Inside I could see a long, dark hallway with red faux textured walls lined with large, illuminated paintings. At the end was a half-opened door to a room that hosted a flickering light. Someone was home and should have heard the doorbell. I didnt like the look of it. Occasionally you read about an elderly person who dies alone and no one knows about it for weeks. My mind went there. I stepped inside and closed the door, enjoying the warmth, deciding what to do next.
Hello! I said in my professional voice, hoping it sounded nonthreatening. I shuffled my way down the hall, noticing that the art looked original. Someone had money. Lots.
The source of the uneven light was a huge stone fireplace. I entered the room, not sure why I was being quiet. Somehow the room was both simple and overwhelming. It was half fire washed color, half black, brilliantly appointed with antique wooden furniture, elaborate patterned walls, and wood floors. My pupils enlarged to tease out the shadows.
An old mans voice rose from the texture. Ive been expecting you.
I was startled and feeling a bit guilty about letting myself in. It took me a minute to locate the source of the voice. It was as if it came from the room itself. Something moved and I noticed, on the far side of the fireplace, in a wooden rocker, a smallish form in a red plaid blanket, looking like a hastily rolled cigar. His tiny wrinkled hands held the blanket like button clasps. Two undersized feet in cloth slippers dangled from the wrap.
Your door was unlocked, I said, as if that were reason enough to let myself in. I have a package.
All I heard was the fire. I expected an answer. Thats how its supposed to work. When one person says something, the other is supposed to say something back. The old man wasnt subscribing.
He stared at me and rocked, sizing me up, perhaps, or maybe he was lost in a replay. I had already said what I needed to say, so I stood silently for what seemed too long. I thought I saw the wake of a smile, or maybe it was a muscle tremor. He spoke in the deliberate manner of a man who had not used his voice in days and
asked a strange question.
If you toss a coin a thousand times, how often will it come up heads?
The elderly are spooky when they degenerate into reflections of their younger selves. They say things that make sense on some grammatical level, but its not always connected to reality. I remembered my grandfather in his declining years, how he spoke in nonsequiturs. It was best to play along.
About fifty percent of the time, I answered before changing the subject. I need a signature for this package.
Why?
Well, I said, measuring how much information to include in my response, the person who sent the package wants a signature. He needs confirmation that it got delivered.
I meant why does the coin come up heads fifty percent of the time?
I guess thats because the coin weighs about the same on both sides, so theres a fifty-fifty chance it will land on one side versus the other. I tried to avoid sounding condescending. I wasnt sure I succeeded.
You havent answered why. You simply listed some facts.
I saw what was going on. The old man pulls this trick question on anyone who comes within range. There had to be a punch line or clever answer, so I played along.
Whats the answer? I asked with all the artificial interest I could muster.
The answer, he said, is that the question has no why.
You could say that about anything.
No, he replied, in a manner that seemed suddenly coherent. Every other question has an answer to why. Only probability is inexplicable.
I waited a moment for the punch line, but it didnt come. Thats it? I asked.
Its more than it seems.
I still need a signature. I approached the old man and held out the clipboard, but he made no motion to take it. I could see him better now. His skin was stained and wrinkled but his eyes were strikingly clear. Some gray hair gathered above each ear and his posture was an ongoing conversation with gravity. He wasnt old. He was ancient.
He gestured to the clipboard with his head. You can sign it.
In the delivery business we make lots of exceptions for the elderly, so I didnt mind signing for him. I figured his hands or eyes werent working as well as he liked and I could save him the frustration of working the pen.
I read the name before forging.
Avatar. Avatar.
Its for you, he said.
Whats for me?
The package.
I just deliver the packages, I said. My job is to bring them to you. Its your package.
No, its yours.
Um, okay, I said, planning my exit strategy. I figured I could leave the package in the hallway on the way out. The old mans caretaker would find it.
Whats in the package? I asked. I hoped to get past an awkward moment.
Its the answer to your question.
I wasnt expecting any answers.
I understand, said the old man.
I didnt know how to respond to that, so I didnt.
He continued, Let me ask you a simple question: Did you deliver the package or did the package deliver you?