up on a drink before you go home. Let’s find those pesky boxes.” She pulls out a three-ring binder.
I laugh to myself, not wanting to distract her. I can’t remember the last time I saw a binder, with paper, tabs, and ripped plastic on the front. Before I can get too nostalgic, Bea is on the phone, not caring how early it is. I leave my card on the front desk, pointing to my cell number, and she shoosme away.
On my way back to the conference room, I get a whiff of the marvelous smell of freshly brewed coffee. I’m convinced there’s nothing better.
I grab a cup to go, because if the universe has given me a crisis this early, I’ll never get through it without copious amounts of caffeine.
Back at the Babbling Brook nightmare, Brad is waiting at my designated table—still no boxes.
“I’ve looked everywhere I can think of and no luck. I’ve got someone else going down to the drop-off point to double-check they made it into the building. For now, you’ll have to hold tight.” He’s bracing himself for my response.
In the few moments I take to gather myself, I notice how nervous Brad is. He might be a ding-dong, but it looks like he has lots of time to un-ding-dong himself. Honestly, he looks like a kid.
“I appreciate you taking another look and asking for more help. Bea’s making some calls at the front.” I try to reassure him.
“I’ll call you once I have an update.” He practically runs from the conference room.
Time flies as I frantically call the delivery company to gather any other helpful information. The missing puzzle piece is who signed for the boxes. What seems like a straightforward piece of information ends up stumping anyone and everyone I’ve been transferred to. It’s something that should show on my end when I log in to view the delivery status on the app, but it doesn’t, and no one knows what to do next.
Bea’s been down to check on me—she’s so sweet but I also don’t think she’s a fan of the heels in the hallway—and insists she has a few more ideas. The lodge is hosting several different events this week and is pretty popular so it’s possible my boxes are with a different event.
Vivian encouraged me, reiterating the missing boxes aren’t my fault. I texted her when I had been transferred to the third person who was tryingto find anything else about the mysterious signature. She’s resourceful and always good for a quick reality check.
No matter how many times she tells me, this feels like my fault.
The other vendors have made their way in and are setting up tables and displays, and getting prepared. I feel like I don’t belong here and am unsure of what to do next.
What couldn’t come at a worse possible time is a text from Jack.
JACK
How do the quarter zips look?
Of course, he’d want to know about the thing in the boxes that no one can find. I eye roll and tilt my head to the ceiling. Since this text is a question about work and is completely acceptable, I must respond.
Small issue with the quarter zips but I'm on it
What kind of issue?
The boxes were signed for by a lodge employee and marked as delivered but no one can find them
Have you called the delivery company?
Yes, I'm all over it.
