The young man working there, a Matt Damon look-alike, measured my stuff and found a box. He taped it together and held it under the styrofoam peanut spigot, a really cool machine. He began to type my address label.
Meanwhile, three other customers had come in. Three people, not counting the one wailing in his stroller, "Mommy, go poopy! Go poopy, Mommy." He had his tenses confused. The proper locution would have been, "Mommy, WENT poopy."
An old lady uncoiled herself like a rattlesnake and hissed, "Is there anyone here who can help us?"
Matt Damon said, "Not right now. I'm sorry."
She said, "Sorry doesn't get it. I want some help NOW."
"I'm going as fast as I can," said Matt.
She glared at me. I smiled back sweetly. Dimples and all.
Matt shot me a scared look, the kind that says, "Help me! I just fell into a deep vat of piranhas." I gave him my best reassuring gaze, the kind that says "Everything's gonna be all right."
I was lying, of course. There was no way to predict what that hag would do. She probably eats braised scrotums for breakfast. "I see three other people back there," she said. "Hey! Anybody work in this place?"
Matt told her that one of those people was a repairman, and the other two weren't on the clock. It was lunchtime.
"Helluva way to run a business," she said.
The other customers looked embarrassed, like when someone farts in an elevator and nobody's quite sure who did it.
She bore a striking resemblance to the witch who melted in The Wizard of Oz. The green one.
He finished my package, and we conferred about rates. She muttered loudly and stomped her foot like Rumpelstiltskin. She did not go through the floor, however. We were all sorry.
I hope Matt gets a good role soon so he can quit working there. The holiday season is off and running.
"Have yourself a rotten little Christmas.... "
