Continued from “Going Postal, I,” “Going Postal, II,” “Going Postal, III,” “Going Postal, IV,” “Going Postal, V,” and “Going Postal, VI.”

“Are you listening, Mr. Mennet?”

Marty jerked his head up to squint at the broad. She didn’t look happy; she never did. Probaby could do with a lift. She frowned again; maybe some mesc and a don juan. Maybe Freddy’d consider…

“Mr. Mennet!”

“Yeah!” She did that thing of letting air out from behind her doctor getup and looking at the lights above. What was ever interesting about the lights, did she think?

“As I said, you’re being released, due to risk of contagions…”

Marty couldn’t stop from grinning. He tried. He didn’t want the eager all over his face or maybe they’d send him back. Back wasn’t bad but out was better. He twisted his mouth like he was sucking a wad to wipe the smile.

Mizz Case Worker droned on; he caught a word or two: “tracker,” “check in,” “job restrictions,” “travel restrictions.” He flipped his head up and down when she stopped reading her paper to check if he listened. Of course he heard. He was getting out ’cause the feds crowded the joint with innocents like him. He would’ve been catching the chain awhile ago if Larry hadn’t snitched last year.

“Mr. Mennet!”

“Marty…”

“Mr. Mennet, it is imperative that…” She caught his eyes leaving her face. “Nevermind. Do you have any questions?”

He flexed his fingers and wiggled his toes in their government shoes. Questions? Nah. Maybe. “Where’s my stuff? -No, wait. Where’m I going? Half-way?” She let masked air out. She was a f***in’ coffee machine, wasn’t she?

“As I sai-” Eyes roving again. “No, Mr. Mennet. You’re to be released into the care of family-”

“Fam’ly? Who??” No one’d talked to Marty in months. The last blood who’d answered had been old Aunt Carol, too sick to loan him anything.

“Well… that’s skipping ahead of procedure…” *Sigh* “You find someone to call.”

He squinted, thinking.

“Otherwise…” He swore a smile pulled at her flat, fat face above the mask. “You can’t be released from custody.”

“F-” Her face scrunched; eyebrows scowling. “Um, I mean- damn.”

Air again. She stood, tilted her head, scrunched her papers in those blue-gloved fingers of hers. “I suggest you think about all of your options and have a list ready, or you’ll lose your place in the consideration process.” She left.

Marty listened to the echoes the closed door left behind her exit. He slumped in the plastic chair. She might still be watching through that fake-mirror wall. “Damn,” he repeated.

Continue on to “Going Postal, VIII.”

 

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens