Writing: Package Man

Jacob opened his eyes and realized he was still on the plane. That damned plane, in the worn seats with too little room between passengers.

Just enough room to give you the illusion of relaxation, only to rub elbows, literally, with the traveler next to you. Then there was the awkward smile and apology when in all actuality, there was nothing to apologize for.

He reached up and pressed the magic button that summoned the in-air attendants. The attendant that responded had an aura of complete annoyance which was confirmed by the disposition of her eyebrows. Her voice was so fake with sugary politeness that Jacob felt the urge to reach for the vomit bag.

“What can I do for you?” she begrudgingly offered.

Realizing he was still fixated on the woman’s eyebrows, Jacob replied “Yes, uh, I would like a scotch. Two, if you have them.” As he spoke he held out twelve dollars in cash.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but we do not accept cash.”

“No cash? Who doesn’t take cash? What do you take?”

“Credit only, Sir.”

“Credit only?” he sighed. “Well, nevermind then. You really won’t take cash?”

Straightening up she shook her head, smoothed out her uniform and returned to the rear of the plane.

Damn. No scotch, he thought. It had been seven hours and change since his last drink. Far too long for his liking.

Jacob sat back in his too-small seat and looked out through the window. For a moment, he panicked when all he saw was his own face staring back at him. Once he remembered that it was just past 2 o’clock in the morning he felt foolish for even expecting to see something through the window, aside from the rhythmic pulse of the lights on the wings on the plane.

He reached inside his coat and removed from the inside chest pocket a thick envelope. It was an aged yellow color and had a slight texture. So slight, in fact, that Jacob didn’t notice it until he had been in the air for a few hours and found himself turning the envelope over in his hands.

He also spent some time running his fingers over the wax seal that was affixed to the flap. What is this, he thought, Medieval Europe?

He never knew what was in the parcels he transported and he liked it that way. Jacob had seen far too many movies where the package man was nosy, opened one of the private packages and then his entire life blew up in his face. While this was real life and certainly not a movie, what he had barely qualified as a personal life and he was perfectly content not rolling the dice.

Not so long ago he had been happy. He had a life he was proud of. He had been married with two children – both boys. Then one day, about four years ago, his wife left him. No reason was given. He knew, though that his actions were not the cause of the break up. He had never cheated on his wife, was not an addict and certainly had never raised a hand to her out of anger.

When she left, he was devastated. The final nudge off the edge for him, though, was that when she left she also took the boys. She also took nearly everything he had spent years working toward. The true damage was done, not in her leaving, but in the way she left, basing the divorce request on fabricated threats and abuse. He never imagined that she was the type of woman who would pick a fight in a bar to make it look like she was a battered wife.

With the aid of a weaselly attorney, she took everything… the house, the boys, the one functional car they had, and even the family cat. She hated that cat! All that he was left with was two duffel bags of clothing, a couple of books, and a few personal belongings.

After the divorce, he floated from one job to another. When you’ve lost everything, it’s difficult to really care about a retail job selling over-priced wrenches and screwdrivers.

Jacob found himself lost in thought about that turning point in his life but more importantly, he found that his grip was tightening on the envelope in his hand. If he delivered a damaged package, he would be shot dead on the spot. One to the back of the head. He had witnessed that side of the business first hand.

Hours later, when the plane had landed and was taxied to the gate, he made his way past the happy travelers being greeted by friends or family and hailed a cab outside.

“Where to, Boss?” asked a seasoned cabby, who smelled faintly of whiskey, had a half-smoked cigar wedged between his lips and huge bags under his eyes.

Jacob noticed the cabby’s ID on the plexiglass divider between them, “Well, Milv… Milovan…” he began.

“Please, call me Milo.” interrupted the cabbie.

“…Alright, Milo” continued Jacob, “Take me to The Covenant.”

With a slight spin of the under-inflated tires on the wet asphalt, Milo pulled away from the curb and headed off.

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