Kenneth's day.

One Tuesday morning Kenneth Wilson came to the realization that he despised people. He was about to open the doors of the small post office when he glanced up at the informal queue of waiting people. Each wore the same look of quiet impatience. It was a look that said he was the sole reason for the delay to their self-important lives. He stopped, key paused halfway to the lock, and smiled. The squat, balding man standing in front responded with a puzzled frown. For the briefest of moments Kenneth considered not unlocking the door, if only to see the look of bemused surprise on their idiot faces. They would be quite powerless to stop him, yes, quite powerless. If only that were true. But he was not the owner of this post office, nor was he the manager. That role fell to Mr and Mrs Granville, the owners of this particular post office franchise. Besides serving behind counter 1, his job was to open the post office in the morning and close it again at night. The only reward for having worked there the past ten years.

Kenneth inserted the key and turned the lock. He opened the door and offered a perfunctory ‘Good morning.’

“Good morning,” mumbled the squat man and pushed past him.

Kenneth sauntered back to his station purposely ignoring the queue now forming behind the squat man. He carefully removed the ‘Closed – please use next counter’ sign looking over at counter 2 as he did. Shirley was late, again. Probably still in bed, hung over from another late night out on the town, he thought.

The squat man strode purposefully up to the counter. He pushed a small package over the polished surface of the counter and nodded to the large clock on the wall behind Kenneth.

“It’s ten past nine,” he growled.

Kenneth turned about to look at the clock.

“So, it is.” said Kenneth, turning back to face the man.

“Post office is supposed to open at nine,” observed the man sourly.

Kenneth shrugged.

“Yes, sorry about that,” he replied in a tone which betrayed anything but regret.

He adjusted his glasses and proceeded to process the delivery details.

“Would you be requiring additional cover?” he asked.

“Why?” scowled the squat man.

“Standard cover it is then,” noted Kenneth. “Special delivery?”

The man nodded.

“Eight pounds, ninety-five,” said Kenneth.

The man muttered something about ‘ridiculous cost’ before placing his credit card against the card reader. Payment successful, he snatched up his invoice, turned on his heel and left the shop with the same purposeful stride.

A young woman of around twenty was next. She reminded him of Belinda, the previous counter 2 girl. Thickly applied makeup, false eyelashes, platinum-blonde styled hairdo, and Botox pout. It seemed the look every other girl aspired to these days.

She placed a number of parcels on the counter.

“Small business?” enquired Kenneth.

She stared blankly at him, chewing her gum mechanically like some masticating cow.

“What?”

“Its just that I’ve noticed you come here quite often with a lot of parcels,” replied Kenneth. “If you own a small business you might want to talk with Mr Granville to arrange a better postage rate perhaps.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You, watching me or something,” she looked down at his nametag, “Ken?”

He adjusted the nametag pinned to his shirt.

“It’s Kenneth,” he corrected.

“No Kenneth,” she replied. “I do not own a small business, and it’s none of your effing business how many parcels I choose to mail every frigging week!”

Kenneth proceeded with the transaction as fast as he could.

The girl picked up her invoice, long false nails clacking on the counter as she did.

“You know my fiancé, Rashid?” she asked.

Brimsby was not a large town, but Kenneth doubted very much he’d ever frequented the types of establishment Rashid more than likely hung around, nor did he care to.

“No,” he replied simply.

“Maybe it’s betta then I don’t mention this, yeah?” she sneered.

Kenneth nodded meekly.

He watched as she left the post office, her ample ass jiggling in her tight active wear.

He deserved a reward for that, he promised himself. He’d nick a parcel on his way out tonight. His little reward for having to put up with this sort of thing. His little reward for the interminable hours standing waiting on people just like that. He was better than them. Yes, better than all of them. A year ago, Mr Granville had begun to investigate the issue of missing parcels. It had been relatively easy to slip a small package into Belinda’s bag. It was pay back for the time she’d sniggered when some big lummox of a man had threatened to ‘pop his head like a pimple’ when Kenneth had deliberately overcharged him. It was something Kenneth had done from time to time as revenge if he felt he’d been insulted. Most never seemed to notice but this man had. Kenneth had never attempted the same thing again. He glanced over at counter 2. Shirley had still not arrived. Perhaps it was time to slip another small parcel into someone’s bag, he thought. It would be relatively easy, despite the security camera Mr Granville had installed in the backroom. It would serve her right, the vacuous little cow.

Mrs Jones was his fifth customer of the morning. She was a small woman of slight build, in her late seventies. Kenneth watched as she shuffled up to the counter and carefully placed a square neatly wrapped box on the polished countertop. Her quick furtive movements reminded him of a mouse.

“Another package, Mrs Jones?” he asked with feigned cordiality.

“Yes, Kenneth,” she replied brightly. “It’s the final one.”

Mrs Jones had become something of an institution these past weeks, shuffling up to the counter every other day with yet another neatly wrapped package clutched tightly to her chest. It seemed a pity this was the last one, for he’d begun to enjoy watching her muddled attempts at calculating the postage (she insisted on paying cash), or all the times she’d written different return addresses. Silly old bat.

“Mr Jones still not well, is he?”

“Oh, yes, poor dear,” replied Mrs Jones. “He’s not been well these past weeks, but I think he’s turned a corner. Should be on his feet any day now, I shouldn’t wonder.”

That was a pity, thought Kenneth. Her husband was a cantankerous, vicious old bugger and he’d certainly not missed the regular visits paid by old man Jones coming to purchase yet another Royal Mail Special Stamp issue for his collection.

“You keep well, now, Mrs Jones,” said Kenneth as he handed over her change.

“Thank you, my dear, I will.”

He watched her shuffle away before turning to the next customer, his fake smile firmly in place.

Shirley breezed into her spot at counter 2 at quarter to ten, a full fifteen minutes before Mr Granville arrived from his usual Tuesday morning golf game. He’d played a poor eighteen holes, made all the worse by losing a substantial bet he’d placed on the game beforehand. Except for the constant sniping from Granville, the day had proceeded the same as any other for Kenneth. Mr Granville had appeared especially annoyed at him and for a moment Kenneth wondered if Granville had begun to suspect he was the culprit of the missing parcels. Of course, the thought had not prevented him from rewarding himself at the end of the day. He’d slipped the closest package on the shelf into the bin as he’d exited to throw away the rubbish and later retrieved it after he’d closed the post office for the day.

Home for Kenneth was a little bedsit over a fish and chip shop on Coddington road. Later that night, after he’d had his tea, he retrieved the package from his backpack. He placed it reverently before him on his bed. The package before him was a square neatly wrapped box and he suddenly realized it was the one old Mrs Jones had handed him that morning. He quickly pushed aside the small twinge of guilt. After the day he’d endured he deserved this. He rubbed his hands. Every time felt like opening a Christmas present. Using a small knife, he proceeded to cut away the binding, then carefully removed the brown paper wrapping. Kenneth finally opened the box and there inside he saw the perfectly preserved head of old Mr Jones.