14 Office Ace

A long, long time ago, when I was a wee bairn, someone gave my family secondhand copies of Highlights. One issue had a story about Henry "Box" Brown. He was a slave who secretly mailed himself to an abolitionist state.

His friends put a "THIS WAY UP" label on the box, which had slightly less room than your average EasyJet or Southwest customer*. Brown still ended up on his head.

Office work isn't slavery - Japan notwithstanding - but I think the principle is the same.

If it works.

I rush into the mail room. Marci turns around, and lights up. "Floyd!"

I bark, "Box!"

She looks confused, looks around, looks back at me, and says, "Can you narrow it down?"

I turn to Mel. "We need two big boxes! Sturdy enough to handle 200 pounds!"

"Hey!"

I say, "I'm bigger. It's faster to find two boxes that are both the same size."

"Oh," Marci says.

Mel clears his throat, and points at two flat-pack boxes that weren't there a minute ago.

"Thanks, Mel," I say.

I put the form on a table, and Marci helps me set up the boxes. It's easy, even though the markings aren't in English. Or any language I've ever seen.

…I wonder if I could put this on a resume?

And that's when we both spot the hole in my plan.

See, I have one form. One.

For two boxes.

You can see how that might be considered a tad sub-optimal.

We both look at the paper. And I look at Mel. "Do you have any boxes that can—"

He shakes his head. "Nothing that can take both of you."

Well, crap.

Marci and I look at each other. I manage to say it first.

"I should-"

"Just-"

"-if you go-"

"-come back for me, okay?"

"-you can get help. I'll be fine. No, no, I'll be fine. I'm the part-time superhero, remember?" I try to fake a charming smile. "Saving pretty ladies is kind of the gig."

She keeps staring. Her head tilts to the side. Then she does something that kind of looks like a smile. If you squint. And it's night. And you're legally blind. "Great. I turned out to be such a damsel in distress."

"Well, not exactly. If you didn't tell me about the wet floor by the cooler, they would've got me. I think that makes you one of those post-modern double reverse subversive feminist damsels."

"Don't. Don't joke." She leans forward, and wraps her arms around me, and-

Oh.

Oh, this is nice.

When was the last time I got a hug?

…When was the last time I made physical contact with another human being? I don't think I've even touched the delivery guys.

Or, rather, they haven't touched me.

Not like I can blame 'em.

She tugs on my collar, until I lean down, and then she plants a kiss on my cheek. When she pulls back, I swear, there's water in her eyes.

It's all very touching, especially since we barely know each other. But lack of sleep does funny things to people.

Heck, my throat gets all scratchy too. I turn my head away, and cough.

And lock eyes with Mel.

At the copier.

As the copy slides out onto the tray.

He glances at it, and back at me. "What?"

This time, my smile is genuine. And when I turn my head, so is Marci's.

She says, "I think we're idiots."

"Yeah. We really are."

Mel comes over with the forms and hands it to me. The top one is still warm, smells like toner. I look at the form, and look back at him, and he shakes his head again. "You have to do it."

I nod, pull out my pen, and run into the second flaw in my plan.

And that's when I freeze. It feels cold too. Like I just did the Ice Bucket Challenge.

Marci's hand reaches over, and takes the forms away from me. She holds them in both hands, stares at them.

Without looking up, she says, "You can't read this, can you?"

I shake my head.

She murmurs, "Good news, everyone." Then she looks up, and gives me another smile. Maybe a little less fake than the first fake one. "I can. Guess it's not in the water."

This is the part where I'm supposed to say something. Supposed to, I dunno, reach out and comfort her. Do something, do anything to make the situation better.

So I hold out my pen.

She looks at the pen, and she looks at me, and she does something weird with her eyebrows and her eyes.

Then she takes the pen.


Right after I tape Marci's box shut and make sure she can breathe through the grip hole, someone bangs on the mail room door. Bangs hard.

My head whips around like someone pulled a string, and I say something Mommy would frown upon.

Mel says "Friends of yours?"

