what she’s even sayin’ because I’m too busy tryin’ to come up with a plan B since this dumpster may not remain a safe haven for too much longer.
“I’ll have you know that I’m gonna call and complain. You hit my Baby, and if the porcelain doll in that package is broken, I’m demandin’ that it comes out of your paycheck,” Ms. Jonay yells at me as she finally gets a hold of the beast’s collar and tries to tug him back toward the front door.
Her arms look like they’re gonna pop out of their sockets as she tries to wrestle with the dog. Anger builds inside of me at her callous words, and I momentarily find myself daydreamin’ about the four-legged steroid turnin’ on her and showin’ her how unfittin’ a name like Baby really is.
I glare at her and try to calm the black that creeps into the edges of my vision as she struggles to pull Baby back into her house. Adrenaline and outrage pump through my veins, and as soon as she and her psycho dog are back in the house, I flip them both off.
“I saw that!” she yells from the other side of the door.
“Good, you damn loon!” I shout back, and I can practically hear her dialin’ numbers on her phone already so she can do her best to get me fired for this.
What sucks worst of all is that my bitch of a boss just might do it. She’s a damn sadist, and it really depends on how short-handed she is when corporate reaches out to her with the complaint. I’m doin’ doubles now because she just ran off six other drivers, so maybe that will work in my favor.
Maybe not, though.
I shoot scathin’ looks at the house and its occupants as I wait a few minutes before I cautiously climb out of the dumpster. You’d think the lack of noise would make me feel better, but that dog moved so silently before that I keep feelin’ like it’s gonna come around a corner for round two and catch me by surprise.
Haulin’ my ass over the side, I manage to climb down usin’ the metal niches and land ungracefully on my feet. Thankfully, the old bat dropped my power pad and stylus close to where my half-shredded shoe is, so I guess I have that to be grateful for. I scoop everythin’ up and hobble back toward my truck, doin’ my darndest to ignore the soggy sock situation. I don’t wanna know.
I lock myself in my truck, and with shaky hands, I reach for my water and chug half of it down. I look at the house where Ms. Jonay is starin’ at me from her window with a phone pressed to her ear. I clench my teeth.
I have some scrapes on my palms and a little blood on the back of my calf and heel, probably from a tooth, but it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. I spend exactly one second debatin’ about callin’ my boss, Patricia, before dismissin’ it. I called her for help with a flat tire a month ago, and her response was, “You have two legs, don’t ya?” She couldn’t care less about anythin’ other than our deliverin’ packages on time and the bonus she gets for it.
I pour a little water on my leg and hands, not carin’ about the splatters that end up on the rubber floor mats of the truck, while makin’ a note to also ask my mama about when I got my last rabies shot. I should probably ask my daddy to pour some of Uncle Tim’s moonshine on everythin’ just to kill off any germs too. That damn stuff is pure alcohol. Uncle Tim says it’s why he’s in such good shape—he’s always disinfectin’ his insides.
Spinnin’ around in the driveway, I purposely floor the gas, makin’ my tires spin and kick up dirt in her yard. I may be twenty-eight years old, but that doesn’t mean I can’t throw a respectable hissy fit every once in a while, especially when it’s deserved.
Gettin’ back on the road, I can’t stop grindin’ my teeth for at least a couple of miles. I hate my job. I know lots of people feel the same, but damn, when I was a little girl, deliverin’ packages for Swift Shipping Services and makin’ minimum wage definitely wasn’t on my When I Grow Up poster board.