The Receiving Room Guy.

posted in: Day In The Life 6
Could there be love inside?? I'M KIDDING. Also, that's not my table. Photo: Wikipedia.
Could there be love inside?? I’M KIDDING. Photo: Wikipedia.

In April, a small sign went up on the door to my building’s receiving room:


Two months later, the sign changed:

“RECEIVING ROOM HELP WANTED!!!! CALL 773-123-4567!!!!!”

It’s a tough sell.

In case you don’t know, mid-rise and high-rise condo buildings have a receiving room where UPS and FedEx leave packages and where large furniture deliveries and such are made. Florists go to the front desk, as does food delivery. But for your Amazon and your certified mail, you’ll visit the receiving room. It’s great to have one, because you never get one of those “we missed you” post-its, which always made me feel like the top scoop of my ice cream dropped off the cone.

Working in receiving at my building is not a gig a person with limitless options might choose. Well, it isn’t! It’s a windowless room, for one thing, and that can be hard on a person over an 8-hour shift. And it’s not a tiny space, but it’s cramped with heavy shelves and all surfaces are covered with boxes and things; plus, our receiving room is also the on-site dry cleaner, so there’s a big revolving rack of plastic-sleeved clothes in there, too. The gal who was working there for a long time was the daughter of the guy who runs the cleaners and whenever I picked anything up she looked like she’d rather be working as a dishwasher at Lou Malnati’s across the street.

Then one day about a month ago, the sign was taken down.

I walked into the receiving room and Adonis himself hopped up from behind the desk.

I’m not a hottie hound. (Is that a term?) I appreciate physical beauty as much as the next gal, but I have never understood the screaming mania that happens to some women when they see an airbrushed photo of a six-packed dude on the beach or at the gym. The dashing, Superman thing is nice, but I’m not —

Okay: he is gorgeous, people. 

Absolutely gorgeous. Not a day over twenty-two. Six-feet tall. Beautiful, swarthy, Mediterranean skin tone, a real “Oh-I’m-Sorry-I’ve-Been-Working-In-The-Olive-Groves-All-Day-With-No-Shirt-On” complexion. Megawatt smile. Whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. Longish, thick, dark hair that he ties back in what I understand is called a “man bun” and in theory I do not like this but in this case, I very much do. And he’s so nice. He knows my apartment number by now, so when I come in, he’ll go over to my place on the shelf without me having to say anything.

Whenever I have to look extra nice for a lunch date or a meeting, I’ll make sure to drop by and see if I have any packages. This is because if I don’t, he will think that I always look like a squinty, tired, messy-haired weirdo all the time, instead of just sometimes, since this is the way I typically look whenever I get an email that I have a package and I have two seconds to get to the receiving room before it closes. (This never happened when the owner’s daughter worked there, by the way.)

The other day, I had brunch and did not eat my pancakes. It was a full stack of pancakes, so I had the gal box them up. Upon entering my building – and because I looked adorable – I thought I’d see if I had any packages. I did! And as Adonis was getting my delivery, I thought: “I am going to offer him these pancakes.” Then I thought, “That is so weird, Mary. Do not do that.” And then, before my brain could stop me, I said:

“Hey, I just had brunch, like, just now. I didn’t eat my pancakes. They are 100%, completely, totally untouched. I even dumped syrup on them before the girl closed the lid. I know I’m not going to eat them. Do you want my pancakes?”

This amazing look of like, sheepish gratitude came over his face. He tucked a tendril — he literally has tendrils, people — behind his ear and said, “Actually… Yeah. I’m really hungry. Yeah, I’d love that.”

Look, my list of things to do does not include “Seduce Receiving Room Guy.” The reasons why this not on my list would be impossible to count. But if a single gal can’t give a cute guy her pancakes, well, what good is she?