Tuesday, February 10, 2009

A pretty stupid story

The following story is fictional. The people and events contained within do not depict any actual person or event... This certainly isn't an attempt by the author to relay an embellished version of an event that actually occurred to him earlier today... Honestly, where do you get these ideas?

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The light turned red.

Seconds beforehand, cars were zipping up and down the street on the southern edge of Kaw State University like worker bees looking to appease the demands of their queen. Now, the red light had brought it all to a halt. The action had stalled as if life was a game of Super Mario Bros. and someone had hit the pause button. With that, Doug crossed the street.

The sun was bright and this February day was proving unseasonably warm. It was just after lunchtime and the temperature was creeping past 60 degrees. It was an excellent day for a walk. Thus, the fact that Doug had an envelope-enclosed project he needed to take across campus seemed to be a stroke of impeccable luck.

Doug tried to take in all of the beautiful day that he could as he trekked across campus. Although the typical greenery lacked much of its "green" in the midst of winter, the campus still had a certain appeal on this day. As he walked, Doug observed students enjoying the day by having classes outdoors, rollerblading, and even rocking John Mayer riffs on acoustic guitar. Why couldn't all days be this way? The weather was the type that one usually only reads about in sappy nature poems and Doug had escaped the confines of his office. Getting out from behind his desk had been a rare situation for Doug in weeks prior.

Although he sometimes felt he was prone to some combination of rough luck and stupidity, things seemed to be in his favor on this day. He considered running off to buy a lottery ticket just as he arrived at his destination - Cottonwood Hall. Doug whisked through the glass doors at the entrance and, minding the room numbers along the way (thank goodness he had learned to count years earlier), found his way to room 111. All he had to do was deliver this envelope containing some of the morning's work and it was back to the wonder of the outdoors for the return walk to his office. Doug sidled up to the room's entrance and gave the door a rapid tri-knock.

No response.

Doug had noticed through the frosted glass of the office door's window that the room seemed to be cloaked in a darkness that would freak out most cave-dwelling creatures, but he had ignored it. Maybe the inhabitant just had severe light sensitivity...

Doug tried the doorknob.

No luck. The door was locked. Dumbfounded, Doug looked for a mail inbox around the door, but there was none to be found.

At this point, some may have said to themselves, "oh well." They would walk back to their place of business, vowing to deliver the envelope another time. (Perhaps even calling in advance to make sure the receiving party would be present for the delivery.)

Not Doug. Not today. Today, he was motivated. It was as if the spirit of the greatest mailmen to ever sort letters had delivered a priority mail message directly to the depths of his mind. The mail must get through.

Noticing that there were a couple folks in the office across the hall, Doug stepped over to ask if they might be able to pass the envelope along. Unfortunately, even though they worked just across the hall from the intended recipient, those in this office acted as if they had no idea who their neighbor was. What type of place was this? In attempt to be helpful, a young woman suggested he try slipping the envelope under the office door.

Doug glanced at the envelope in his hands. The 9x12-inch paper product was packed so full that the clasp on the back was looking a bit like the belt buckle of someone that refuses to admit they've gained some winter weight. He glanced at the crack of space between the bottom of the door and the floor. There was little clearance. If the envelope were to fit, it would be a pretty tight squeeze.

"The mail must get though." The thought echoed in his head.

Doug kneeled at the base of the door and began sliding the hefty envelope into its new residence. Piece of cake. The envelope met no resistance. It now sat in room 111 and all was well.


... Jumping to conclusions was a nasty habit, and it had worked against Doug in this case. Three-quarters of the envelope did slip through fairly uninhibited. Unfortunately, the top right corner (that's Doug's right, not the door's right... Wait, would the door have a right?) had proven problematic. With most of the envelope now resting comfortably in its darkness-bathed dwelling, one little corner sat stuck underneath the door like Augstus Gloop in the Wonka plumbing system. So much for luck.

Alas, the familiar refrain again echoed. "The mail must get through." At no point did the saying delve into detail about whether fractions of mail would suffice. He doubted it would. This envelope was going to move. Doug pressed hard on the corner of the tan envelope and pushed with the strength of four whole fingers. The power generated was enough. The envelope was forced home. At last, the mail had gotten through.

Pleased with this turn of events, Doug soon discovered that he was not free of burden yet. In sliding the fourth corner into the office, Doug's fingers had followed underneath the door. Now, those digits seemed to be doing their best imitations of the obese envelope they had previously grasped. So much for avoiding stupidity. Droplets of sweat formed on his brow as Doug thought.

The mail had gotten through, but now his fingers were stuck under this wooden door that had served as the most basic form of office security for years. The Postman's Creed had no advice for emergency action in the case of stuck digits.

Lousy mailmen.

Deciding against facing the embarrassment that might come with screaming as if the building was being engulfed in flames, Doug pulled. Hard. He preferred not to be discovered with his fingers caught under this door if the resident of the office returned soon. He pulled again. And again. Oh, the ravages of rough luck and stupidity.

Just as he was trying to figure out the least embarrassing way to explain to coworkers how he had managed to lose four fingers in a trip across campus (Rabid squirrel attack? Mugging by finger-snatchers?), the door released its kung-fu grip.

He was free.

The mail was through, he still had 10 fully operational fingers, and he was headed back outside to the spring-like weather that had taken this winter day hostage. Doug wiped sweat off his brow and took a relaxing deep breath as he stepped outside to be drenched in sunlight. Despite the hiccups in delivering the project, things were good.

Then he noticed that his fingers were bleeding.

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