Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Wednesday exercise: Improvise a story to a photo
I jumped off my motor cycle and walked up to the door with the package under my arm as so many times before. I had however never delivered anything to this address before. But new customers are like getting new friends my boss used to say. So there I stood outside the door of a new customer with a friendly, selling smile delivering a box of jam and I could not find the doorbell. Nor a pat or a string or anything indicating that it was meant for visitors to mark their presence in any way.
If it had been a trailer or a smaller house, I would have knocked, but this customer seemed to live in a minor castle. If my knock was to be heard someone had to be right on the other side of the door.
I brought out my smartphone and checked the address with a vague hope that I simply was at the wrong place, but no.
Wrong door then? No. One road, ending in one graveled area, surrounded by colorful stone walls on two sides and the house itself on the third - glittering like painted with fairy makeup; and the house had only one door on the side I could reach.
I called my boss explaining the problem, asking if there was a phone number I could use to tell the customer that the jam had arrived, but there was not. The order had arrived with snail mail of all things. I also got strict instructions not to just leave the box on the door step and leave.
So what could I do? I knocked. With a vague hope that someone inside had good hearing.
"What?" I heard a voice from above. Three floors up, right under the ridge was one of those little balconies that was there just to give good looks without practical use. On that cramped place, squeezed out and kneeling to fit, peeked the eyes of a haggard. . . person. I could not tell if it was a man or a woman.
"Your jam, ma'm. . . sir." The face gave me a wide grin and disappeared from the balcony.
In the next second the front door was opened and the same weird face appeared in front of me. Not only was it too fast for anyone to move three stories down, but the body the head was fixed on could not ever been the same anatomy squeezed into that balcony. It was not physically possible, just as little as a giraffe could have been there.
I held out the box. And the. . . person took it, signed on my pad and closed the door.