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That Shit … Be at a Slant – Episode 8

Hello, I’m Mangus Khan, and for the next few minutes, I encourage you to walk into Madness with me.

Come on in, Brave Souls.

Today, we’re going to discuss the postal service.

Not the one responsible for delivering your electric bill three days before payday or somehow managing to lose a package large enough to contain a refrigerator.

No, this is a different kind of postal service.

One that handles expectations, obligations, disappointments, and all the other shit people have a habit of dropping on our doorsteps.

You know the packages I’m talking about.

The ones nobody remembers ordering.

The ones that arrive without warning.

And the ones that somehow become our responsibility simply because we were foolish enough to answer the door.

Somewhere in a forgotten corner of the universe, there’s a postal worker who has spent sixty-one years accepting packages that don’t belong to him.

His name is Walter.

And Walter has a problem.

Actually, Walter has several thousand problems.

Most of them are wrapped in brown paper.

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Walter Percival Trunks had worked for the Department of Personal Obligations for sixty-one years, four months, and eleven days. During that time, he had never refused a package, misplaced a delivery, questioned a shipping label, or taken an unscheduled day off. His attendance record was flawless, his customer satisfaction ratings were consistently excellent, and his annual performance evaluations contained variations of the same three words: Dependable, reliable, indispensable. Walter had once considered having those words engraved on a plaque, but the engraving company wanted forty-seven dollars, and he thought that was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on something he already knew.

At seventy-eight, Walter was an enormous gray elephant with deeply wrinkled skin, tired amber eyes, and a pair of ivory tusks that had long since lost their youthful polish. His ears drooped slightly beneath the weight of age, and his trunk possessed a permanent curve from decades of lifting parcels across the counter. He wore a faded navy-blue postal uniform with brass buttons, a loosened black tie, and a name badge that had been polished so often the lettering was beginning to disappear. His knees ached, his shoulders complained, and his lower back had developed an extensive vocabulary of objections that began every morning before he finished brushing his teeth.

The department occupied a cavernous warehouse at the end of a narrow cobblestone street, wedged between the Bureau of Unsolicited Advice and a small bakery specializing in pastries nobody particularly wanted but everyone felt obligated to purchase. The building smelled of damp cardboard, old rope, furniture polish, dust, and the faint sweetness of pastries that had been sitting beneath a glass display case considerably longer than the health department would have appreciated.

Inside, thousands of parcels filled shelves stretching from floor to ceiling. Some were small enough to fit in a pocket. Others required industrial equipment and a signed waiver from the Department of Occupational Safety. Every package was wrapped in brown paper, tied with coarse twine, and labeled according to its contents.

GUILT.

OBLIGATION.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

UNFULFILLED PROMISES.

THINGS YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE DIFFERENTLY.

And, occupying nearly an entire wall, an enormous collection marked EVERYBODY ELSE.

Walter had organized the warehouse himself. He knew where every parcel belonged, remembered most of the people who had delivered them, and could identify the contents of certain packages simply by the way they shifted when lifted. Guilt was particularly dense. Disappointment tended to rattle. Unfulfilled promises made a faint ticking sound that became louder after midnight, while obligations had an unpleasant habit of growing heavier whenever someone attempted to set them down.

The largest package in the building rested across Walter’s shoulders. It was wrapped in thick brown paper, secured with several lengths of rope, and bore a single handwritten label.

EXPECTATIONS.

Walter had been carrying it for so long that he no longer remembered when he’d first picked it up.

He simply knew it belonged there.

Above the service counter hung a crooked wooden sign.

NO RETURNS ACCEPTED.

Walter had never questioned that policy.

Policies were policies.

And Walter was a professional.

Every morning at precisely seven o’clock, he unlocked the front door, switched on the overhead lamps, and prepared for another day of accepting whatever humanity decided it no longer wanted to carry.

The first customer arrived at 7:03.

She was a middle-aged woman wearing an expensive coat, sensible shoes, and the expression of someone who had spent the morning being disappointed by people who were not present to defend themselves.

“Good morning, Walter.”

“Morning, Mrs. Pemberton.”

She placed a small package on the counter.

Walter examined the label.

YOU SHOULD CALL MORE OFTEN.

“Another one?”

Mrs. Pemberton sighed. “My son hasn’t called in three days.”

“Three days?”

“Seventy-nine hours, actually.”

Walter glanced over his spectacles.

“Have you called him?”

