The inky dinky spider is a black ink cartridge that is crawling around the neighborhood. I paid over $30 dollars for this cartridge plus priority shipping and it has yet to arrive at my door. I call the very established company that makes the cartridge only to be greeted by a recorded message that states:

Due to recent events (they don’t specify, but I can assume), we are currently closed. Our new hours are M-F from 7am-4pm (my luck, it’s a Saturday). If you need to contact us, we urge you to do so by email. We appreciate your patience during this challenging time. Goodbye. (There’s a click). The outgoing message has hung up on me.

As suggested, I contact the company by email and in a few minutes receive a return email stating that I should call them at the number I just did. Since it’s still Saturday, I try a different tact and call the delivery company. The one I’d like to forever cancel with a big ‘X’; that’s a hint. They don’t seem to know the difference between avenue and drive. I live on an avenue with the same name as a drive in my small town. This company notoriously delivers my packages to the drive address, and I don’t know where that is or who lives there.

I get a robot. She’s very nice and speaks very clearly. However, when I refuse to give my tracking number (because I just want to yell at, I mean talk to a real person), the robot hangs up on me. I call back and give my tracking number.

The robot asks my name and tells me to deliver it in a specific manner. She gives an example: John, J-O-H-N. I then say and spell my first name and to my amazement, the robot spells it back perfectly. She asks for my last name and I say: Jan, J-A-N. She spells it back: C-E-J-A and asks, is that right? “No!” I scream. She then very politely asks me to say and spell my last name again. I do and she spells it back: N-A-J-A-N. Is that right? “No!” I say again. The robot says there’s a problem with our communication, snidely implying that it’s me. Finally, I get transferred to a real person whose name is Victor, but I hear ‘Bictor’ probably because I’m old or maybe because he has an accent. I’m a big fan of foreign accents. I like to place them in my head and I’m guessing Victor is either Italian, Indian or Spanish.

Every time Victor speaks it sounds as if he’s being sucked into a vacuum. Finally, I ask him, “Are you a real person?” There’s a long pause.

“Don’t worry,” he replies. Unsatisfied with the answer, I ask again and he says, yes. I tell him my package is lost. “Don’t worry,” he repeats, and then asks the color of my house. I say white. He asks me if it’s brick or cinder.

“Brick or cinder?” I say, “Those are the only choices? It’s wood and it’s painted white,” I say. He asks: how many stories? One and a half, I say and then add, “Does your driver take a picture of my home? Is that why you’re asking?”

“No. The process needs this information,” he informs and then tells me, “Don’t worry.” Now I’m worried. Victor gives me a case number and tells me that his company will be in touch about my lost package. I ask when.

“Mmmmmmmmmm,” says Victor his lengthy hum indicating that he doesn’t often get such a reasonable question.

“I don’t have this information,” he says adding, “If I tell you that it will come tomorrow, it’s a lie.” I appreciate his honesty. And then he says, “Don’t worry. You are in the best.” I’m still worried and the inky dinky spider is still crawling around town.