How The Last Guy Did It

It's a lovely dawn. Early December, and with the sun just barely risen, it's already warm enough to unzip my light jacket. Every day should be just like this.

A security guard buzzes me into the latest in a series of increasingly indistinguishable corporate lobbies.I realize:Every day is just like this.

Have a seat. Have a visitor pass. Have a look at that!

Red hair and the Sexy Librarian look. Geeky glasses, hair in a practical, if not decorative bun and a blouse that seems to be worn loosely in an effort to deflect attention away from what's underneath. Doesn't work.

I'm already past that stage, I'm wondering what she tastes like, what her sounds are, her colors.
Holy Shit! She's approaching me.

You the new Temp?

Yes. I'm Allan... holding out my hand.

Michelle. I'm a temp too. They sent me up to get you. Follow me.

She turns around . I'm left with my hand stupidly outstretched, like I'm gesturing to the plastic plant in the corner. I follow her flawless ass with my eyes and my feet . Into the elevator.

So, do you know what we are doing today?

Messenger, she says, in a tone cold enough to discourage small talk from a church-full of old ladies.

It's plenty icy to shut me down.


Down to the basement. Into the mail room. A big jolly black guy in a Steelers sweatshirt greets us. He puts me at ease as he explains the task at hand.

Take this pile of mail, match the addressee with the dept. they work in and put it in the appropriate basket. When the basket is full, take it to the proper floor and deliver it. Here's some maps and lists that you'll need. Simple. He leaves.

I break the Code of Silence. So how do you want do this, I ask Michelle.

The last guy just sorted the mail until it was ready to deliver. Then he delivered it.

Her eyes tell me that my very presence is a stain from which her soul will never recover.

There's only about ten or twelve postal buckets to sort, if you've ever worked a big mail-room, you'd know this is nothing. I spread out my personnel lists and grab a bucket. Michelle does the same. I'm wracking my brain to come up with something to say-anything at all, when Michelle tells me: The last guy did it different. He put the basket on the table. (Mine's on a stool).

Obligingly, I put the bucket on the table. I'm too short. It's harder this way, so I go back to using the stool. I'm enveloped by a cloud of disapproval.

When sorting mail, patterns quickly emerge. Every envelope from Company X goes to either Dept Y or Z and so on. Then you plot your course through the office and arrange the mail in the proper order, and deliver it. It's not hard.

Unless you have to do it with Michelle. I finish six buckets to her one.

She notices my sorting method. It's not how the last guy did it.

It's hard to imagine that just an hour or so ago, I was fantasizing about going down on this woman. What an ordeal that must be -"that's not how the last guy did it"-scary.

At lunch-time I call Jill at the Agency.

Hey Jill, it's Allan. Look, I'm sorry, but I don't feel very good. I don't think I can finish my shift.

That's funny. That's what the last guy said.