Candace was not in the right state of mind. This much she knew. She wanted to push herself today, but may have gone a bit over her limit. She would go to bed as soon as she got home, she told herself. This was the last errand on her ambitious itinerary. Unfortunately, the post office line was much longer than anticipated. Everyone coiled in a snake-like queue, wrapped around retracting belt barriers to keep them all nice and tidy during the restless indefinite wait. Fidgeting, stepping, sighing, eye rolling, exasperated whispers; the line moved as its own entity, a new organism born into an inhospitable environment. Two kids played and screamed, ducking under the belts and running between poles, their own government-sponsored obstacle course. At first, their mother yelled at them in a desperate attempt to corral her wild offspring. Fifteen minutes later, she resigned herself to the judgmental looks of her neighbors and the kids’ high-pitched screams. Let them run, nothing matters in this liminal purgatory.
Candace had been waiting for almost an hour (43 minutes). Her endurance was about to be rewarded – just three people ahead. The girl directly in front of her had a gray tabby cat on a leash. A weird choice, but Candace didn’t judge. If anything, it must be nice to have a companion in a time like this. The fluorescent lights flickered above. They stuttered every six or seven minutes. Only two service stations were active. The postal workers behind the protective panes of plexiglass were outnumbered, but that was no issue to them. They held all the power, this was their domain and they were the neutral Gods, omnipotent but refusing to act. They seemed apathetic to the frustration of the crowd, annoyed at most, not malevolent but ambivalent to the needs of mortals. No urgency in their movements, the stakes were low for them – why rush? Candace stared at the greeting card rack to her right. She locked eyes with a cartoon puppy on a Get Well Soon! card. The sickeningly sweet creature’s speech bubble read “Heard things have been RUFF…” and one could assume the rest of the message was contained inside, likely featuring another tacky sympathetic canine pun. The dog’s face was furnished with googly-eyes, and it sat under a saturated rainbow. She hated it.
She hated herself for procrastinating this task. This should have been the first item crossed off her to-do list this morning, not saved for the last minute at the busiest hour of operation. If it were anything else, she would have left upon seeing the length of the line when she walked in, one foot in the door and immediately turning around to come back another day. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. This was supposed to be mailed a week ago. It should be waiting in her uncle’s mailbox in Florida by now, or on the front porch, where he would pick it up on his way in when he got home from work today. He texted Candace this morning, asking for a tracking number and estimated time of arrival. She said it was on its way, should only be another day or three. She would send the tracking number, but she lost the receipt, she told him. Maybe it was in her email – she’ll check later, she said. Okay, he replied, I love you, and she sent back a blue heart emoji, and that was that.
A bellowing voice surprised the crowd: Next! The kids started yelling, repeating the call; “NEXT! NEXT!” they shouted. The weary mother shushed them in a hiss. A short man, lucky and blessed to be summoned, stepped up to the counter. He looked about mid-30s, wearing a Patagonia vest and clean hiking boots. Candace wondered what his purpose was here. He held only a standard-size envelope, which could easily fit in a mailbox, and it seemed unlikely that there were any special needs associated with it. She envied the people who had come and gone over the past hour, those who simply checked their P.O. Boxes or dropped letters in the magical slot.
“Gotta get some stamps for this bad boy,” the short man said, tossing the envelope down on the counter and giving it a hearty pat. “Whaddaya got?”
The woman behind the glass, facial expression unmoving, s l o w l y opened a drawer and presented a thick stack of stamp packets. “Star Wars,” the woman said, dealing a sheet from the deck.
“Mm, nah, what else you got?”
Candace felt her eye twitch.
“Women’s Soccer.” Another sheet down.
He shook his head.
“U.S. Presidents.”
A drop of sweat – or was it a tear? – slid down Candace’s face.
“Great Inventors of the 20th Century.”
Her breathing quickened.
“Spongebob Squarepants. Limited edition.”
Her heart thumpedthumpedthumpedthumped faster.
