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Fuck him

Liam Spencer

    Things were going as well as they could, I guess.
    After a long battle of unemployment that followed a long spell on workers’ comp, I had a new job with a very well respected government agency. I was excited for such an opportunity. I dreamt of the usual; benefits, pension, vacation, the same health insurance Congress Critters get, and job security through our strong union.
    Well, to be more correct, I had what turned out to be a tryout. IF I could make the grade, I might eventually get those things. I didn’t realize any of this at the time.
    They “hired” in unbelievable numbers. By the hundreds. Literally. Most would quit or get fired. It was a long hard job, every day. There was little to no training. We would be weeded out, one by one, whether the reasons for dismissal were real or imagined.
    I hadn’t realized what I had gotten myself into yet.

    The trainer that I was sent with for three days remarked on my walk speed. I was the fastest he had seen in his twenty years of training. The brief training was only regarding carrying mail, and little else. We were in a quiet suburb north of Seattle. The trainer knew all of his customers very well, and really knew the ins and outs. He could do his route blindfolded, but certainly not gagged.
    After training, I was sent out with three hours of mail. The time given does not matter. Each “swing (block)” is to take fifteen minutes somehow. That meant twelve swings. It might take a newbie five or even up to seven hours to complete three hours. I came rolling in after three and a half hours. Supervisors stared at me with their mouths hanging open.
    My reputation took off quickly. I never mentioned that I had fifteen years logistics experience. Supes began arguing over who got me on their part of delivery. I was sent to a different route each day, and somehow ended up figuring shit out, although I cussed like crazy under my breath by the minute.
    The first of us newbies to be let go was, in truth, just not cut out for the job. Some just don’t have it. A few others could have been good, but made simple mistakes while in too much of a hurry. The corporate officers would routinely stake out new hires, and wait for us to make a mistake. If caught, it was termination.
    The probationary period was one hundred and twenty calendar days. That’s a long time to be both fast as fuck and perfect. Every day meant some newbie was fired or quit. Every day brought panic.

    I finally got put on the same route for a few days in a row. It was a nice route in the wealthy upper Queen Anne neighborhood. It was a hot summer, and lugging all that mail around in ninety three degree heat took it’s toll. Yet, this route had long stretches of wondrous shade.
    I walked along happily, surrounded by the wealth of others. Their three to four million dollar homes stood so friendishly, so welcoming. It felt like a home, especially since almost no one was home. I happily marched along dropping mail, breathing in the cooler, shaded air, dropping mail in known mailboxes. I reasoned that, even though I may never own a three million dollar house like these, at least I’d get to work in such areas every day. It was such a break from dreary places I lived. Night and day. This really is the job for me.
    I took the next swing down a one way road that looked very much like a mere driveway at the entrance. It was like a secret road that few would know even existed, so private, secluded. The road winded and turned, houses littered sporadically. The whole place seemed so upbeat. Undiscovered.
    There sat a brand new Rolls Royce. New. Beautiful. Amazing. My eyes couldn’t part from it. I actually drooled. What a beauty! I watched it as I walked past, then watched it again as I neared in the other direction, delivering, delivering, delivering...all on pace. Happily moving on and on.
    I finished that swing, drove a block, and began the next. This swing was sunnier, and I began sweating more. There were hills of stairs to haul the mail up and down. Such a beautiful neighborhood. The one house for sale was three and a half million dollars, and needed a roof.

    Around my fifth delivery, I heard tires squealing. Then I heard an engine revving, followed by more squealing. Soon the Rolls from earlier came flying through the street. Smoke rolled from its’ wheels. The beauty came to a screeching stop right beside me. The tinted window rolled down. An older man with a white beard glared at me.
    “HEY!!!! YOU’RE DELIVERING MAIL TO THE WRONG GAWD DAMNED ADDRESSES!!!!!! LOOK AT THIS SHIT!”
    He was waving a sales flier. Third class mail.
    “LOOK, YOU STUPID SHIT...YOU OVIOUSLY CAN’T READ, SO I’LL READ IT TO YOU! 6172...6172! 6172 IS MY GAWD DAMN NEIGHBOR! THIS...YOU PUT THIS IN MY MAILBOX!”
    My eyes were wide in panic. This could cost me my job. Newbies got fired for such things.
    “Oh sir...I am so, so sorry! I’m new on this route and...”
    “I DON’T WANT TO FUCKING HEAR IT!!!! YOU’RE JUST TOO FUCKING STUPID FOR THIS SIMPLE FUCKING JOB!!! I WILL HAVE YOUR GAWD DAMN JOB FOR THIS! YOU STUPID SHIT!”
    “Sir, I am so very sorry. I’ll go back and deliver it if you want...I...”
    “NO!!! NO!!! HELL NO! I NEVER WANT YOU BACK HERE AGAIN! YOU’RE TOO FUCKING STUPID...”

    He went on, enraged. Something hit a nerve with me. I took a deep breath, then interrupted him;
    “SIR! If you have a problem with my performance, call 1 800 EAT SHIT!”

    His face went from red to purple. The window rolled up. The Rolls tore off, smoke flying off tires. It rounded a corner violently, barely missing a woman walking a stroller across the street. She hurried along, around the corner.
    I walked along delivering mail. Suddenly the neighborhood sucked. The job sucked. I was terrible. I grumbled, and counted down hours until I would get home and drink beer, alone and hopeless, but away from shit. Maybe this wasn’t my kind of job after all.

    A few houses later, I walked up thirty feet of stairs. Sweat was pouring off me. My smile was gone. The mail seemed to weigh even more. The sun beat down mercilessly.
    The door opened as I approached the porch. An older man walked out. His plain white tee shirt barely held his belly back. He had a face that seemed to naturally snarl as if he hadn’t smiled in twenty years. His hands were rough, obviously from working very hard. The house was amazing and obviously pricy. He looked at me with snarl.
    “Oh fuck,” I thought, “I cannot have fucked up your mail! I haven’t even delivered it yet!”
    I triple checked the address.

    “Here.” He growled. He handed me an ice cold Pepsi.
    “Oh, thank you!”
    He took his mail, looked it over grumpily.

    “I heard that son a bitch.”
    His scowl deepened into aggression.
    “You won’t BELIEVE the shit we all have to put up with around here...all because THAT guy was probably born with a tiny pecker!”

    I laughed so hard I almost fell over. The old guy lost his scowl and actually grinned. It looked like his face broke. His face turned red. He regained the scowl, turned and walked inside.
    “Fuck that guy. You’re doing a fine job. Keep up the good work.”
    I finished the day roughly on schedule. I was afraid of getting fired, but it never happened. All that was said about the Rolls complaint was a supe saying “Well, nothing new there. Welcome aboard.”

    Every day, for as long as long as I was on that route, I made sure to misdeliver that asshole’s mail. I’ve never been on that route since.
    Fuck him.

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