The new UPS driver looks like he’s been working his way down the corporate ladder.
I think he looks too old for a package car and he looks like he’s about my age
and finally: I’ve seen him looking younger.
It was 1982.
He hung an offensive nickname on me
that spoke of something I’d never even seen, much less done,
and I wore it like the proverbial badge marked Chicken Inspector
or I Felta Thi. How mightily
we called it out when pinching female freshmen’s bottoms.
What cards we were. What utter shits.
In the synapse it takes for me to remember all this,
he has called me by that name again, laughing as
he clicks a touchscreen to note the exact time and place
the package was delivered.
I turn around to make sure my staff hasn’t heard it
and he laughs again. Hey, add me on Facebook!