“Certainly not. He should want to call his mother.”

“Naturally.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

Walter looked at the package.

Then at Mrs. Pemberton.

Then back at the package.

“Of course not.”

She smiled with satisfaction.

“I knew you’d understand.”

Walter stamped the shipping receipt, placed the package beneath the counter, and watched her leave.

He had received forty-three similar parcels from Mrs. Pemberton that year.

Her son, according to the department’s records, had called her twice the previous week.

Apparently, the statute of limitations on maternal disappointment was approximately forty-eight hours.

At 7:19, Mr. Grimsby arrived.

Mr. Grimsby managed a small manufacturing company and possessed the remarkable ability to describe every additional demand as a wonderful opportunity for personal growth.

He carried an enormous wooden crate.

Walter recognized the label immediately.

OTHER DUTIES AS ASSIGNED.

“Morning, Walter.”

“Grimsby.”

“Got another one for you.”

“I can see that.”

“Shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Walter examined the crate, which appeared to weigh approximately four hundred pounds.

“What’s in it?”

“Just a few additional responsibilities.”

“Whose?”

“Well, technically, nobody’s.”

Walter sighed.

“Naturally.”

“You’re such a dependable fellow, Walter. I knew I could count on you.”

There it was.

The magic phrase.

I knew I could count on you.

Walter felt a small warmth of satisfaction beneath his aching shoulders. It was a familiar sensation, one he had learned to associate with being useful, respected, and necessary.

He signed the receipt.

Mr. Grimsby departed.

The crate remained.

By nine o’clock, Walter had accepted seventeen packages, including SINCE YOU’RE ALREADY GOING THAT WAY, IT’LL ONLY TAKE A MINUTE, and a particularly suspicious parcel marked I HATE TO ASK, BUT…

That last one weighed nearly six hundred pounds.

Walter had learned long ago that the phrase I hate to ask generally meant the speaker had absolutely no difficulty asking.

At ten fifteen, a complete stranger entered carrying a box wrapped in cheerful yellow paper.

“Excuse me,” the stranger said. “You look like someone who can help.”

Walter closed his eyes.

There were few sentences in the English language more dangerous.

“With what?”

“Oh, nothing complicated.”

Walter looked at the box.

It was vibrating.

“Why is it moving?”

“Just a little family situation.”

“Whose family?”

“Mine.”

“Do I know you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you giving this to me?”

The stranger smiled.

“Because you seem like a good person.”

Walter stared at him.

The stranger continued smiling.

Somewhere in the warehouse, a shelf collapsed beneath the weight of accumulated disappointment.

Walter sighed.

“Leave it on the counter.”

The stranger thanked him profusely and disappeared before Walter could reconsider.

The package immediately doubled in size.

Walter muttered something unprintable.

Then carried it into the warehouse.

He complained the entire way.

That was another thing about Walter.

He complained constantly.

About customers.

About management.

About the weather.

About his knees.

About the ridiculous expectations people placed upon him.

He complained while accepting packages, complained while organizing them, and complained while carrying them into storage.

Yet he never refused one.

Not once.

Because somewhere beneath the complaints, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the resentment he occasionally felt toward people who seemed perfectly comfortable allowing him to carry their burdens, Walter possessed a secret he had never admitted aloud.

He liked being needed.

Not the work itself.

Certainly not the pain.

But the importance.

The way people smiled when he agreed to help.

The gratitude in their voices.

The reassurance that came from knowing somebody depended upon him.

Walter had spent most of his life being the dependable one.

The person who showed up.

The person who handled things.

The person who could be trusted when everything else fell apart.

And over time, that identity had become more than a reputation.

It had become the foundation upon which he measured his own worth.

If people needed him, he mattered.

If they depended upon him, he had purpose.

If they couldn’t manage without him, then surely his existence possessed some special significance.

It was a comforting arrangement.

Until it wasn’t.

Because people have an extraordinary ability to adapt to generosity.

What begins as a favor becomes an expectation. What begins as kindness becomes availability. What begins as someone appreciating your assistance eventually becomes someone wondering why the hell you haven’t finished yet.

And somewhere along the way, the person doing the helping begins confusing appreciation with obligation.

Walter knew this.

He had watched it happen for decades.

He simply hadn’t recognized himself in the arrangement.

By noon, his shoulders were burning. The enormous parcel marked EXPECTATIONS pressed against his spine, and his trunk trembled slightly whenever he reached across the counter. He had skipped breakfast, postponed his morning break, and allowed his coffee to grow cold because customers kept arriving.

At twelve seventeen, he finally sat down.

The chair groaned beneath him.

Walter rubbed his knees and stared at the mountains of parcels surrounding his desk.

He had worked hard all morning.

Accomplished a great deal.

Helped numerous people.

And somehow, the warehouse was fuller than when he’d arrived.

He wondered when he’d last gone home without feeling exhausted.

He couldn’t remember.

That bothered him.

Not enough to change anything, apparently.

But enough to notice.

At 12:23, someone knocked on the door.

Walter sighed.

“Closed for lunch.”

The knocking continued.

“I said we’re closed!”

The door opened.

A young woman entered wearing a charcoal suit, practical boots, and an expression suggesting she had already discovered several violations before crossing the threshold.

She carried a clipboard.

Walter disliked her immediately.

“Can I help you?”

“Inspector Amelia Finch. Departmental Compliance and Inventory.”

Walter groaned.

“Wonderful. Another government inspection.”

“Routine audit.”

“Nothing about government audits is routine.”

Amelia glanced around the warehouse.

Her expression changed.

She looked toward the towering shelves, the mountains of parcels, the overloaded counter, and finally the enormous package resting across Walter’s shoulders.

“Good Lord.”

Walter frowned.

“What?”

“How long have you been storing all this?”

“Sixty-one years.”

“Sixty-one?”

“Four months and eleven days.”

Amelia stared at him.

“Why?”

Walter blinked.

“Because it’s my job.”

She examined the nearest package.

GUILT.

Then another.

OBLIGATION.

Then a third.

EVERYBODY ELSE.

She checked the shipping labels.

“Mr. Trunks, these parcels aren’t addressed to you.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you carrying them?”

“Because somebody has to.”

Amelia looked at him.

“Who told you that?”

Walter opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

He considered the question.

Nobody had ever asked him that before.

Not directly.

Not in sixty-one years.

“Well,” he began, “it’s understood.”

“By whom?”

“Everybody.”

“Everybody who?”

Walter frowned.

“People.”

“Which people?”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Look, young lady, I’ve been doing this considerably longer than you’ve been alive.”

“I’m aware.”

“And I’ve never had a complaint.”

Amelia glanced toward the warehouse.

“Mr. Trunks, you have approximately forty thousand complaints.”

“Those are packages.”

“Precisely.”

Walter folded his arms.

Or attempted to.

The enormous parcel across his shoulders made the maneuver difficult.

Amelia approached the counter and opened her clipboard.

“According to departmental regulations, employees are responsible for accepting parcels, verifying addresses, and arranging appropriate delivery.”

“Correct.”

“Not personally assuming ownership of every package.”

Walter stared at her.

“What?”

“You’re supposed to deliver them.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“No. You’ve been storing them.”

“Because nobody came to collect them.”

Amelia looked at him with an expression somewhere between sympathy and disbelief.

“Mr. Trunks, why would the senders come back for packages they’ve already convinced you to carry?”

Walter didn’t answer.

He looked toward the warehouse.

For the first time, the shelves appeared different.

Not organized.

Not impressive.

Not evidence of sixty-one years of dedicated service.

Just full.

Full of things that belonged to other people.

Full of responsibilities he’d accepted without examining.

Full of expectations he’d mistaken for obligations.

Full of disappointments he’d somehow convinced himself were his responsibility to prevent.

Amelia continued examining the records.

“Some of these parcels don’t even have recipients.”

“Those are general obligations.”

“General to whom?”

“Everybody.”

She picked up a package labeled MAKE EVERYONE HAPPY.

“Mr. Trunks, this isn’t a delivery. It’s a mathematical impossibility.”

Walter looked offended.

“I’ve been working on that one for years.”

“I can tell.”

She set it aside.

“Here’s another. NEVER DISAPPOINT ANYONE.“

“Important package.”

“Impossible package.”

“People depend upon me.”

“And what happens when you disappoint someone?”

Walter hesitated.

“They become upset.”

“And?”

“Sometimes angry.”

“And?”

He frowned.

“What do you mean, and?”

Amelia shrugged.

“Does the building collapse? Does the world stop turning? Does the sun refuse to rise?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you carrying six hundred pounds of fear over something that occasionally happens to every living creature?”

Walter looked toward the package.

He had never considered it fear.

He’d called it responsibility.

Professionalism.

Reliability.

Being a good person.

But fear?

That was uncomfortable.

Because beneath his determination to be dependable lived the possibility that people might stop valuing him if he stopped being useful.

And that was something Walter had spent a lifetime avoiding.

Amelia seemed to recognize the change in his expression.

She softened her voice.

“Mr. Trunks, being dependable is admirable. Helping people matters. Keeping your word matters. But there’s a difference between accepting responsibility and accepting ownership of everyone else’s expectations.”

Walter rubbed his forehead with the tip of his trunk.

“I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to learn.”

He looked around the warehouse.

“Where would I even begin?”

Amelia smiled.

“With the addresses.”

They spent the remainder of the afternoon sorting packages.

Not dramatically.

Not with inspirational music.

Not by throwing everything into a dumpster and declaring Walter emotionally liberated.

They simply began examining the labels.

Some packages represented genuine responsibilities.

Promises Walter had made.

Commitments he had willingly accepted.

People who genuinely depended upon him.

Those remained.

Others were different.

Expectations people had imposed without asking.

Responsibilities he’d accepted because he feared disappointing someone.

Guilt he’d inherited from situations he couldn’t control.

Obligations that had never belonged to him.

Those were placed in a separate pile.

RETURN TO SENDER.

Walter found the process strangely difficult.

Every time he set aside a package, he felt a small stab of guilt.

What if someone needed him?

What if they became angry?

What if they thought he was selfish?

What if they stopped calling?

Amelia didn’t dismiss those concerns.

Instead, she asked whether being disliked occasionally was truly worse than spending the remainder of his life buried beneath responsibilities he had never agreed to carry.

Walter couldn’t answer.

Not immediately.

Some habits become so deeply embedded that questioning them feels like questioning the person you’ve spent decades becoming.

And Walter had been dependable for a very long time.

He wasn’t certain who he’d be without that identity.

By late afternoon, the return pile had grown considerably.

The warehouse looked almost unchanged.

Thousands of parcels remained.

The shelves still sagged.

The air still smelled of dust and old cardboard.

Walter’s knees still hurt.

But for the first time in decades, he could see a narrow stretch of floor behind the counter.

It wasn’t much.

Perhaps six feet.

Enough to walk without stepping over someone else’s expectations.

Walter stood there for several minutes, staring at the empty space.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being able to move freely.

Then Amelia noticed something.

A tiny parcel sitting near the edge of the counter.

It was wrapped in faded brown paper, tied with a single piece of twine, and covered in a thin layer of dust.

The label read:

MY DREAMS.

“What’s this?”

Walter looked toward it.

His expression changed.

“Oh. That.”

“Who’s it addressed to?”

“Me.”

Amelia examined the package.

“Then why hasn’t it been delivered?”

Walter shrugged.

“Never got around to it.”

“When did it arrive?”

He thought for a moment.

“1965.”

Amelia stared at him.

“Mr. Trunks.”

“Yes?”

“That was sixty-one years ago.”

“I’m aware.”

She handed him the parcel.

It weighed almost nothing.

Walter held it carefully in his trunk, surprised by how small it seemed. He remembered when it had arrived. He’d been seventeen, full of ambition, convinced the world was enormous and that somewhere beyond the familiar streets of his hometown waited places he hadn’t yet imagined.

He had planned to travel.

To see mountains.

Oceans.

Cities whose names he could barely pronounce.

He’d wanted to ride trains through unfamiliar countryside, eat strange food, meet people who lived differently, and discover what existed beyond the little corner of the world where he’d grown up.

Then life happened.

There were responsibilities.

People who needed him.

A job that became a career.

Promises.

Emergencies.

Bills.

Expectations.

Always expectations.

And somehow, the little parcel had been pushed farther and farther toward the edge of the counter until it became just another thing he intended to deal with someday.

Walter loosened the twine.

The paper crackled beneath his trunk.

Inside was a train ticket.

Yellowed with age.

Its edges had curled slightly, and the printed letters had faded.

DESTINATION: ANYWHERE

DEPARTURE: WHENEVER YOU’RE READY

Walter stared at it.

For a long while, he said nothing.

Amelia waited.

Finally, he whispered, “I forgot.”

“What?”

“That I wanted something.”

The words surprised him.

Not because they were dramatic.

Because they were true.

He had spent so many years being useful to other people that he’d gradually stopped asking what might make his own life meaningful.

Not because anyone had forbidden him.

Not because someone had deliberately taken his dreams away.

But because he’d become so practiced at putting himself last that eventually he’d stopped appearing on the list altogether.

Walter looked toward the warehouse.

He wasn’t angry with the people who had brought him their packages.

Not entirely.

Some had taken advantage.

Certainly.

Others had simply accepted what he offered.

And Walter had offered a great deal.

He had taught people that his time was always available, his patience unlimited, and his willingness to help unconditional.

Then he’d grown resentful when they believed him.

That was an uncomfortable truth.

But Walter had lived long enough to recognize that uncomfortable truths were frequently the ones worth examining.

He folded the ticket carefully and placed it in his shirt pocket.

Amelia smiled.

“Going somewhere?”

“Not today.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Perhaps.”

She nodded.

“That’s a start.”

By six o’clock, the inspection was complete.

Amelia gathered her paperwork, closed her clipboard, and prepared to leave.

Walter walked her to the door.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

He considered the question.

“For asking who told me I had to carry everything.”

Amelia smiled.

“You’re welcome.”

After she departed, Walter returned to the counter.

The warehouse was quiet.

The enormous package marked EXPECTATIONS still rested across his shoulders.

He reached behind himself, loosened the rope, and slowly lowered it to the floor.

The weight came away gradually.

His back protested.

His knees trembled.

For a moment, he thought he might fall.

Then he straightened.

Not completely.

Sixty-one years of carrying something doesn’t disappear from the body simply because the burden has been removed.

But he stood a little taller.

Enough to notice.

Above the counter, the old wooden sign remained.

NO RETURNS ACCEPTED.

Walter studied it.

For decades, he had treated those words as an absolute law.

Then he noticed something beneath the lettering.

Small print.

Almost invisible beneath years of dust.

He wiped the sign with his trunk.

MANAGEMENT RESERVES THE RIGHT TO MAKE EXCEPTIONS.

Walter stared at the words.

Then he laughed.

A deep, rumbling sound that seemed to rise from somewhere inside his chest, shaking dust from the shelves and startling a mouse that had apparently been living inside a parcel marked UNRESOLVED FAMILY DRAMA.

He reached for a pen.

Crossed out the word Management.

And wrote a single letter.

I.

He stepped back.

Read the sign again.

Then turned off the lights.

The warehouse disappeared into darkness.

Thousands of parcels remained.

There would be more tomorrow.

People would still need help.

Responsibilities would still exist.

Some expectations would still deserve consideration.

And Walter would still be Walter.

Dependable.

Reliable.

Perhaps even indispensable.

But tomorrow, when someone arrived carrying a package that didn’t belong to him, he intended to examine the address before signing the receipt.

He locked the door.

The evening air smelled of rain and warm bread from the bakery next door.

For the first time in years, he didn’t feel compelled to stop and purchase something simply because the baker might be disappointed if he didn’t.

He walked past.

Then paused.

Reached into his pocket.

And touched the old train ticket.

Somewhere beyond the city, a locomotive sounded its horn.

Walter smiled.

And went home.

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And there it is, Brave Souls.

Sixty-one years of dedicated service.

Thousands of packages.

An impeccable employment record.

And one exhausted elephant who finally discovered that being dependable doesn’t require volunteering to become everybody else’s personal moving company.

Now, don’t misunderstand me.

Helping people matters.

Keeping your word matters.

Being someone others can count on is a quality worth preserving.

But there’s a difference between being generous and being permanently available.

There’s a difference between responsibility and guilt.

And there’s a considerable difference between helping someone carry a burden and allowing them to climb onto your back while complaining that you’re walking too slowly.

The uncomfortable part?

Sometimes we help create the very expectations that eventually exhaust us.

We teach people what we’re willing to accept.

Then become furious when they believe us.

And occasionally, we become so invested in being needed that we forget we’re allowed to want something for ourselves.

We’re on a journey through the ordinary and mundane, taking off the rose-colored glasses and looking for a different side of Madness.

Maybe today’s slant is this:

Not every package delivered to your door belongs to you.

Read the label.

Check the address.

Decide what you’re actually responsible for.

And if somebody hands you another six hundred pounds of expectations because you’re such a dependable person, remember that generosity doesn’t require you to surrender your spine.

Sometimes the most responsible thing you can do is refuse delivery.

And sometimes…

That Shit … Be at a Slant.