The Messenger (2011 reformat) Read Free Page B

its honest luster. Perhaps its location kept it
isolated-off a major thoroughfare beyond an old county road that appeared
rural-or perhaps something even spiritual protected it from the corruption that
tended to follow real estate development near tourism hubs. Who knew? It existed
between Tampa and St. Petersburg-big cities with big crime waves-yet Danelleton
boasted almost no crime. Last year, for example, the most serious crimes to be
committed were one stolen bike, some graffiti spray-painted in a Main Street
alley, and a tipped-over Johnny On The Spot at a construction site. No drugs
here, no rapes, no armed robberies.
    Just a
ten-minute drive to the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Excellent schools,
superior municipal services, an abundance of community organizations and
charity groups. Real estate costs had miraculously remained reasonable when
they'd skyrocketed in other towns. Plenty of day care, plenty of activities for
kids. Families were close-knit; everyone looked out for everyone else. There
was little riff-raff. There was no "bad" part of town. In essence,
Danelleton proved the model for middle-class Florida life.
    And the
beauty.
    Palm trees
lined well-groomed streets of plush green lawns, colorful gardens, and humble
but immaculate homes. More plush green served as a backdrop for the east side
of the town: the rise of the forest teeming with fern and Australian pine
trees. To the west spired the tall lemon-yellow water tower emblazoned with
bright pink words: it's a beautiful day. The town square radiated sedate charm
while boats rocked quietly in bayside slips, mooring ropes chiming against
their masts. The sun always seemed brighter in Danelleton, the sky more
expansive, the air more pure.
    What more
could anyone ask of a place to live? Who wouldn't want to live here? Danelleton
was as close to perfect as any town could ever strive to be. Beautiful,
civilized, and safe. No drugs, no rapes, no armed robberies, no murd-
    Well, there
were some murders once. But that was a long time ago.
    In the
basement.
    God, what a
mess, Carlton thought. He kneed his way into the dark cubby, clumsily wielding
the flashlight, extricating decades-old boxes with his other hand. The only way
to get to the end was to dig everything out. But Jane had been right about one
thing: This basement is a fire hazard, Carlton realized, dust-covered now. If
the inspectors saw this, they'd make us close down until we got it all cleared
out. The refuse consisted mainly of old boxes of records, antiquated sorting
machines and spare parts, old uniforms, and out-of-date packing items. Carlton
figured if he took all these boxes outside he could build a pyramid out of them
as high as the post office.
    I'm
second-in-charge of this place and look at me. I'm hauling junk out of the
basement. Carlton doubted that these tasks were in his government job
description.
    He laughed
through it, though, a good sport, even as cobwebs spread and stuck to his face.
It was a dull process: crawl in, grab a box, drag it out, then crawl back in
for the next one. It would take the rest of the day more than likely, but at
least he could look forward to the end of the shift when he could stop by the
bar- covered in dust and cobwebs-and celebrate the first day of his promotion.
    Carlton had no
sour grapes that Jane had been named branch station manager instead of him,
even though he had more time and grade. He was better at the dirty work anyway,
keeping the employees on their toes, while Jane could deal with the red tape
and management duties. In truth, he was happy for her, and he was happy that
the town had opened this second postal facility, because it proved that
Danelleton was prospering. More residents meant more homes, hence, more mail
than the main post office could handle on its own anymore. Carlton and Jane, in
fact, had both begun their careers at the main facility at the town square, and
the place didn't exactly bring back good memories. Christ, he thought as