It was a miracle he got the email in the first place considering he rarely checked anyways.

Maybe it was the water trickling down his office window like shiny spiderwebs, but today Dan found the 17 unread emails a bit too much. Like the window, he wanted it washed clean. So he did just that. Starting with the obvious spam from Staples (oh how he regretted sharing his information with them by now), he then dredged his way though the countless work emails that did not relate to him in the slightest. He’d considered requesting to be removed from some of the group emails, ones regarding committees he did not belong to and events he did not plan on attending. But this forthrightness was not how Dan operated so he did nothing of the sort. Besides, he told himself during his sifting, he wasn’t even sure he knew who to contact despite his wishes.

He had to admit that he did feel significantly better as the number dwindled from fourteen, to five, and then finally to one. The final email he kept for a reason. Saint Gabriel’s Postal blinked in his inbox like a swiveling lighthouse.

It had been years since Dan had thought back on his college days and perhaps even longer since he had heard from his alma mater. They had contacted him in his early years out, asking if he was interested in pledging some money, or perhaps if he had any interest in attending the homecoming basketball game. Dan informed them as pleasantly as he could muster that since he had never attended a game during his tenure he would not be taking up as a fan in his late thirties. The young, college student on the other end would continue to press the issue.  Dan knew they only meant to enhance their commission, maybe upgrade from stale cliff-bars for a couple of days, but nonetheless, Dan felt inconvenienced so he took it out on them. If he recalled correctly, the last few calls had ended with curses masked with pleasantries and a prompt hang up. No wonder they no longer called.

Dan clicked on the email. It expanded to fill his computer screen.

Dear Daniel Toring,

                There is a package awaiting you at the Saint Gabriel’s Post Office. Tracking Number: 13629001. You have seven days (Until 10/19) to pick it up before it is placed in storage. Remember to have photo ID readily available upon pickup.

                We appreciate your cooperation and hope to see you soon!

                Thanks,

                Saint Gabriel’s Postal Staff

Dan fought down some anger at his full name being used in the email. He hardly let his mother call him by his full name, and the postal service certainly didn’t know him like that.

Once the initial anger had subsided, Dan was able to take a step back and contemplate the  email further.

It was a strange experience,reading the email, as though Dan were falling somehow. He felt off balance, despite his seated position .

Surely it was a mistake, one which a quick phone call would rectify. But as he reached for the phone, hand resting on the black lump of plastic, he stopped himself.

Saint Gabriel’s wasn’t much out of the way on his commute home. He, of course, had not strayed  from the shrubby pretentiousness of Saint Gabriel’s campus. Despite what his misgivings and lack of donations would imply, moving away would have meant moving on and somewhere deep down Dan had not been ready for that after graduation. If you had inquired about why he had taken a job so close to school, he would have told you that it was just the job he happened to attain but he also would have been lying. He had liked staying close to his familiar surroundings, and he had assumed his classmates would have done the same. They had not.  They had married, and they had grown, and they had forgotten. So Dan had played along with this charade.

But today he would go back.

He fumbled into his worn dress pants for his wallet. Dan pulled the sad excuse of leather out, letting it slap to the table like a fish on a hook. Rummaging through its folds finally revealed what he was looking for. A grotesque mirage stared back at him from the reflective plastic. What had once been a nineteen year old with a charming grin had been deformed by the wearing years. Now it looked up at him like a goblin, only his eyes bearing a semblance of recognition. But it was still an ID and probably would work.

Before he knew it, Dan was in the car headed for Saint Gabriel’s. It hadn’t taken much to get out of work early, just a few tried and true jokes with his perfunctory boss and he was off with nothing more than a wave. Now, in his beat to shit sedan, he watched the windshield wipers chase off rain droplets. He didn’t feel he was in any particular hurry, but he kept finding himself glancing up at the dash, surprised by its readings.

He made the drive in good time, blessed at having left work early enough to beat the traffic. He waited in a small line of cars at the university gate that separated them and the public parking lot, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel the whole while. Finally, he pulled up to a man in a vibrant red coat which Dan felt would have been far more suited for snow than rain. He flashed the guard his card and a grin. The gatekeeper, as Dan decided to refer to him (for that is how he would have described his occupation were he to ever be in this man’s shoes and red snow jacket) hardly had looked at the identification before waving him in. Security clearance to this parking lot seemed fairly low.

Dan pulled into an open parking spot, turned off the car, and jettisoning out of the sedan as quick as possible, the engine still making noise as he hit the door. The postal office was hidden behind several large bushes, a cause for many angry calls from faculty and staff alike but not so many that anything was ever done about it. Thankfully,Dan knew just the way; one of the perks of having attended Saint Gabriel.

He got to the door, preparing to enter. However, as he swung it open, immediately he began having feelings of regret. What was he doing here? Surely they would know he was not a student? He should just go.

But he had already committed to opening the door, so he simply entered sheepish and unsure.

“Can I help you?”

The burly man behind the counter hardly looked up from his work, which currently seemed to be overly applying packing tape to a brown package.

“Yeah,” said Dan, the words coming slow as if he were in a foreign restaurant making sure he used the appropriate inflection, “I guess I was wondering if I could pick up a package. It said you had it here.”

“Name,” said the man, putting on the finishing touches in a manner unbecoming of a finishing touch.

“Oh, Toring, sir”

“Otoring, otoring” he began to mumble under his breath, his hands thumbing through the smaller packages like files.

“Oh no, I’m sorry, it’s just Toring!”

Dan needed to get out of here before they realized he was an impostor.

The man looked up, his bald head and face teaming up for a collective furrow.

“Can you spell it, Mr. Toring?”

Dan could, so he did.

The man nodded and began flicking through the packages like the pages of riveting thriller once again. Eventually he realized it wasn’t in the smaller litany of packages and he receded to the back room, leaving Dan to his own musings and Alanis Morrisette’s “Ironic” which played from a dinky yellow radio in the corner, halfheartedly.

Finally, the man emerged with a package which he hefted into Dan’s arms. Dan, who had his ID prepared for inspection, was shocked by it’s weight. The man went back to his taping without another word. Dan was left to interpret that their business was through. He pocketed his goblin ID and left.

Later that night, butter knife in hand, Dan stared down at the package. He was nervous to open it.  Originally he had assumed their was just a mix-up. Maybe they had mistakenly mixed up Dan with a freshman named Dan Torace, or Teller perhaps. But no, he sat looking at his very name scribbled upon the package in familiar writing.

His mother’s writing.

She was fine last he’d heard, living out her retirement with his father  in a coastal town he always forgot the name of.  It had been a while since he’d gotten a care package from her, probably not since college, but he knew this was what sat before him. How it had been lost in transit all these years was baffling, and he wondered what would be inside. Brownies, perhaps a subway gift card, maybe even a note from his parents. It had been so long since he’d called her, hadn’t it? When was the last time?

He lowered the knife to the package but something stopped him. He was interested in what this time-traveling package had to offer, but he realized he had a phone call to make first , one that he hoped what not get lost in the wormhole this time.