[ WP ] You keep getting packages addressed to the person who lived in your apartment before you . One day you open one .

Friday. 
 
 *Another one. * 
 
 Larry Harry Herman peered out of the slight gap of the curtains that smothered his upstairs window. He peered right down at where the tidy brown parcel rested -- dead center on his doorstep. 
 
 *And I know it is n't for me. It will be for that damned Robespierre again. * 
 
 Larry Harry Herman was not a popular man. That is not to say that he was a hated man. For the opposite of hate is love, and to be popular in today's world is to be well-known, well-liked, a crusader of one's peers. WIth that definition, Larry Harry Herman was unpopular in the sense that he was unseen, hardly remembered, and a ghost among his peers. 
 
 From his small, rotound stature-which was almost like that of a penguin, just not quite as pronounced-to his static and plain, almost blank expression, Larry Harry Herman was unremarkable. He had none to call a friend, passable acquaintances ( who would hardly recognize him on the street, despite working in a cublicle next to his for a decade ), and precious few surviving family members ( all of whom were as plain and unremarkable as Larry Harry Herman ), 
 
 It pained Larry Harry Herman to receive packages addressed to the previous tenant of his two-story brownstone house. Each brown parcel with the name J. R. ROBESPIERRE, 123 Washburne Way carefully printed on the label was a sharp dagger to the heart of Larry Harry Herman. It was the embodiment of the world at large and it's collective oversight of his existence. 
 
 *This Robespierre fellow better not cross paths with me! * Larry Harry Herman mutters to himself as he ambles down the two flights of stiars to retrieve the parcel. 
 
 He was annoyed at Robespierre, whomever he might be, for not putting in a valid forwarding address. Six months was far too long to be receiving a package for the wrong man in his own home, was Larry Harry Herman's forlorn protest echoing in his balding head as he huffed and puffed in heaving his front door open. He huffed and puffed with each door he opened, not because he was weak, but because he was out of shape, as middle-aged men with no wives to feed them vegetables and lean meat are wont to be. 
 
 The front door sprung open with a solid *whoof* of air compressing inward and outwards, and broad rays of sunlight immediately invaded the dark interior of the brownstone's foyer. 
 
 Larry Harry Herman winced in response to the bold light of day and quickly brought up a chubby hand with short fingers to shield his eyes from the intruding brightness. He squinted and pushed his eyebrows into the cusp of his clammy palm as he snatched the parcel up with his free hand. 
 
 He brings it inside. 
 
 He stares at the carefully printed address label. 
 
 **J.R. ROBESPIERRE** 
 **123 Washburne Way** 
 
 He glares. 
 
 He stares some more. 
 
 And a little more. 
 
 *I've had quite enough of this nonsense. * Larry Harry Herman says to himself in his empty voice. He was not quite interesting or aware enough to actually posess the quality that would allow one to be offended: persona. But in all actuality, Larry Harry Herman was quite offended at the constant reminder of just how invisible, overlooked and *boring* he was. 
 
 The parcels were the straw upon the camel's back for Larry Harry Herman. 
 
 *Perhaps* **I** *should like to have a parcel, hmm? Just once. * Larry Harry Herman mutters with the faintest trace of agitation as he holds the parcel straight out in front of him and takes brisk, purposeful strides towards his kitchen. 
 
 *Six months. Six months I have received these parcels, addressed to J.R. Robespierre, * Larry Harry Herman now speaks at a stronger pitch. He slams the parcel down with not very much force behind it and starts hunting around in a drawer for a pair of shears. 
 
 *Six months, I have done what I am supposed to do as a citizen of this sovereign country and I have returned it to the postmaster. Six months, I have gone out of my way to return mail that was sent to my house bearing the wrong name. That is far too long! * 
 
 Larry Harry Herman wields the scissors in his hand and his wispy mustache quivers slightly as he pants steadily, glaring at the brown parcel and those neatly printed words on the front. 
 
 *Six months, I have endured these painful reminders that I am quite invisible and quite alone in the world. I can not even live in my house in peace without a parcel showing up for someone who lives here* **no longer**!! 
 
 Larry Harry Herman spits the last two words out of his thin mouth with a sneer of disgust and pained contempt. 
 
 Larry Harry Herman is showing more emotion and response than he has in his entire existence, and while his chest began to curiously hurt -- his full focus was still on the parcel before him and the scissors in his hand. With a knitted brow, a cursory blink of his eyelids to wick away the beats of sweat that now hovered over his forehead, Larry Harry Herman flew at the strings that bound the parcel together. 
 
 He would be J.R. Robespierre for the moment. He would open the parcel as if it was his. After all, it was not his fault that this Robespierre fellow could not manage the very simple task of putting in a valid, working forwar -- - 
 
 Larry Harry Herman stops. 
 
 He puts down the scissors with a rapid motion. 
 
 He stares at the parcel and all the shredded brown wrapping paper and strings that once bound its contents together. 
 
 It is a box. A white department store box. 
 
 Larry Harry Herman is afraid to touch it. 
 
 He stares at the gleaming white box for a good moment, and the box stares back at him. 
 
 *I'm so sorry* 
 
 Larry Harry Herman mutters his apology quickly and rapidly as he snatches the tape out of the same drawer where he retrieved the scissors from. He works nimbly to tape the brown tatters of wrapping paper and string back together. 
 
 He makes sure to cover all traces of the whtie department store box beneath. 
 
 He finds the address label and neatly tapes a new white label next to it and scribbles **RETURN TO SENDER** within the margins. 
 
 Then, Larry Harry Herman places it directly outside for the postmaster to collect on tomorrow's route. 
 
 Larry Harry Herman scampers up the stairs and spends the remainder of the day locked in his study, reading the daily reports from work with timorous fortitude. 
 
 Larry Harry Herman knows just how close to differentiation he came; and he makes due note to himself to never touch another misaddressed parcel again. 
 
 Larry Harry Herman fades safely into obscurity. 
 

