Twin pillars of Bubble Wrap guard my basement kingdom. None shall pass through these gates, save those who have items that must be sent onward, off to regions to which the senders cannot, or dare not, travel themselves. It is here that the items are swaddled in sheets of protective wrappings and made fast with powerful tapes and adhesives.
I am the preparer of packages. I am he who readies them for the great voyages they must undertake to reach their final destinations.
I raise my Uline Pnuematic Box Stapler high. Its metal alloy
staples await release. This is the mighty tool which seals the objects in their sturdy vessels of double-walled cardboard so that they may not fall open of their own accord and spill their contents in transit before the unworthy eyes of those who are not the intended recipients. At the touch of its trigger the myriad boxes of varying dimensions are tightly sealed.
staples await release. This is the mighty tool which seals the objects in their sturdy vessels of double-walled cardboard so that they may not fall open of their own accord and spill their contents in transit before the unworthy eyes of those who are not the intended recipients. At the touch of its trigger the myriad boxes of varying dimensions are tightly sealed.
It is here that the packages are measured and weighed, their worthiness to be sent onward evaluated by the standards set forth long ago by the decree of delivery agents known only by their acronyms: UPS, FEDEX, and USPS.
And lo, cryptically-coded labels that provide the couriers of such packages with destination coordinates are then carefully affixed upon each box in turn.
All that remains now for me is to carry the sealed and labeled boxes out. Out and past the Pillars of Bubble Wrap. Out past the workbenches and The Machines of Assembly.
Out to the Freight Elevator of the Soul.
I place the packages carefully within the elevator's steel mesh chamber, observing with some remorse the sign reading, "FREIGHT ONLY. NO RIDERS." The doors close. The elevator moves upward, into the light of a day which I will never see. Hands other than mine now hold the responsibility of moving these boxes along on their journeys.
I return, alone, to my kingdom. I take a moment to rest myself on a throne made of discarded cardboard and packing tape, cushioned with leftover sheets of bubble wrap. I can never know for sure how the packages I have prepared will be received, but I like to close my eyes and imagine the exultant cries of the recipients when the boxes are at last opened:
"Hey! What the hell is this? I didn't order anything from these guys. Honey, did you order this?"
