Going Postal: Day 12

fred-garvin.jpgDay 12: Mail Prostitute

The processing station I work at mostly handles priority mail and large packages. The mail usually arrives and leaves in one of two large containers—the GPC (General Parcel Container), which can hold around 1500 to 2000 pounds of mail, and the OTR (Over The Road), which is like a huge dumpster that can hold, I believe, up to 3000 pounds of mail. The mail that is held in these containers can either be in large sacks, or some times it is just random pieces dumped into the carrier. The bags can weigh up to 70 pounds, but I know I’ve lifted some that weigh over 100, and when the mail is randomly dumped in a container, it is a jumbled mess. When the mail arrives in these containers, it is the job of the “loader” to remove if from the carrier, and place it on a conveyer belt where it is processed and sorted for distribution. That’s what I did last night.

Loading is a different type of pain in the ass from sweeping, but it is equally unpleasant in its own way. First and foremost, the loading station is right next to the supervisor command center, so there’s no “Avoiding the Supervisors.” The conveyer belt you must load the mail on to is supposed to be overflowing with parcels at all times, otherwise you have what is known as a “black belt.” Now, in the rest of the world, having a black belt is a good thing, because it means that you have focused your mind and body to reach of level of excellence in the world of martial arts where you can kick ass like a supernatural force of nature. But at the post office, where nothing is as it should be, a black belt is a bad thing, because it means the loader working that line is not busting their hump hard enough or fast enough to keep the belt full at all times. I have loaded many times, and it can be very difficult to keep the belt from “turning black.” But last night I had the best experience I’ve had since I took my oath of office.

Like I said before, when the mail is placed into the large carriers for transport, it is either in heavy, bulky bags, or just dumped in a massive orgy of disorganized chaos. But last night, I caught sight of GPC filled to the top with perfectly stacked priority envelopes. We’re talking nearly 2000 pounds worth of mail that was neatly stacked and organized in such a way that I could load it anyway I wanted. I could grab an armful of about ten packages, or just one at a time. Now, this might not seem like a big deal to anyone who has never worked in this situation, but when I saw this GPC, I had to have it. In fact, I bypassed three other GPCs that were supposed to be processed first, just so I could work this one. And when I had it in front of my belt, other mailhandlers were looking at me with envy. Mo’ Money walked up to me, smiled, said something with his heavy Vietnamese accent, and gave me a thumbs up—he knew that I had hit the mother load.

Now, as fate would have it, I already had my belt full when I got the perfect GPC, which meant I went into this situation like the only man capable of getting an erection in a room full of horny women. I started to load my mail onto my belt until it couldn’t handle it anymore—packages were sliding off on to the floor because there was not enough room. Then I would grab about ten of these perfectly stacked packages, and I would walk over to another belt, and drop them off there. It was like I was making love to my woman, but every now and then I would get up, go give a little lovin’ to the woman to my right or my left, and then return to my main squeeze. At some point, the supervisor told all the handlers in my crew it was time to take a break, and that the relief crew would take over. But I wasn’t about to leave my GPC in the hands of someone else. I told the supervisor that I wanted to take my break a little later, because there had been a mess-up in my schedule, and I had just had a break an hour earlier (which was true), but the real truth was I wanted to finish loading this particular carrier.

I worked this carrier, and unloaded these parcels like I was getting paid to fuck, and earning bonus cash for each orgasm I gave. Now, I don’t want this to degenerate into some sort-of Penthouse Forum-like analogy of what I was like while loading the mail last night, but to put this into a sexual context, I had a boner that wouldn’t go down. I had that GPC full of beautifully stack priority packages, and I flipped it, smacked it, and rubbed it down. I worked that mail the way I used to work this ex-girlfriend of mine, who one night had an orgasm so intense she actually blacked out and passed out on top of me. And I still didn’t stop fucking. That’s what I was like last night—my belt never turned black, and when my belt couldn’t handle anymore packages, I reached down into those perfectly arranged stacks, pulled out some mail, and took it over to another belt where I proceeded to work more of my magic. And then, at some point, as I was thinking about all of this in the exact same sexual context as I am relating it now, I realized that I had lost my mind. Here I was thinking about the mail as if it was a sexual partner, and I was giving it the fuck of its life, and then I became depressed because this is what my life had sunk to. But to make matter worse, it eventually ended, and I had to deal with the typical chaotic containers of parcels, and it wasn’t long before the mail was fucking me instead of me fucking it.

If all of this sounds weird or perverted, or if any of you are thinking, “Wow, this poor sap has turned a corner…and it’s not for the best,” don’t worry about me. Sure, I spent the better part of an hour thinking of a huge container of mail as some sort of carnal partner, but I was high as a motherfucker. You see, I took a bunch of prescription painkillers before going to work, and then ate at Jack in the Box just before showing up for my shift. Jack in the Box always makes me fart, so not only was I fucked up from the drugs I was on, but the noxious fumes from my flatulence were also taking a toll on my mind.

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2 Responses to “Going Postal: Day 12”

  1. L13 Says:

    prehaps at some point later in your literary life these posts will form the chapters of a book or help guide some charecter you have created.

    or conersely ,working at the post office will help you pick up a sawed off shotgun, pull a cobain and blow your brains out from bad fast food,cold medicine and or major depression-

    how much longer will you continue to torture yourself?
    can’t you just chill and get a job a trader joes or something a little bit less horrendous?

    or are you on some sort of mission to see how long you can last before going totally postal?

    either way this shit had me rolling tonight
    rock on dude

  2. mikimonster Says:

    mmm. yummy.

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