“State Flowers.”
The short man raised his eyebrows, intrigued. He pulled that one closer, inspected it, then sighed and slid it back.
“Lunar New Year.”
Candace threw up, just a little, in her mouth.
“Stan Lee and the Marvel Heroes.”
Her knees nearly buckled, but she set herself upright.
“Maya Angelou.”
The short man grimaced.
“Celebrated 1970s Classic Rock Musicians.”
He chuckled, but denied the option.
“Administrative Professionals’ Day.”
She gritted and bared her teeth, resisting the primal urge to lash out.
“Latte Art.”
The kids laughed.
“Holocaust Remembrance Day.”
The lights flickered.
“American Flag.”
The walls moved in closer.
“Black History Month.”
Linoleum tile creeped up Candace’s boots, slowly burying her feet.
“Smokey the Bear and Forest Fire Awareness.”
The doors rattled violently, as if a locking out a vicious mob fighting its way in.
“Charlie Brown and the Peanuts.”
“That’s the one!” He smiled and laughed in joyful accomplishment. “I’ll take a book of ‘em. Important to support the United States Postal Service in times like these, you know.”
The room itself exhaled a relieved sigh and expanded again to its original form. The parasitic tile, which had made its way up Candace’s calves, retreated into the ground.
With the tedious transaction completed, Candance anticipated the Heavenly Next! to come, but to her horror, it never did. The slow, stoic woman placed a CLOSED placard on the counter, rising from her seat and retreating from the war front. Candace could swear she saw gray wings unfurl as she waddled away. Her ill-timed break left just one window open. Candace’s arms went sore. She had been holding her to-be-shipped package for so long now. She wasn’t particularly strong, her upper-body strength unimpressive. One of the children stared at the bright orange sticker on the box, head tilted as he tried reading the big words, sounding out the syllables to himself. His mother noticed and turned him to face the other way, averting his curious gaze. She took one quick glance back and looked away herself. A few people had stared at the package for too long while waiting, either in disgust, surprise, or pity – she couldn’t tell. Feet shifted. Lights flickered. Sighs heaved. All unwell at the Nat King Cole Station Post Office.
The establishment’s eponym is an accomplished musician and pop culture icon, well-deserving of glory and respect. How the building came to be named after him, Candace didn’t know, but she considered it a stain upon his legacy. A poster of Nat King Cole hung on the wall behind her, and though she couldn’t see it, she felt his eyes bearing into her back, playing her spine like piano, frenetic Jazz melodies running up and down her vertebrae. Another being in line must also be thinking of him, as a man parallel to Candance in the folded queue began humming the Nat King Cole classic “L-O-V-E.” She could hear the words in his off-beat hmmms: L, is for the way you look, at me. O, is for the on-ly one, I see. V, is ve-ry ve-ry, ex-tra-or-din-a-ry, E – The tune ended in an abrupt, record scratch stop, when Candace aimed a piercing glance directly into the hummer’s eyes. He looked away abashed, caught in an embarrassing melodic reverie. Candace’s intervention came too late, however; the earworm was already stuck in her head. She wanted to smack herself in the head, and would have, if she wasn’t holding that damned, cursed package. She wanted to smack the man responsible for the torture in the head, as well, and was grateful she couldn’t.
In a desperate distraction attempt, she brought her attention over to the greeting cards again. The dog mocked her. Looks pretty RUFF, kid! he said. ARF you doing okay?
Candace lost track of time in her maladaptive daydream, pulled back when the next customer was called. The new Chosen One stepped up to face her destiny, light emanating from her footsteps. Unfortunately, a new challenge arose. The customer primarily spoke Spanish, the postal worker was impatient, their common ground of English shaky.
“Does this parcel contain anything fragile, liquid, perishable, or potentially hazardous, including lithium batteries and perfume?” the man asked.
“¿Qué?”
