The van’s suspension groans as it leaves the smooth, municipal asphalt of the main road. It’s a rhythmic, heavy sound-a low-frequency thud followed by the high-pitched rattle of a loose parcel in the back. For the driver, who is currently on drop number 41 of a shift that began in the dark, the transition is tactile. He doesn’t need to look at the house number yet. He feels the property before he sees it. If the wheels sink into a loose, unmaintained slurry of mud and old gravel, his shoulders tighten. If the van glides onto a firm, well-drained surface that holds its shape under two tonnes of steel, he exhales.
He’s spent delivering packages across South Dublin, from the narrow lanes of Dalkey to the wide sweeps of Foxrock. He couldn’t tell you the color of your front door. He probably couldn’t tell you if you have curtains or blinds. But he knows, with a visceral certainty, who you are by the way his boots meet the ground when he steps out of the cab.
The Sound of Arrival
I realized this late last night, sitting on the sofa, watching a commercial for a telecommunications company. It was one of those sentimental bits where a grandfather learns to use a tablet to see his newborn grandson.