Today would be like all the rest. The real mailman would drop off the mail at 8 am and we would organize that with all of the files. The real mailman was a 60 year old male that anyone would want as their grandpa. He had a round belly, but it wasn’t big. He never wore those light blue shorts with a navy stripe down each side, it was always pants. His name was Jim and he was the guy that always wore his safari/mailman/sun hat inside.

It was 8:30 am and we didn’t have the mail, Jim was always on time. Finally an unfamiliar character with shorts came to the mailroom window and put his safari/mailman/sun hat on the counter. “Sorry,” he said with a winded tone, “I’m new to this route, really to this job…” He expected us to answer, but the five of us—Jerry, Kathy, Lance, Georgia, and myself—were all moving files into the wooden boxes that decorated the walls.

“Quinn, help that poor boy,” Jerry, the head of this hell hole, told me.

I have got to learn that this world isn’t as predictable as I think it is.