‘Where do you want it?’ the driver asked, scratching the side of his stomach with his pen. I frowned as he put it back on his clipboard, then looked up at the huge delivery of timber strapped to the back of his truck.
‘Who did you say ordered this again?’ I asked.
‘Uh…’ he flicked through the pages on his clipboard. ‘Paperwork says “Alan Roy”?’
‘That’s me,’ I nodded, ‘but I definitely didn’t order this.’
‘If that’s your name and address, I’m afraid I gotta drop it off here,’ the driver said, before spitting onto my driveway.
‘Where am I supposed to put it?’ I asked, gesturing at my small suburban cul de sac.
‘That was my first question,’ he shrugged.
‘Hang on,’ I sighed, taking out my phone and frantically sending a text to my wife.
‘Y’know, these are some of Cheltenham’s best timber supplies,’ the driver mused to himself, walking alongside the giant pile of wood.
My phone dinged as my wife got back to me; she didn’t order it. I turned back to the driver.
‘I’ll take it off your hands,’ he interrupted. I blinked at him, confused.
‘The wood – I’ll take it.’
I felt strangely possessive all of a sudden, at this man trying to take my wood.
‘No,’ I frowned, suddenly and strangely possessive. ‘It’s mine.’
‘I’ll give you fifty bucks for it.’
‘Fifty! That’s gotta be two grand’s worth of wood!’
He scanned me up and down, and rolled his eyes. ‘Do you even own any tools to work timber?’
‘Planing tool? Champing guide? Dovetail saw?’
‘You made one of them up, didn’t you?’
‘Not that you would know.’
I frowned at him again. ‘There’s a great hardware store in Cheltenham–’
‘A hundred bucks!’ he relented
‘Done,’ he said, pulling some bills out of his pocket and placing them in my hand. He turned and walked back to his truck.
‘How high would you have gone?’ I called after him.
‘Are you kidding?’ he chuckled. ‘That’s thousands of bucks worth of wood there! You could’ve gotten a grand out of me, easy!’