The Man in the Black Trench Coat at the Post Office

PO Boxes

His life was boring. His hair was blond and messy. His doctor told him he was overweight, which may be true, he thought. His girlfriend never called, which he found to be suspicious. His parents never called, but they did call all of his other siblings, and his job had him traveling from town to town. Every town in the state for three years and counting. The reason for traveling, they told him, was to meet with the shoe makers in every town.

“Shoe makers?” he asked his manager three years ago.

“Yep, shoe makers.”

“But,” he paused, looking at his shoes, “does every town have a shoe maker?”

“Probably not,” his manager took a sip of his coffee and glanced at his computer monitor.

“Then why do I need to go to each town to find the shoe maker?”

“So we can update our shoe maker database.”

So that’s what he did. Traveled from town to town, looking for the shoe maker, so his company could update their database.

Someone else may have enjoyed all of the traveling, but he did not. The company car was outdated, his suitcase was too small, and the motels were never comfortable.

He was miserable. And bored. And standing in line at a post office.  Which added to his boredom. The girl in-front of him was chewing what sounded like ten pieces of gum, and the guy behind him kept grunting. Bored and stuck between two annoying people.

Bored until the man in a black trench coat walked into the post office.

He was standing in line, facing the sliding glass doors that separated the boring line to the counter from the lobby. The man in the black trench coat walked into the post office lobby and turned right. He has a P.O. Box, he thought to himself. He found people who owned P.O. Boxes to be suspicious people, up to no good and all of them contract killers.

The man in the black trench coat walked past the first section of boxes, then turned left, out of sight, into the second section.

He imagined the man in the black trench coat inserting his key, pressing his thumb against the finger print scanner that appeared once the key was verified, and then swinging the locked door open to get his next mission.

He was looking for smoke to appear from the message self-destructing, when the man in the black trench coat came into view again and went straight to a high table that was set against the wall.

The man in the black trench coat was standing still now, so he was able to get a better look at him. The man in the black trench coat had black hair, a black trench coat, black dress pants, and black shoes. Even his phone was black. Definitely a contract killer.

The man in the black trench coat proceeded to tear a few letters in half without opening them (I guess even contract killers get junk mail). All but one piece of mail was thrown into a blue container. The one piece of mail that was important was slid into an inside pocket of the trench coat or maybe a black suit coat he had on underneath the trench coat. Whatever it was must have been important.

Instead of turning to leave, he went to the third section of PO Boxes. He has two PO boxes! He was out of sight for a few seconds, then returned to the same table and placed a large envelope on the top. The envelope wasn’t flat, but had a noticeable bulge running down the middle.

The man in the black trench coat opened the package. Took out the object, quickly examined it (a white tube…), and shoved it into the side pocket of his trench coat. He threw the envelope into the blue container, and turned to walk out of the PO Box area of the Post Office.

The man in the black trench coat walked into the lobby, stopped in the center, and looked directly at him. The line hadn’t moved, so he looked back. The man in the black trench coat reached into the left pocket of his trench coat, He’s got a gun!,  and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He watched as the man in the black trench coat put a cigarette into his mouth, and returned the packet to his pocket. Then, the man in the black trench coat reached into a pocket on the inside of his trench coat, now he’s got a gun!, and pulled out a gold Zippo lighter.

The man in the black trench coat tilted his head down, breaking eye contact, and lit the cigarette with his gold Zippo lighter. Bringing his head back up, the man in the black trench coat snapped the lighter shut, looked back up at him, and winked.

Author: Aaron

Husband, father, and business owner. Constantly learning, adapting, changing, and thinking. Prefers to do the previous sentence with a cigar in hand.

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