I let my shoulders fall. "Not exactly." Okay, time to face the musi-

Why does Mel have that look on his face? "I think…I'll have a word with them."

"Mel, no! They're twice your size! Each!"

"Get in the box. Keep your head down."

I do. Then he closes the lid on me, like I'm a cat who just realized we're going to the vet.

…In retrospect, we could've transported her better.

Though I don't really blame her for the pee.

I can still see through a little grip hole in the side. Though the little cardboard pill-shape bumps against my glasses.

Mel shouts, "Come in!" I hear paper rustling, like he's still sorting mail.

Dumb and Dumber stomp in. If there was a glass of water, it would ripple.

Mel says, "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

I've heard that tone before. Mel sounds like a retail employee who's busy doing something else, but isn't quite allowed to tell the customer to go away and never come back.

Dumb says, "Er, pardon me, but we're looking for-"

Dumber says, "We need to see your boxes."

There's a brief silence. I imagine Dumb glaring at Dumber. Then he says "I'd…I'd like to apologize for my partner."

Did…did he just lower his voice?

He says, "We're looking for a tall bl- a tall, dark-skinned man, named Floyd Clapton."

"Yes, he's in this box." And he taps my box, twice.

Wait, what?

Pause.

"...Are you sure?"

"He signed his name, so, yes. Wanted to send a package off."

"We need to take him to HR."

"Are you trying to interfere with the mail?"

A pause.

A long pause.

Dumber talks sounds impatient. "Look, we just want to talk to him-"

Mel sounds awfully polite when he says "I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Mister Charles. Or you, Mister Costain."

Something stomps toward me, and brushes the box. I can barely hear it. Then Mel says, "That...was unwise."

Another awkward silence. I can imagine the close-ups. Mel smiles pleasantly, Dumb is trying to smile, but he's not quite pulling it off, and Dumber looks back and forth between them, confused.

Then he steps forward, and says, "Look, buddy, I don't know what your problem is, but-"

There is a noise.

A very wet noise.

Something dark and liquid and red falls past the eye hole of the box. Takes me a second to recognize it.

It's hard to cringe when you're already curled up, but I give it my best shot.

Mel says, "Anything else I can help you with?"

Silence.

Something hard edges into Mel's voice. "I said, is there anything else I can help you with?"

"N-no," Dumb says. "No, sir."

"Good. Glad I could help."

"I'll…I'll just be leaving now."

Not so Dumb after all.

"Have a nice day," Mel says.

The mail room door swings shut. Mel walks over to my box, past my box.

He pulls some box tape off the reel. I can hear him press it to the slit, and run his hand along its length. Like he boxes up people every day and twice on Fridays.

Maybe he does. I don't know what he does with his evenings.

Also, my neck hurts already.

"There we go," he says. "Ready for delivery."

Marci says "Mel?"

"Yes?"

"What was that?"

He doesn't answer right away. "...It was…not important. Goodbye, Miss Fishbrook."

"Goodbye, Mel."

The sound of walking, and suddenly something darkens my pill-hole.

…Which is too small for me to get my hand through. So I can't shake his hand.

I'm not sure I want to, anyway.

Might give him pinkeye.

He says, "Goodbye, Mr. Clapton."

"Goodbye, Mel. And thanks."

"You're welcome. But I didn't do it for you. Neither rain, nor sleet-"

"-Nor glom of nit."

"Pardon?"

"Book reference."

I see.

He starts to walk away. And then my lightbulb goes on.

Metaphorically speaking.

I get my mouth as close to the hole as possible. "Mel?"

"Yes?

"One more thing…"

He waits.

"Why are you helping me?"

There's a long silence. Or at least it feels long.

Then he goes, "A mutual, forgettable friend says 'hi'."

My eyes go wide, my stomach does an acrobatic pirouette out at the door, and I barely manage to draw back my fist before everything goes black.


* Fun Fact: In this universe, they're called EZ Jet and TexAir, respectively.

Well, not this universe. My normal universe. My normal universe that's not the universe I came from and spent most of my life, which technically makes it my abnormal universe.