Predictability

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._