Haulin’ my ass over the side, I manage to climb down usin’ the metal niches and land ungracefully on my feet. Thankfully, the old bat dropped my power pad and stylus close to where my half-shredded shoe is, so I guess I have that to be grateful for. I scoop everythin’ up and hobble back toward my truck, doin’ my darndest to ignore the soggy sock situation. I don’t wanna know.
I lock myself in my truck, and with shaky hands, I reach for my water and chug half of it down. I look at the house where Ms. Jonay is starin’ at me from her window with a phone pressed to her ear. I clench my teeth.
I have some scrapes on my palms and a little blood on the back of my calf and heel, probably from a tooth, but it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. I spend exactly one second debatin’ about callin’ my boss, Patricia, before dismissin’ it. I called her for help with a flat tire a month ago, and her response was, “You have two legs, don’t ya?” She couldn’t care less about anythin’ other than our deliverin’ packages on time and the bonus she gets for it.
I pour a little water on my leg and hands, not carin’ about the splatters that end up on the rubber floor mats of the truck, while makin’ a note to also ask my mama about when I got my last rabies shot. I should probably ask my daddy to pour some of Uncle Tim’s moonshine on everythin’ just to kill off any germs too. That damn stuff is pure alcohol. Uncle Tim says it’s why he’s in such good shape—he’s always disinfectin’ his insides.
Spinnin’ around in the driveway, I purposely floor the gas, makin’ my tires spin and kick up dirt in her yard. I may be twenty-eight years old, but that doesn’t mean I can’t throw a respectable hissy fit every once in a while, especially when it’s deserved.
Gettin’ back on the road, I can’t stop grindin’ my teeth for at least a couple of miles. I hate my job. I know lots of people feel the same, but damn, when I was a little girl, deliverin’ packages for Swift Shipping Services and makin’ minimum wage definitely wasn’t on my When I Grow Up poster board.
And sure enough, just to add curdled cream to my tea, my dash lights up as my phone rings from the holder that’s mounted on the vent.
Work Calling
I swear inwardly before swipin’ to accept the call. I don’t even get a word in before Patricia is hollerin’ my ear off. I try not to listen too much, but her shrill voice doesn’t make that easy.
“We had a customer call to complain, Medley! Ms. Jonay is not happy. She threatened to call corporate. Said you assaulted her and her dog. I talked her down, of course, but she was this close to speakin’ with the sheriff. You’re lucky I got her to settle for a write-up on your record.”
My hands clench on the steerin’ wheel. “A write-up? It wasn’t my damn fault! Her crazy ass dog lunged for me, ready to take a bite out of my ass! I had to run and jump into a dumpster to get away from the thing!”
“Medley, the customer’s always right,” Patricia reprimands, her tone not leavin’ any room to argue.
“Yeah, except when they’re wrong,” I sass back. “It’s me who should be callin’ the sheriff. I could report the dog attack and get her ass in trouble.”
“Ms. Jonay says you were the one who instigated it, throwin’ the package at the poor elderly woman. You made the dog attack you.”
“That’s not true!”
Patricia ignores me. “This is the fourth write-up on your record, Medley,” she reminds me. “Which means you’re just one more away from gettin’ fired.”
I seethe, my vision goin’ black with anger. If I gripped the steerin’ wheel any harder, I’d break the damn thing. Automatically, one of my hands comes up to the necklace of stones around my neck.
I’ve worn this thing since Mama gave it to me in the first grade, with a few chain replacements along the way. It’s a necklace of small river stones, and Mama always encouraged me to touch the stones to help ground myself. I run my thumb and fingers over the smooth surfaces as I count out three deep breaths until the blackness recedes and I can think straight again.
“You hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you,” I grit out.
She knows damn well I need this job too much to quit. She also knows that I’m bluffin’ about callin’ the cops. Sheriff Early hates my guts, ever since he found me up in Docky Rocks dancin’ topless on the table while his sweet innocent daughter was at the bar. He thinks I’m a bad influence, even though his daughter is a grown-ass woman and hasn’t been innocent since she grew into her trainin’ bra in grade school.
That’s the problem with small towns: people know too much shit about you. That’s why I was glad when my daddy got a job in South Carolina right before I went into middle school. It was a fresh start for a bit, and then I went off to Arkansas State University for college, which was another much needed start over. Of course, that ended with no degree, a pile of student loans, and a shitty experience, but that’s neither here nor there.
But ever since I moved back years ago, I’ve been tryin’ to get out from under my roots in Sweetgreen and dealin’ with bitchy Patricia and Chip-on-the-Shoulder Sheriff Early. Just great.
“You done with your packages?”
