Well this is the third story in the XYZ Deliveryman Jeff saga. I seriously developed a second bout of admiration for the dude after thinking of all the intriguing stories he’d told me over our short time together.
This next one has a touch of seriousness to it given law enforcement is involved, but demonstrates Jeff’s incredible ability to employ corporate policy to the fullest.
As he entertained me during our short winter weeks together, he bought up a story about a peculiar delivery he’d always make once every two weeks on the dot. Each time it was a sizeable box, wrapped up in layers upon fucking layers of duct tape, and heavy as hell. Even stranger, the customer, a big, overweight dude who dressed in a tank top and jean shorts whom we’ll christen Bob, would be waiting for the thing in person.
It’s like clockwork and Jeff was curious of course, but given the regulations regarding the tampering of mail, he made no inquiries. Plenty of customers got weird shit delivered to their homes. He’d seen everything from sex toys (actually another fun story for another time) to hideous art pieces to sketchy foreign products, so there was no reason to question this guy.
One day he gets the guy’s shipment a day late. On this particular day, it also happens to be drizzling a bit. For Jeff everything is routine, so he simply thinks the guy doesn’t want to wait for him out in the rain. So he places the box as far under the recession of the front door as possible to keep it dry. Keep in mind this is a pretty big box, so it’s still a bit exposed to the elements.
Unfortunately for Jeff, the guy isn’t terribly happy with his decision. The next day, Jeff pulls by the house with a delivery for next door, and he finds overweight, tank-top wearing Bob fuming at him. The duct tape package is slung under one arm, sagging slightly at the edges, and, as Bob got closer, it gives off a distinctly pungent odor. One Jeff recognizes immediately. Weed.
This explains everything about Bob’s compulsive need to accept the packages in person. But Bob isn’t there to trade friendly words with Jeff. Instead he’s shaking angrily, with rivulets of sweat staining his tank top and glistening off his receding hairline.
“This fucking package is ruined, man! The fuck is wrong with you? Look at it!” Bob holds it out to Jeff, who sees the damp patches. There’s also a strong fucking weed smell fogging up the air, but dumbfuck Bob doesn’t care.
“I’m…sorry,” Jeff apologized. “I tried to leave it out of the rain and you weren’t there to receive it.”
“It came a day fucking late, man!” Bob seems to think Jeff controls when the packages are sent. “Every two fucking weeks, man! Like clockwork! You gonna replace this shit?”
“Replace it?” Jeff is thinking through this slowly, and begins formulating a plan. “Oh yes, well you see sir, I can’t take it back myself as it’s your property now. But if you want, you can make a formal complaint down at our local hub.”
At this point, Jeff is expecting Bob to back off. What with the illegal cargo and all. But to his surprise, dumbfuck Bob just nods. “Fine. I fucking will.” He saunters away with the smugness of a customer believing they’ve beaten the establishment, and Jeff is left stunned, unable to believe what just happened.
So Jeff makes several calls. One to the local hub, another to his supervisor, and another to the local police. Dumbfuck Bob is about to be fucked by customer service.
Jeff explained to me that when it comes to mail, the laws of privacy and ownership can be tricky. If Bob had a braincell to spare, he would throw the package out, sever any ties with his weed source, and lay low for awhile. But Jeff knows Bob now, and Bob is a dumbfuck.
So Jeff is called back to the local hub, where his supervisor and several officers are now waiting. They explain to him that they have to hear Bob verbally recognize the package as his own property, because Jeff simply smelling the weed is only enough for cause to investigate and not to fully prosecute.
An hour goes by as the officers, Jeff, and his supervisor wait in the back of the hub for Dumbfuck Bob to show. Sure enough he does. Bob saunters into the store, package under one sweat-stained arm, as he approaches the counter to lodge a complaint. The person working the register plays it like a pro. She’s been briefed to act normally and listens as Bob explains loudly that his package was ruined and he wants a refund.
She entertains him, pretending to fill out a complaint form and then calls the supervisor to request that Jeff come in to confirm that he did indeed deliver said package. They wait another twenty or so minutes, before Jeff comes in, pretending to be bewildered as he engages in conversation with Dumbfuck Bob.
“You ruined my fucking package,” says Bob.
“I did not, sir,” Jeff explains again the process of leaving the package in the safest place he can. “But if you like, we can do our best to replace the contents or match them for their worth. Would you mind telling us what was in the box?”
Bob tenses visibly as though he’s holding a severed head. The rusty gears of his brain grinding into motion as he ponders the potential issues of such a disclosure. “Fuck it,” he grumbles, “And fuck you.”
With that, Bob takes the package and begins marching back out the door. At this point the police have their closure and make themselves known almost impossibly fast. Before Bob can take a step, he’s slammed up against a wall, cuffed at the wrists, and his precious box is swatted to the ground to reveal bundles of tightly packed and vacuum-sealed weed trickling out the side.
Jeff watches as Dumbfuck Bob curses and resists, feigning innocence. It’s a dream come true for him as he watches a shitty customer get a bit of justice for making Jeff a glorified drug mule for god knew how long.
Edit: This was the third part in the Jeff sagas.
First part is Here
Second is Here
Final Part Here