Candace closed her eyes, trying to block out the frustrating broken conversation. The woman was trying her best, she told herself. We’re all trying our best. It was getting hot in the claustrophobic room. Jackets were unzipped and shrugged off. Candace didn’t want to place her delicate box on the floor, leaving her uncomfortably warm in her seasonally appropriate coat. Though it wasn’t too cold, there was a late January early February chill in the Southern California air, and Los Angelenos tended to keep the heat much too high at Winter’s first sign.
The friendly Hallmark puppy barked at her. She tried to avoid its antagonizing call, but the incessant yapping got the best of her. “What?” she said aloud, whipping her head towards the stand. Candace didn’t register the startled reactions around her. The others looked between each other, wondering who she was talking to, if anyone had even spoken to her at all. A few shrugged to each other in silent mutual confusion.
You seem paws-itively miserable, Candace! The dog said, jovial and sadistic.
She rolled her eyes. Astute observation, she answered telepathically. She knew the dog could hear her, that it had dug its pretty paws into her mind and scrambled her brain, using her neurons as chew toys.
I’m having a BALL! Not that you asked. How inconsiderate, Candace. Perhaps you would be happier if you thought of others for once.
Her face burned. She readjusted her weight, the box really taking a toll on her.
Yes, quite rude of you. If you cared about anyone but yourself, you wouldn’t be stuck here in the first place, would you?
Her face curdled. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Well it’s all your fault, isn’t it.
Candace forced herself out of the conversation with the cartoon.
“What’s the hold up!” A man behind her, clearly at his own limit, yelled out. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
The transaction, with its language barrier and all, wrapped up. The woman sheepishly exited the post office, feeling guilty and ashamed of her language struggles. Though misplaced, Candace held cruel animosity towards her that she tried to shake off. She took a deep breath. Finally, finally, finally. Finally, Candace was next in line, as the girl with the leashed cat approached the counter. She scooped the pet into her free arm, the other holding a beautifully wrapped gift box, pink and red and donned with hearts and arrows and cupids, a well-timed Valentine’s gift, sent in advance, the holiday still two weeks away. She, unlike Candace, met her responsibilities in advance. She, unlike Candace, was organized, punctual, and acted properly in nearly all practical scenarios. She was a Virgo. She lived somewhere nice, like Los Feliz or Echo Park, maybe Silver Lake. She loved someone and showed them genuine attentive care. She woke early, nestled into her comfortable kitchen nook, cat at her feet, and drank a latte every morning, with a sensible breakfast that would hold her over until lunch, because it contained a solid serving of protein, and she found the recipe online and had it bookmarked, and she actually referenced her bookmarks, instead of hoarding them in hopeful collection, like a shelf of unread books that one is meaning to get to, no, unlike Candace, she read all of her books and regularly donated the ones she knew would not be revisited, to keep her living room tidy and presentable for company, as she regularly had company, but not too often, as she was also perfectly comfortable alone, the picture-perfect composition of her apartment was just as much for her own pleasure and sanity as it was for the sake of appearances.
The stern man behind the plexiglass frowned. “Pets aren’t allowed in here, lady.”
“She’s ESA certified,” the girl said, friendly with a splash of snarky pride in her voice. Got him.
Candace did not see this ending well.
“You gotta leave,” he said. “No pets.”
“I’ve been here for, like, an hour, are you kidding me? She’s an emotional support animal.”
“A cat? Give me a break. Not allowed.”
“Excuse me,” the girl said, experiencing a level of offense unknown to her sensible nature. “That’s discrimination.”
Yes, all your fault, Candace. The card greeted her again. Candace closed her eyes, trying to block out every inane voice around and within her.
The man grumbled. He took her package with spite. “That’s not a proper service animal, ma’am.”
The girl sighed in annoyance.
Your mother told you that, didn’t she. There it went again. Before she ended up in that pretty box you’re holding.
He continued, “No no, not a service animal. Only nowadays, Jesus H. Christ. That’s an insult to disabled people, you know that? Service animal, pfft.”
