Limits

Gary Ruffins hadn't planned on running out of skin in the post office line. In fact, his skin was the very reason he was in the post office line at 4:03 p.m. on Friday afternoon. The post office line snaked around a series of plastic posts joined--a line of dominoes in human form. Everything about the post office possessed a limited quantity of something.

For example: the post office counter had five registers but only one clerk. In front of that clerk stood a miniscule woman, a tiny shriveled thing complete with clutching, arthritic hands and watery old-woman eyes. Her white, cotton-candy hair trembled as she spoke. "I can't remember her zip code," she said. Gary Ruffins, three patrons back in line, started to scratch his arm.

The clerk nodded. His skin--Gary noted a distinct surplus--was tanned like the reverse of a faux leather shoe. Tanned and wrinkled, but his wrinkles were wrinkles of smoking and too much sun, not the wrinkles of a memory deprived old woman. What Gary would give for enough skin to have wrinkles. A strip peeled from the back of his hand. Gary shoved the hand in his pants pocket.

"All right ma'am, we can look it up in the directory. You do have the street number and city on your letter. This will be rather quick." The clerk twisted his lips and began poking his touch screen. The big man in front of Gary groaned. "C'mon, buddy. What's the hold up?"

Clerk licked his lips and started punching the buttons slower.

The old lady clutched her bag with both hands. "I don't want to be a bother," she whispered. "I can come back when you're less busy."

"No trouble at all, ma'am." Clerk smiled. His lips twisted again. He scratched his beard.

Gary glanced at the pink certified mail slip in his hand. A wet spot began to form on his pant leg where he'd hid his peeling hand. He needed his package; he needed his new skin. "Hey postal guy, let's pick it up." Big Man turned around and faced the crowd. "We want him to hurry up, right?" Patience. Big Man had a limited amount of patience.

Gary shut his eyes and pretended not to feel the pressure swelling against his skin. He tried to imagine the stiff, pressing feeling was just a side-effect of standing in line--just an ordinary frustration and not an urgent need to put on his new roll of skin. A seam popped on his shoulder, and he started to bleed through the sleeve of his polo.

The old woman's shaking fingers had begun transcribing the zip code as Clerk read it to her. Big Man tapped his boot, thud, thud, thud, on the hard tile floor. The sound thud, thud, thudded in Gary's ears-- the boots--his heart. With each thud, blood pulsed from his shoulder. It soaked the sleeve and began to run down Gary's arm.

The old lady began counting change to Clerk. A middle- aged man in a suit stepped away from the puddle gathering at Gary's feet. "What the hell--" "It's just..." Gary held his pink slip in the air. His face itched. The skin of his left thigh tore open, and the tan pant leg darkened with blood. "I need my..." "Oh no. Hell no!" Big Man shoved Gary. "No knuckle- head is muscling in on my spot in line." Gary lost his balance. He waved the pink slip and tried to speak, but his facial skin popped like a stretched balloon, spraying the line with a fine red mist. Big Man stepped up, "You're going to need a mop," he said.