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Messengers come and messengers go, it’s the message that stays constant.
It’s a rough job being a courier. ‘Time is of the essence’ is written on the ceiling above my bed so that as soon as my eyes are open, I know I’m already late. I put on the wings of my profession and pad down the hall to the coffee machine.
It’ll be hot enough today for me to do my job naked except for the shoes. I’m looking forward to that.
It’s the charm in the wings that has the power. They can be sewn onto any old pair of shoes or hat to do the job. Whatever the wings are attached to absorb the charm so they don’t burn off on re-entry or fly off in the turbulence.
I remember a Canadian back in the day who wore red socks and a red toque with the Canadian flag in the middle. He was a young kid, a snowboarder or something before he got the job. He loved it. His uniform was frowned on as a little too casual but his high performance feedback let him get away with a minimum of uniform-related reprimands.
With a smirk I remembered Jack Steel, the football player. Probably the biggest messenger ever chosen. He was a huge football player who had the wings glamoured onto the side of his Amercian football helmet and his cleats. He looked a little silly wearing the toga but nothing matched his power when he was running through the skies. That helmet had no peripheral vision, though. Rest in piece, Jack. Watch out for jets.
Cradling the nearly-finished cup of coffee in my hands, I thought back to the narcissistic tennis player we had in the early eighties. Pierre Willingdon. The wings were attached to his pristine white sweatband. He wore tight white tennis shorts and bright white tennis shoes. I remember his huge reflective pilot’s sunglasses. I think he slept wearing those glasses. With his long curly black hair and that white scarf, he cut quite a figure.
None of us could stand him at the time but now, looking back, I missed his eccentricity and sense of play.
We’re chosen for our drive and not our physical ability. We’ve had heavy messengers and slight ones. Hell, Old Shen was practically obese. Boy, he could laugh.
I read about Ophelia the Kid and Old Woman Jacobs.
'Bones' Johnson was skeletal. I remember him with that cigar always screwed into the corner of his mouth and his fedora pulled down over his eyes.
Being a woman, I’m in the minority here but I’m doing my best. I was a punk-rock calendar model back when I was chosen after my accident. I’m not a modest woman and getting a job where I get to criss-cross the known planets wearing completely nothing at all except for footwear is a dream come true. I want to do my best.
It’s a gutsy maneuver but I’ve attached the wings to very strong ear cuffs on either side of my long, green mohawk. I’ve dyed my pubic hair to match. I’m wearing calf-high leather books with metal caps on the heels so that I make sparks when I land. I’ve got some pretty extreme make-up on to make me look like an intimidating warrior.
When I look in the mirror, I like to think that I look like a regal valkyrie of some sort. An avenging angel of information.
It’s time for me to finish my coffee and walk out the front door into the sky. My heels click out the seconds as I make my way to the launch mat. I squint my eyes a little before kneeling like a diver from a Nagel painting on the front steps of my house in the clouds.
It’s a jump into the stratosphere and my day is started. The messages pour into my head. With a snarl, I sprint on the air towards Pickup One.
tags
It’s a rough job being a courier. ‘Time is of the essence’ is written on the ceiling above my bed so that as soon as my eyes are open, I know I’m already late. I put on the wings of my profession and pad down the hall to the coffee machine.
It’ll be hot enough today for me to do my job naked except for the shoes. I’m looking forward to that.
It’s the charm in the wings that has the power. They can be sewn onto any old pair of shoes or hat to do the job. Whatever the wings are attached to absorb the charm so they don’t burn off on re-entry or fly off in the turbulence.
I remember a Canadian back in the day who wore red socks and a red toque with the Canadian flag in the middle. He was a young kid, a snowboarder or something before he got the job. He loved it. His uniform was frowned on as a little too casual but his high performance feedback let him get away with a minimum of uniform-related reprimands.
With a smirk I remembered Jack Steel, the football player. Probably the biggest messenger ever chosen. He was a huge football player who had the wings glamoured onto the side of his Amercian football helmet and his cleats. He looked a little silly wearing the toga but nothing matched his power when he was running through the skies. That helmet had no peripheral vision, though. Rest in piece, Jack. Watch out for jets.
Cradling the nearly-finished cup of coffee in my hands, I thought back to the narcissistic tennis player we had in the early eighties. Pierre Willingdon. The wings were attached to his pristine white sweatband. He wore tight white tennis shorts and bright white tennis shoes. I remember his huge reflective pilot’s sunglasses. I think he slept wearing those glasses. With his long curly black hair and that white scarf, he cut quite a figure.
None of us could stand him at the time but now, looking back, I missed his eccentricity and sense of play.
We’re chosen for our drive and not our physical ability. We’ve had heavy messengers and slight ones. Hell, Old Shen was practically obese. Boy, he could laugh.
I read about Ophelia the Kid and Old Woman Jacobs.
'Bones' Johnson was skeletal. I remember him with that cigar always screwed into the corner of his mouth and his fedora pulled down over his eyes.
Being a woman, I’m in the minority here but I’m doing my best. I was a punk-rock calendar model back when I was chosen after my accident. I’m not a modest woman and getting a job where I get to criss-cross the known planets wearing completely nothing at all except for footwear is a dream come true. I want to do my best.
It’s a gutsy maneuver but I’ve attached the wings to very strong ear cuffs on either side of my long, green mohawk. I’ve dyed my pubic hair to match. I’m wearing calf-high leather books with metal caps on the heels so that I make sparks when I land. I’ve got some pretty extreme make-up on to make me look like an intimidating warrior.
When I look in the mirror, I like to think that I look like a regal valkyrie of some sort. An avenging angel of information.
It’s time for me to finish my coffee and walk out the front door into the sky. My heels click out the seconds as I make my way to the launch mat. I squint my eyes a little before kneeling like a diver from a Nagel painting on the front steps of my house in the clouds.
It’s a jump into the stratosphere and my day is started. The messages pour into my head. With a snarl, I sprint on the air towards Pickup One.
tags