If you had visited home for Christmas, or even called, she may still be here.
“Sir-”
Real tragedy.
“Our veterans, that’s who need service animals.”
All alone in that big house. Police said her body laid there for days, didn’t they.
The postal worker continued. “We don’t care about our veterans. That’s a service animal, a dog for PTSD, for the veterans. What’s so wrong with you that you need a cat with you? No proper service animal.”
She tried speaking over him. “This is inappropriate, and none of your business, she is a psychiatric recommended animal for my anxiety and”
“A dog is a real service animal anyway. A dog! Cat won’t do a thing.”
I’m so sorry for your loss, by the way. I feel just arf-ul.
Fire ants crawled up Candace’s throat. Against the soft pleas of Sanity’s pitiful voice in her head, she looked at the insidious cartoon dog one more time, a canine of pure torment. The card made her feel nauseous, the opposite of its Hallmark-sanctioned intention. It’s googly eyes rolled about.
The room was too goddamn hot. Her arms fell. Her will and muscles gave out. The package thumped on the floor, its fragile contents heard rattling. Her fellow patrons gasped, knowing fully well what rested within because of that obnoxious neon CREMATED REMAINS warning label. Candance ripped the sympathetic puppy from its stand and gouged its eyes out. She tore it in two, three, four, as many shredded pieces as she could. She lunged at the entire display, knocking it to the ground and kicking, brutalizing the flimsy structure, cards for every occasion scattering across the floor. Happy Birthday, Just for Fun, Graduation, Wedding, 50th Anniversary, Happy Birthday for Her, Valentine’s Day, Sympathy, Congratulations, Missing You, Happy Birthday for Him, Get Well Soon, New Baby, Gratitude. She stomped on every one, dirty footsteps marring their innocent designs. The postal deity yelled out to her, but Candace was deaf in rage, hearing only demonic screams of “L-O-V-E” in her head. The mother, the utter parental failure, pulled her kids close and far away from Candace’s outburst. Knocking down the retracting belt barriers, she freed them all, she thought. Go, escape the endless queue, run! Some kind, stupid soul told her to calm down and cautiously approached, arms extended as if trying to catch a wild stray. Despite her aforementioned lack of upper-body strength, Candace had a fierce kick and was quick on her feet. When the Good Samaritan got too close, she struck them in the stomach with her Converse-clad foot. Running away, many started running away after the violent escalation, letters and packages clutched tightly to chests. The post officer, acting with a sense of urgency for the first time in recent memory, rushed to the phone to call 911, finally forced out of his default ambivalence by something other than the abuse of service animal privileges. A Hero rushed forward to apprehend Candace, in an act of solidarity to protect his remaining post office comrades. Mistake. Candace had abandoned any hope of grace. She knew she would never escape postal purgatory, and so flung herself into Hell, a martyr for freedom. Nothing left to lose, she ducked out of his reach. She snatched a pen, tethered to a counter by a chain, and ripped it straight out of its holder. As the Hero closed in, Candace shoved her makeshift, black inked weapon into his ear. He screamed, and as another tried coming up from behind, she spun around, into a kick, and served him the same blow. The two Heroes fell to the ground, blood spurting out their ears. She aimed at the counter’s barrier, proving its protection was actually necessary. Again, again, again, she threw her body into the plexiglass, bruising herself. Headfirst, she gave a final dive, forming cracks in the surface and her skull, wanting desperately to break through, to get at those beyond the wall, maybe destroy every parcel she could.
Uncharacteristically, the LAPD responded to the scene immediately. As the police dragged her out, Candace locked eyes with Nat King Cole’s visage on the back wall, and apologized.
Danika Frank is an emerging writer from New York City. She holds a BA in Writing, Literature, & Publishing from Emerson College and recently achieved an MA in Cinema & Media Studies at UCLA. Danika’s writing explores the extreme, inspires sympathy for the unsympathetic, and, hopefully, makes you laugh.
