The Case of The Great Googler

When the phone rang on Sunday morning,  I answered it. Major progress, if you know me.

I was immediately rewarded for my courage.

"Is this Courtney Robinson, the real estate agent?"

Showtime!

"Why, yes, it is. How may I help you?" I sat up a little straighter and reached for my notebook and pen.

"I have your box. They delivered it to me, even though I don't live at your address." Then she rattled off the address on the box, and her own address, and the one on the box again, to emphasize that they were not identical. Both addresses were located in the city to the north of mine.

This was not at all how I'd anticipated the conversation would go, so I paused to swallow and collect my thoughts. Too long, apparently,  because the voice on the other end continued.

"So, when can you pick it up?"

Was this a test? A trap? Did I need to reveal more information?  Did I need to obtain more information?  No. No, I did not. This could be shut down efficiently in two sentences--ten seconds, max!--and I could reclaim my Sunday morning.

"It's very considerate of you to call, but I'm afraid you've reached the wrong Courtney Robinson. It sounds like the box was meant for a different Courtney Robinson."

"No, it's for you."

Hmm... this was going to be a tough nut to crack.

"I'm truly sorry, and I applaud your dedication,  but--"

"Is this Courtney Robinson?"
"Yes, but--"
"And are you a real estate agent?"
"Well, yes, but--"
"And do you have blonde hair? Because I am looking at your picture right now."

Wait, what?! 

"My picture is on your box?" I was genuinely surprised by this turn of events.

"It is your box," she grumbled, "whether or not you are willing to admit it."

She was interrupted by the sound of barking.

I suppose I could have hung up while she disciplined the dog(s?), but I got the distinct impression that she'd keep calling me until this was resolved.

We needed a direction. Enough was enough. Time to take the wheel.

"Perhaps it would be best to notify the post office or the shipping company, so they can deliver the box to the correct address," I offered hopefully.

"Well, what good will that do?  You said you don't live there. Don't you want your box? Why don't you want your box? Why would you order a box if you didn't want it?"

I began looking around my bedroom for a hidden camera, because conversations like this do not happen in real life.

"The box doesn't belong to me. It is for a different Courtney Robinson. One who probably lives at that address. And who definitely wants the box," I added.

"Another Courtney Robinson? That's just ridiculous. Another Courtney Robinson. Look here. I put your name in The Google and you popped right up. You. The real estate agent."

Luckily the Hounds of Heck interjected again. I thought hard, and when she returned, I was ready with a new approach.

"So, how about this weather we're having? Pretty crazy, eh?" Which was true. And when it's crazy, it's a very popular conversation topic. A real crowd-pleaser. Had to keep the momentum going-- "Say, since it is so cold and icy out, perhaps you could contact the post office to pick up the box to deliver it to me. Or better yet, just write 'Return to Sender' on it and set it outside, okay? It'll be fine. Trust me, I do it all the time." Time for the big finish. "And thank you. Thank you so much for helping me to get my box. I'm sorry for being so difficult earlier. I must have been confused."

And that was that.

Total extraction time: 12 minutes and 57 seconds. A gracious exit with everyone's dignity intact.

I know what you're probably thinking, but it was not time wasted. Someday she might need a real estate agent, and she definitely knows how to find me.

Thank goodness for The Google.