Three minutes left in the spin cycle.

He bellows through the door. Tall. Maybe six-and-a-half feet. A hulking ginger.

"Looks like they're remodeling around here."

"Yep." I don't look up from the pile of towels I'm folding.

"Maybe they'll add some more washers and dryers."

"Maybe."

"How much longer on that one?"

"Almost done." I bend down to unload pillowcases and sheets. I catch a glimpse of his socks, pulled shin-high under slip-on sandals. Both stamped with an A&M logo.

"Lived here for long?" he asks.

I'm not one for small talk. And I don't know how to politely explain that to a grown man in an authentic Fightin' Texas Aggie football jersey with matching maroon shorts. So I turn, grab my makeshift laundry bag - a duffel with a giant Longhorn monogram - and reply with one foot out the door...

"Have fun in the SEC."

The delivery slip says I have two boxes in the front office. (Oscar signed for both. I'd missed them by an hour).

"Anyone here?"

A girl peeks her head around the corner. Begrudgingly. Probably a leasing agent on weekend duty.

She digs around a storage closet lined with shelves and packages and hands down a white cardboard box. A small one. Inside, dozens of plastic coffee pods. French Roast and Breakfast Blend.

"There should be another one..."

A round of apathetic searching.

"Maybe they left it on the truck? By accident, you know. I'd call the number on your slip."

"Says right here, both were signed for. By Oscar. Barely an hour ago." I point to the timestamp.

"This happens all the time. Why don't you call FedEx and I'll talk to Oscar. I'll let you know what I find out."

A chat with the local shipping center confirms my increasing frustration.

"We spoke directly to the driver of the truck. He left all deliveries, including yours, with a short, dark-headed man at the front office."

"Oscar?"

Homeless.

Multiple (scathing) calls to management, one to APD and the swipe of a neon highlighter across line A.147 of my lease later... we'll gladly accept yo' shit, but we're certainly not liable... I never got the second box. (A Keurig coffee maker). Or an apology.

I swore up and down I'd be moving out the second my contract was up. 

That was twelve months ago. 

This week, I re-signed for six more. 

Because I've chosen not to hold a grudge, you know. Forgive and forget. 

And I've moved once a year, every year, for the past seven. Why make it eight unnecessarily? 

And - karma postscript - the entire management staff was fired in June.