He Delivered for Me

How my UPS man went from annoyance to emotional lifeline

- Danielle Festino

FOR THE FIRST year of our relationship, I didn't know his name and didn't welcome his interruptions. I felt hassled by the unexpected knock on my window, which was necessary to get my attention because my apartment lacked a doorbell.

Despite my annoyance, I secretly named him Kris, as in Kringle, because he was a kind of modern-day Santa Claus. With his white hair and grandfatherly vibe, he brought me presents and tried to spread cheer-except his uniform was UPS brown, not Santa Claus red, and I had ordered and paid for the presents myself.

Our relationship started when I moved into a small ground-floor apartment north of Boston. On the rare days I was home, the UPS man, seeing my car in the driveway, would knock until I reluctantly came to collect my package. I hated small talk, but with him I made an effort, chatting about the weather or the Patriots, fail-safe topics for building camaraderie in Boston.

I asked my somewhat misanthropic boyfriend if it was odd for me to spend so much time with the UPS man. He said it was weird, possibly dangerous, and urged me to ignore future knocks, which should have been easy advice to follow. But Kris reminded me of my father, who had also spent his workdays alone on a truck (in his case, delivering home heating oil) and had loved chatting with his customers, so I continued to answer the door.

But that was all before. Before my boyfriend and I broke up. Before Tom Brady moved to Florida. And before COVID-19 changed everything, including my feelings toward Kris, the UPS man.

Trapped in my studio apartment, I craved conversation and company. Far from dreading Kris's knock, I became a COVID version of Pavlov's dog, salivating when I heard the raps.