Moving sucks.

I'm preparing for my final days in Chicago. I have nearly everything packed, save for a few items that seem to be difficult to place—where does one pack a bedside lamp, or a jump rope? I look at my pile of belongings, and feel a sense of anxiety—I like things to be organized. To save room in my rental car, I decide to ship a few non-essential items via FedEx. 

The boxes are quite large, and difficult to maneuver. I don't want to make multiple trips, so I opt to carry them both—it's only a few blocks from my apartment, I rationalize. I begin inching my way to the FedEx shipping office, the large boxes obstructing my view of the sidewalk. I can't see in front of me, so I look down at my feet to guide the way. I stop a few times to gather my bearings; the last block saps my remaining strength. 

As I round the corner to my destination, the boxes tumble out of my hands—luckily, I'm right in front of the store. A kind gentleman props open the door for me as I gather up my boxes and scurry inside. As a thank you, I allow him to go in front of me.

A few moments later, I'm called forward. I carry one box, while scooting the other across the floor with my foot. A young woman greets me. Although her face is obstructed by a mask, I can tell that she's beautiful. Small creases around her eyes give away her smile. She tells me her name is Jessi.

After gathering my information, she weighs my first box—shipping will be $29.99. I'm ecstatic about the price. I lift up my second box, and again, she weighs the item. My total comes out to about $61.00.

As she removes the box from the scale, a foul odor slowly washes over me—perhaps I need to wash my mask, I think. Did I brush my teeth this morning? But gradually, the smell becomes overwhelming, and I start to look around for the source of the offending odor. As I glance down at the scale, I begin to scream. 

"Oh my god, oh my god," I yelp. 

The FedEx employee looks confused. "Is everything okay?" 

Although I can clearly see it (and smell it), my brain refuses to believe what is right in front of me. My confusion quickly changes to dread—when I dropped those boxes outside, of all the places they could have possibly landed, they must have come to rest atop a fresh pile of dog shit.

Before I can think of a way to word it eloquently, it comes out of my mouth.

"There's dog shit on the scale. There's a schmear of dog shit. Look!" 

She looks at the scale in disbelief. She then turns her attention to the boxes themselves, and daintily lifts one up with her finger. "Oh God," she calls out. Two of her eavesdropping coworkers begin to laugh, while another ducks into the back room, seemingly in an effort to avoid dealing with my shit covered boxes. 

Other customers begin to pick up on the hubbub. I look down, and notice that there is a Pollock-esque smear of dog shit on the carpet where I had scooted one of the boxes over with my foot. A woman next to me softly begins to gag. A man in the back of the line shakes his head and says, "That shit nasty as hell." 

Just as order begins to dissipate, an authoritative figure exits from the back office. Jessi seems to be trying to maintain an air of professionalism. 

"Cynthia, there's a problem. There's, there's some kind of..."

"There's shit on my box," I finish for her. 

A male employee is laughing so hard that he excuses himself from helping a customer. The woman next to me who was gagging steps outside for a brief reprieve from the smell. A man happily steps forward to claim her place in line, apparently unbothered by the increasingly pungent smell of dog excrement. 

Cynthia looks at me as if I'm insane—as if I purposely tried to trick FedEx into mailing boxes covered in dog poop. I try my best to explain myself.

"I was carrying the boxes, and then I dropped them outside, and a man held the door, and, and, and there must have been dog shit on the sidewalk. I'm so sorry, I promise I didn't know, I can't believe this is happening, I—"

"We'll take it from here," Cynthia says coolly. 

I exit the store, feeling all eyes on me as I walk out. In an effort to clear my name, I scan the sidewalk, looking for a pile of dog waste. I find a heaping load right next to the front door, and a distinct smudge where I must have dropped my box. I begin screaming and pointing outside the window.

 "HEY! There's dog shit! There's a huge pile of dog shit RIGHT here!" 

I’m met with blank stares. As I continue pointing and flailing my hands wildly over the dog shit, passersby take pains to avoid me. A woman pushing a stroller shoots me a concerned glance, and opts to cross the street. Another man steps around me with a look of disgust, as if I’m a pile of dog shit. 

I give up. I begin walking home, feeling beyond embarrassed. I check my clothes—is it on me? While I seem to be in the clear, I break into a jog so I can change my clothes and hop in the shower. As I reach my front door, I get a phone call from an unknown number, and sensing that this may be FedEx, I pick up immediately. 

"Hello?"

"Hi there Kristin, this is Jessi from the FedEx you just left a few moments ago."

"Hi Jessi, thank you so much, I'm so sorry for what happened, I—"

"It's quite okay Kristin, trust me, we've seen worse. I do have a favor I'd like to ask."

"What's that?"

"Can you please fill out the survey at the bottom of your receipt, and tell us how we did today?”