“Where the hell are they?”
I had torn my mail truck apart. I’d pulled out or moved every package and tray of mail in there. I’d checked up on the dashboard, in the dash-mounted scanner holster, under the dash—both driver and non-driver sides (we aren’t allowed passengers)—and pulled all the stuff out from under my work shelf. I’d checked the left and right door wells, and behind my seat. I’d even checked the crevice between the seat and the seat-back, worming my fingers down into a space far too tight to hold anything larger than loose change. I had done all that, yet here I was, standing in the post office parking lot, rubbing my forehead with my fingertips in frustration.
It was a bright, sunshiny day, and I was to spend the next six and a half hours out in it trying to read addresses from white envelopes: I was not going to make it without my shades. See, it was the day after my day off, so I hadn’t been the last one to actually drive my truck. My sunglasses usually live up on the dashboard when I’m not wearing them, and I leave them there overnight so there’s no chance of me forgetting them in the morning. On my days off, however, my floater (the person assigned to cover my days off) is in the truck, and she apparently doesn’t approve of sunglasses on the dash; I’ve come in after my day off to find them in all of the places I mentioned above except wedged down into the seat crevice—but she’s still my floater, so there’s still time.
Today, however, I couldn’t find them at all. I huffed an angry sigh, put my truck back together, and headed out to my route in the blinding sun. I’d decided I was going to have a talk with my floater, but for now I just needed something to get me through the day; halfway between the office and the beginning of my route, I hit the directional and took a hard left—straight into the parking lot of the local 7-Eleven.
It was perfect. The 7-Eleven was where I’d purchased the lost sunglasses, and there was another pair right there on the rack. I snatched up the replacements rather angrily, still frustrated that I needed to buy new ones simply because my floater didn’t like where I keep them, paid at the register, and slipped them on as I left the store. Ah! Much better. And now, I thought, driving to my route, when I get the other pair back I’ll have an extra pair, for the next time she does this.
I started my route, walking from house to house to deliver the first relay, then driving on to Farrell Court. Farrell Court is some elderly housing run by the local Housing Authority, and consists of a series of square, brick buildings with four apartments in each. The mailboxes for all four units are together, in each building’s foyer. Entering the first dimly-lit hallway after walking about in that bright sunlight, I couldn’t see a damn thing, especially wearing my shades. I shoved my new sunglasses up on top of my head—dislodging the “missing" pair of sunglasses that had been up there the whole time.
Yeah, this is the kind of embarrassing thing I do. The kind of thing that, though when it happens I say Thank God no one knows about this, when Monday rolls around again, and I need a blog post, here I am telling you all about it.
Talk to you later.