curliestfry
Patrician
- Local time
- Today 6:46 PM
- Messages
- 8
- Age
- 25
I stand in a room, bare but for a conveyor belt, two of my coworkers, and boxes. A post office doesn't have the luxury of being ornate. We haul things from one place to another. That's it. My uniform is all black save for my orthopedic tennis shoes, a nametag on my chest and a cap with a Fedex patch on my head. Very utilitarian, this place.
My coworker Damien picks up a package off of the belt and brings it to me. It's for some woman named Cheryl Boyd, in Spokane, Washington. She lives on Elk Lane. I'm guessing that the box, based on its weight and size, has a pair of shoes in it.
I can't be sure, though. The conveyor belt's brought them in from the scanners, so whatever it is can't be dangerous or stolen. I'm just left to guess, and make my deliveries.
Holding the box close, I shut my eyes. When I open them, at least there's not going to be drab concrete bricks painted white.
Of course, I end up on Elk Lane, at the end of Cheryl Boyd's driveway. It's not much to write home about. It's a one story, brick, rectangular structure with gardenias planted along the front porch. The steps look a bit green; they should power wash the place and replace those old shingles, it'd do wonders for the curb appeal.
There's a wreath of plastic sunflowers on the door. I leave the package on the mat, which is just the usual tan with a black B in the center and a black outline along the edges. A lot of people buy door mats that look like that, I've noticed.
It's cloudy here. I suspect that if I don't head back, I'm gonna probably get rained on.
I close my eyes.
Before I even bother to look I know I'm back at work- the air smells like stale cardboard and glue. I open my eyes and Damien is already waiting, holding another box for me to take. It's bigger, heavier, more square. My guess is a coffee machine...maybe a shitload of books. I take it. It's for a man named Antoine Reed.
I stare at the shipping label, and envision East Third Street. My eyes close.
My coworker Damien picks up a package off of the belt and brings it to me. It's for some woman named Cheryl Boyd, in Spokane, Washington. She lives on Elk Lane. I'm guessing that the box, based on its weight and size, has a pair of shoes in it.
I can't be sure, though. The conveyor belt's brought them in from the scanners, so whatever it is can't be dangerous or stolen. I'm just left to guess, and make my deliveries.
Holding the box close, I shut my eyes. When I open them, at least there's not going to be drab concrete bricks painted white.
Of course, I end up on Elk Lane, at the end of Cheryl Boyd's driveway. It's not much to write home about. It's a one story, brick, rectangular structure with gardenias planted along the front porch. The steps look a bit green; they should power wash the place and replace those old shingles, it'd do wonders for the curb appeal.
There's a wreath of plastic sunflowers on the door. I leave the package on the mat, which is just the usual tan with a black B in the center and a black outline along the edges. A lot of people buy door mats that look like that, I've noticed.
It's cloudy here. I suspect that if I don't head back, I'm gonna probably get rained on.
I close my eyes.
Before I even bother to look I know I'm back at work- the air smells like stale cardboard and glue. I open my eyes and Damien is already waiting, holding another box for me to take. It's bigger, heavier, more square. My guess is a coffee machine...maybe a shitload of books. I take it. It's for a man named Antoine Reed.
I stare at the shipping label, and envision East Third Street. My eyes close.
Last edited: