steam the tablecloth
put together what I have of the display
organize fliers and business cards
The tablecloth only covers half of the table, and the exposed section looks like a great opportunity for injury.
My heart rate continues to rise with each minute that passes. My smart watch is going to think I’m doing a workout which is a real slap in the face. You’d think we’d be able to differentiate between physical activity and run-of-the-mill anxiety.
Brad strolls into the conference room with no sense of urgency. This gives me time to see his wrinkled shirt, bedhead, and puka shell necklace. I’m losing hope. And quick.
“We don’t see any boxes in the shipping area for you or your company. Are you sure they were delivered?” he asks without making much eye contact with his bloodshot eyes.
I pull in as much air as possible, a breath that reaches my ribs, beforeI respond.
“Yes. I confirmed they were delivered from the tracking information as well as with Bea yesterday afternoon.”
I pull up the tracking information on my phone and hand it to him. He squints down at my screen for far too long. There isn’t much to see besides a tracking number and the large “DELIVERED” message.
Part of me wants to ask if I can look in the shipping area. I know I have a fixation about needing control. It’s not new. I make progress and then something like this happens.
“Do you remember what you put on the label, as far as delivery details?”
There isn’t enough air in the room to breathe in before the annoyance seeps through my response. I now get a whiff of Brad’s stale boozy breath.
“Brad—I willneverforget the details on that shipping label. Deliver to Point 3 - door 1, signature required. Time-sensitive—deliveries only accepted from 8 AM–3 PM,” I spit from memory as a too big smile paints my red lips.
“Okay, okay, I get it. You read the instructions and followed them.” Brad’s the one who’s annoyed now.
“What a concept!” I throw my hands up in a sarcastic “wow” expression.
Honestly, I don’t like how I sound right now. I know Brad is just doing his job and I’m guessing many shipping mishaps occur because someone didn’t read or follow the specific instructions. Also, he looks like he’s nursing one hell of a hangover.
He pulls out a clipboard with what I’m guessing is some sort of vendor checklist. He looks like a kid playing dress-up and like he’s not actually supposed to be in the workforce.
“I believe you on the label. I checked and no other boxes are waiting to be brought in. There’s another place I can check but maybe you want to go talk with Bea?” He nonchalantly turns and doesn’t wait for my response.
He might be trying to get rid of me, but I don’t care. Some people maybe bothered by this directive, but I’m thrilled there’s something I can do.
“I would love to. Here’s my card in case you find them.” I pass my card to Brad.
I’m in the hallway faster than Brad can pocket the card and casually stroll to his next spot to check. The sun is coming up, but the lodge is quiet and still.
“Good morning, Miss Ivy,” Bea croons when I’m about twenty feet away, her eyes still down on whatever it is she’s working on at the front desk.
“How did you know it was me?”
