An Ordinary Day

The old man walked over to the counter and asked the attendants, both young women dressed all in black, which packages he was supposed to pick up.  They had seen him around and knew who he was, smiled and politely told him where they were. “Over here” the younger of the two, the blue eyed blonde haired woman, pointed to a number of large, tall packages wrapped in plastic “we have the two schedules for them.  2 schedules, 5 packages.”

The packages were each about 4 feet high and 3 feet wide, but at most about 3 inches deep.  They were light, but being what they were, artwork,  he decided not to risk damaging them by carrying them all at once.  But no reason to make 5 separate trips either.  2 should do it.

Schedules are the lists of items created by the company.  They tell whoever has them what each individual shipment has as it’s contents, and tells through archaic language known only to the employees there, where exactly it is supposed to go.

He looked them over briefly while he thought about it, and said “I’m going to need to do this in 2 trips, I can’t carry all that at once, obviously.”  He smiled, as did they.  He said “Is this everything, or is there anything else you need picked up?”  The blonde looked at the schedules as if to confirm with them that there was nothing else.  She said “No, nothing else here!” as if she were cheerily selling the nothing else that she had.  The black haired woman interjected “Actually, we have another package in room 200, which is locked right now that will need to be picked up, but we don’t have a schedule for that. We’ll let you know when to get that.”

The old man said “Good enough.”

Before he picked up the packages, he looked at the schedules, to figure out where they were going to go after he took them in back and scanned them into the system to let the computers know they were now in his possession.  He looked for a second and realized he was going to have to head up to the contemporary department after he was done with them.    He had been dropping stuff to them all day, and had been keeping them busy.  They weren’t going to like the additional workload, but that is neither here nor there, they get the work regardless.

They had prices on them as well, though he rarely looked at that.  He didn’t care if it was worth 5 bucks or $50,000,000.  Everything gets treated the same.  Treat everything with kid gloves.

The job ahead is more important than the worth of the work.

The old man grabbed two of the packages about 3 feet from their base, left and right sides with gloved hands.  The gloves read craftsman on them,  they had rubberized palms and fingers for extra grip, which he found he needed for the lift.  Not heavy by any stretch of the imagination, but he found he liked wearing them when lifting just about anything.  The old man never was sure of his grip without the gloves, and never unsure with them.

He carried the packages to the back room, through a long series of halls, most filled with property similar enough to what he was carrying, and placed them gently next to the table in his work area, and said to the two people who were in the room, in passing “I’ll be back, a few more pieces to pick up.”  They didn’t respond, but he knew they heard, so it wasn’t an issue.

When he got back to the counter the two attendants were busy with other customers so he picked up the remaining pieces, and whispered “I’ll be back for the schedules.”  The attendant closest did not shift focus at all, she was busy with customers after all, but he noted a small nod in his direction.  She had heard and understood.  The old man quickly and silently walked out and brought the remaining pieces back to his work area.



A master in the art of living draws no sharp distinction between his work and his play; his labor and his leisure; his mind and his body; his education and his recreation. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence through whatever he is doing, and leaves others to determine whether he is working or playing. To himself, he always appears to be doing both.

L.P. Jacks


That’s it from here, America.  G’night.


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