Spoiler! :
Fletcher gently placed the final envelope into his satchel but quickly retracted his hand as he experienced the horrendous and indescribable tragedy of the Paper Cut.
“Jeeze,” said Fletcher as he plopped his chubby forefinger into his mouth. “I always told Mother my job was strenuous. Paper cuts and hangnails… I just don’t think she could possibly understand it.”
Fletcher then mentally readied himself for the terrifying trek across the Postal Office and to the first aid kit that just happened to be located an entire story above the one in which he currently resided. Not only did Fletcher have to maneuver through the various mail carts positioned around the storeroom, but he also had to walk all the way down the hallway, then up the stairs. Goodness. All those stairs. And there wasn’t even a hand-rail erected alongside them.
After appropriately stretching of all the main muscles that were going to be needed for the day’s journey, after triple checking his double-knotted shoes to make sure they really were double-knotted and not just sort-of-double-knotted like they sometimes ended up, and after praying to the Big Man with hopes that maybe something extraordinarily good would happen today, Fletcher drew himself to his full height of 5 foot, 3 inches and mustered all of the bravery he could find. It was him against the world, and Paper Cut was going down. [In actuality, Paper Cut was really going “up,” as in, "up the stairs," but Fletcher decided that just this once he would indulge in dramatic, internal dialogue.]
The first obstacle was waltzing his little body into the hallway. A seemingly-easy task to the untrained eye, but Fletcher knew better. He was thoroughly aware of the infinite danger residing around every corner. Certainly, that unsuspecting mail cart couldn’t possibly possess the capability of destroying his existence, but who really knows what lies underneath the guise of a postage stamp?
Fletcher proceeded to hyperventilate, but he was used to that and very quickly regained his composure [or what he called his “composure”]. He cracked his knuckles, immediately regretted cracking his knuckles [arthritis?!], and took his first step toward the doorway.
This isn’t so bad, Fletcher noted. Hey, this isn’t that bad at all! Fletcher meandered his way around the mail carts and within half an hour reached the doorway to the hall.
“WOO!” Fletcher wooed. He threw his fists into the air and inadvertently punched the door frame.
“OH! I JUST BROKE MY HANDS! OH MY WORD! SOMEONE HELP ME!”
The postal office’s occupants proceeded as usual.
“Oh my, I hope I’m alright,” Fletcher cried.
He slowly continued his journey down the hallway, gently cradling his wounded hands with his arms. Step by step, he inhaled deeply as he hauled each foot into the air and forcefully struck it down onto the floor beneath him. His legs were stiff. His feet were heavy. But Fletcher drove himself with determination across the tiled floors with no thought crossing his mind but to reach the ultimate destination.
But he was pretty sure he saw a bag of pistachios in the vending machine.
Fletcher looked to his left down another corridor which revealed an angelic vending machine filled with various delicacies like chocolate bars and over-priced pretzels. But among the abundance of edible joys, what caught Fletcher’s eye was a solitary bag of pistachios, dressed in yellow plastic with the words “Pistachio Pals!” printed in bold type across the front.
Faced with an obvious dilemma, Fletcher had only moments to reconsider his current mission.
He held out his left hand to signal a turn and diverged from his intended path to approach the vending machine. But his dreams were quite abruptly shattered when Samson, his polite-but-overwhelmingly-prodigious-in-size co-worker stepped between Fletcher and his potential pistachio pals and punched in the numbers which corresponded with the one and only yellow bag.
No! Fletcher gasped internally. What sick tragedy is this! I will not be denied! And Fletcher threw his postal bag onto the floor and raced head-first into the unsuspecting Samson.
With an angry grunt, a surprised yelp, and an inappropriately comical boing-sound, Fletcher rammed his head into Samson’s squishy torso and was immediately thrown back down the hall by the intense rebound.
“Fletcher!” Samson called with concern. “Are you alright?”
“I... I… I don’t remember anything. “ Fletcher pat his arms and body then drew his hands quickly to his face. “WHO AM I?”
“You’re OK, Fletch,” Samson said. “Here, have my pistachios. That’ll help you wake.”
Samson helped Fletcher regain his footing and handed him the imported nuts. Fletcher, although still half-delayed by his fall, accepted the pistachios greatly and proceeded to stampede his way down the hallway and into the large postal storeroom where he screamed at the top of his lungs: “Let them eat nuts!”
Overwhelmed by the sudden abundance of euphoria, Fletcher thrust his hand into the bag and flung many a pistachio into the air, conducting a beautiful downpour of Pistacia vera.
“Today is truly wonderful,” said Fletcher as he held one up to the flickering glow of the storeroom’s out-of-date florescent lights. “And this I shall always remember.”
With all previous dilemmas forgotten, Fletcher tossed a pistachio into his mouth and embraced the magnificent taste of triumph.
He couldn’t wait to tell Mother.
Spoiler! :
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