Eight Ball Continues To Crush Souls

It wasn’t enough for the Eight Ball to throw a tantrum last Thursday, making life hell for tenants, messengers and (most of all) security as every elevator in the joint seized. No, the business end of Pioneer Place Mall needed a thorough scrub--on the same day as a well known corporate tax deadline. This was no spit-shine, mind you, so the water fell and fell.
So, in effect, at 8am it was raining on the sidewalk--and only on the sidewalk--at 888 SW Fifth Street, as I struggled with a full and almost unliftable Manhattan Portage messenger bag (yes, it's the big one, asshole). (Dude, let me tell you--my bag was FULL. Not like “hey, dispatch, I can’t move until I hand off some of these packages.” No, my friend, it was heavy like “Joel, drive the car up here because I can’t lift my bag off of the ground” heavy. Even Beefa would cringe. That being said, that's how you make the cash, fuckers. It was like carrying a pot of fucking GOLD. When you see Jefe rocking those sparkly false fronts, you'll know why.) Needless to say, if I would have tried to get that thing on my back, vertebrae would have been crushed, and this was no time for work-related sacrifice.
The deluge went on throughout the day. Metaphors aside, I have never had a rain cloud hover over my head, a la Charlie Brown. But this was even more frustrating. Chuck eventually accepts the permanence of his proverbial dark cloud only once. Each time I left the Triple Eight, the weight was lifted and I prayed that this would be the last time that I would have to darken the Eight Ball’s door. Yet each time that I rolled up the sidewalk, each time fate dragged me back up Taylor, the tainted water rained down on me, taunting me, taking another piece of my soul.
Eventually, the calls stopped coming and I could relax, knowing that I was done with the construction-scarred intersection of SW Fifth and Taylor.
Suddenly, a voice came over the radio, "Jefe, can you do the mail?"