(Or Everything Wrong I Ever Did at UPS, and Can No Longer Get in Trouble for)
Christmas at UPS was the ‘funnest’ time of the year. (Not).
Our workload doubled. And it wasn’t unusual to find one’s self with a
couple dozen remaining delivery packages as midnight approached. Did I
mention that midnight was our curfew? Did I mention our boss took a dim
view of a driver bringing back more than one or two undelivered parcels?
(Well, he did).
One evening in December, as ‘the bewitching
hour’ approached, I pulled up to my next delivery stop, slung open the
bulkhead door and cast my eyes upon a couple dozen undelivered packages
on the 4th shelf, bottom. As ‘Mrs. Fairfax’ of the volume and movie,
“Jane Eyre” was heard to say,
“What to do? What to do?”
Since my home was situated on my delivery route, I often dropped by for
lunch. This time around I dropped by for a different reason. Backing my
UPS truck up to my garage, I lifted the heavy door and unloaded my
remaining packages onto the concrete floor. I summarily entered the
number and affiliated address of each of the packages on my delivery pad
with the notation each had been left at the front or side door. Did I
mention what I’d just accomplished was contrary to everything holy?
Well, it was. (At least, when it came to the UPS bible).
Having
returned home that evening my wife and I loaded the offending packages
into the back seat and trunk of our car, and (you guessed it) navigated
the remaining several streets of a nearby mobile home park; tip-toeing
my inanimate darlings to 4537 Redwood and 4657 Oakwood, etc. etc. etc.,
until every last package had been delivered.
And then there were the dogs.
Closer to the beginning, than the ending of my tenure, my route
included both businesses and residences in one quadrant of a small city.
And several times a month my deliveries included street numbers on 5th
Street, SE. I can tell you that 5th Street, SE was very much like any
other street in “Winter Haven,” (the location of the famous, “Cypress
Gardens,”) with one exception,
… a pesky, non-descript dog which
chased my truck every time I rolled past the house, (or more succinctly,
the yard) in which he resided.
And I can tell you, I wearied of
my frequent confrontation with the little mongrel. To my credit,
however, I did not run the beast into the ground, as a truck driver once
did my own dog. Nevertheless, I formulated a plan of attack.
There just happened to be a 7-11 located near the infamous site of my
all-too frequent encounters with “Rover.” And on a particular day when I
was scheduled to deliver a couple of packages “on the street where he
lived” I pulled into the parking lot of that convenience store, hopped
down the steps of my vehicle, walked into the door, stepped up to the
beverage machine, pulled a “Big Gulp” cup from the holder, placed it
under the ice dispenser, and finally, filled it to the brim with syrupy,
brown Coca-Cola.
Returning to my truck, I hopped back up the
steps from whence I came, sat down, buckled my seat belt, started the
engine, and aimed my truck towards my next destination. I suppose if I’d
given my mission a code name, it might well have been
… Destination Dog
As I approached my little friend’s grassy hangout, I saw him rush into
the road, and suddenly he was “neck and neck” with the front tire of my
truck. However, unlike dozens of those previous animate/inanimate races
which had transpired in the past, this time, rather than applying the
gas, I applied the brake, turned off the ignition, grabbed the Big Gulp,
rushed down the steps, chased down old Rover, and
… poured that nice, brown, syrupy mess all over the poor pooch!
And never so much as looking back, I retraced my path to the truck,
hopped up the steps, mounted the driver’s seat, strapped the seat belt
around me, turned on the ignition, and drove away; leaving the hapless
critter “to his own devices.”
Needless to say, dear readers, old Rover never chased # 59299 again.
And I think I know why!
(To be continued)
By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 43. Copyright pending
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