Literacy's A Bitch

“Is this 733?” the postal carrier demands sullenly.

I confess it is and keeping one nervous eye on the dogs on the other side of the door, she thrusts a package at me and orders me to sign.

“How does it happen to be so ripped and torn apart?” I ask.

“Come that way,” she shrugs and shoves her little electronic signing machine closer, “Not my problem.”

“Course not,” I say snappishly. I sign but not before I clearly print DAMAGED above my signature. She glares at me.

“Not my problem either,” I tell her, “And you best go before I let the dogs out.”

She scuttles off like an angry, cornered crab.

Just as I'm asking Michael who he knows in San Miguel, I look a little closer and see the actual address is Oliver Street. We're on Olive Street.

Literacy's such a bitch.