Today the post-woman came to my door bringing the usual boring white envelopes and a mission.
That mission came in the form of a bright blue notice informing me that a package from one on my friends had winged its way through the skies, over stormy seas, through vales and ravines to the sunny shores of my island home.
My mission, should I be inclined to accept it, was to collect this package and end its transcontinental journey.
I took a moment to think of the dusty corners and rusted truck floors it must have seen. How many hands had thrown it, placed it and dropped it? And which of those hands was responsible for it being received damaged?
Maybe it was an disgruntled worker in Texas or perhaps it was a fresh-faced trainee (let's call him Joe) that dropped it, during his first week on the job, in a huge warehouse in Florida. Joe to his credit, hastily scooped my package up and hoped his supervisor was too busy chatting up Mildred to notice. It is okay Joe, I forgive you.
Or was it a suave secret agent who mistook my package for one of Frank Martin's, the original transporter, and in his haste to make a big bust broke the cardinal rule.... Don't open the package. Then found himself trying to re-seal it after having discovered not drugs but stationary.
What I believe happened though, was that Mr. Martin handled my a package on the treacherous leg through the hills and vales and after being distracted by a sexy female, narrowly saved it and her from tumbling off a cliff.
After his valiant action, I certainly was not going to chicken out on my part. No, not I. I was willing and ready to complete the chain and bring my traumatized package safely home.
To be as efficient as possible I decided to pack up a box of goodies that were destined for one of my friends in NY and get that sent off at the same time.
Once that was done, I jumped in the bath and donned my transporter uniform for the day. Since my tux was not back from the dry cleaners and it hotter than Hades in Barbados these days, I settled on a tank top, a Capri and a pair of slippers.
I made sure to choose my vehicle carefully, finally settling on a blue and yellow minibus. They'd never see me coming.
Before long I was easing into the post office. I was the only one there so I was immediately ushered to the window. To my dismay, the young male worker not only opened the box I had carefully packed for my friend, but he threatened to charge me ten dollars per piece of tape used to secure the box for shipment.
Joking with the Bajan Transporter about over-inflated costs, is not the way to get into my good graces. Neither I, nor my budget, were the slightest bit amused.
He then took the wind out of my sails by informing me that my package was not in Holetown. It had been kept in the General Post Office in Bridgetown, presumably because it had been abused and they had a better counselling program...
My attempt at efficiency was completely foiled and due to my carelessness when reading my mission statement, I had arrived on time and all dressed up, but the at the wrong destination.
Making matters even more desperate, I didn't even have a bottle of water or an apple and I was beginning to feel thirsty. Stopping to buy either would invite bad things, as was wont to happen when you deviate from the script.
Could I complete my mission, though I was dehydrated and slightly hungry? Stay tuned for part two, in which all is revealed.