Chapter 1 – Call for Obstruction

Call for Obstruction is the first part of my novel series that was published last year by a small indie press that shortly there after closed their doors. After taking a long hard look at how I changed the format for the original publisher, I’ve decided to restore it to the original 1st person point of view of the main character, Barry White—no, not the late great singer, although he was named after him.

The Courier Series is about Barry White, a twenty-something computer geek with an overbearing mother, no prospects of finding a girlfriend, and an unemployment record that has made him pessimistic he’ll ever be happy.

In Call for Obstruction, Barry has just lost his fourth jobs in the past year due to corporate downsizing. Desperate for employment, he jumps at the first position he’s offered over the phone, driver for OTG Courier Services. Shortly after meeting his new boss, a tiny yet fiery old lady named Margery, she coerces him into signing a questionable employment contract he soon regrets.

The Courier was originally written as a twitter novel at @TheCourierNovel in 2009, the same year it won the Textnovel Writing Contest. The first novel is still available on Twitter, minus the ending. I do plan to return to tweeting, if you don’t mind reading backward, along with posting the restored story here. Two additional books were written in 2010 and 2011, and it’s about time they all release so I can finish the fourth, fifth, sixth . . . books.

All the business needs to start up Visionary Press Cooperative got in the way for a few months, which is why this story went on hold. Now it’s Barry’s turn to get some attention. To keep me on track, I’ll post a chapter a day until the first book has been re-released here. Every Sunday I’ll release all the parts released in a week on the Friday Frights website. Oh, and converting between tenses is a bloody pain in the butt, so if you see any boo boos, don’t be afraid to point it out in a comment. I hope you enjoy the story!

Wendy Howard
Author of The Courier Series
Friday Frights Creator

“Why today, why today?” I chant while pounding my forehead against the steering wheel.

Not a minute ago my truck had screeched to a halt in the far right lane but not in time. The corner of my bumper nicked the rear end of a red courier van as it weaved through traffic and made a sudden dart to avoid another car.

The accident happened less than thirty minutes after I had lost another job. My fourth this year.

I’d been working as a customer service rep at a cable TV company in Downtown Denver, that is until the entire department was laid-off. They outsourced our jobs to India or some other country where they’ll work for rice or peanuts. The manager who handed out final paychecks entered the call center in his best suit and a forced sympathetic smirk. What did he care. The smug jerk still got a job.

When I left the building carrying a measly two-hundred dollar kiss off check, all I wanted was to get home, down a few shots, play a few hours of Halo then sleep until noon tomorrow. Now here I sit with no insurance wondering how I’ll pay for the damages.

I’m not responsible for the accident. A blonde in a German hybrid, tapping out a text message with neon-red fingernails, was in the car the van tried to avoid. Only, she’s long gone. I doubt the driver of the van or a traffic cop will consider my excuse anyway.

While getting out of my truck, I take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves then push my horned rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of my nose. Hopefully the other driver is a feeble old guy with poor eyesight. What am I saying. I don’t have that kind of luck.

Sure, I’m nearly six-feet-five but as thin as a rail and, from previous experience, not at all intimidating. Some might call me the quintessential computer geek. My first home is cyberspace, and a job is only necessary to pay for hardware upgrades and a place to plug in my gaming PC.

On the back of the van there’s a sign-painted advertisement. The words ‘Drivers Wanted’ bulges out from the surface paint-job like a 3D movie. Freaky. I bob my head like a pigeon and open my eyes wide to focus until the lettering fixes and flattens. It’s the hottest day in June for the past fifty years; it must have been heat-haze rising off the asphalt.

Then I wonder, what are the chances? I’m out of work and I’ve run into a job opportunity, literally.

I wait at the rear of the van for a moment or two. When no one emerges, I approach the driver’s door hesitantly. The cab is empty. And a quick search around the vehicle proves that not a single person, besides myself, stands in the median.

The voice in my head reminds me it’s wrong to leave, not to mention illegal, and being out of work is enough trouble in my life right now. So, I return to my truck to find my phone, which I last saw on the dash. Of course, it’s not there. The hard slam on the brakes must have sent it airborne. Annoyed, I scan the truck cab.

The phone chimes Tool’s ‘Useful Idiot,’ giving away its location on the passenger seat, beside a mini-box of fruity cereal, a remainder I didn’t finish my breakfast. The display tells me my mom’s on the other end. “Shit,” I say out loud, then clenched my teeth tightly. It’s the fifth time in the past hour she’s tried to reach me. She’s the last person I want to talk to, because unless I find a job in the next week, I’ll be moving back in with her.

I ignore the call and count to ten in my head. She always calls twice, and as expected, the phone announces another incoming call from Mom. I hit the ignore button repeatedly while thinking, Leave me alone! with each thumb tap.

After a long sigh, I motion to punch the 800 number from the back of the van into the keypad, but stop short when I notice the phone had already dialed through, by itself? And there’s a faint voice through the receiver.

“OTG Courier.”

I hesitate, then hold the receiver up to my ear.

“How may I help you, Barry?” a voice says.

The woman on the other end has a gruff tone with a pronounced New York City accent. Her voice is unrecognizable, not to mention I have a restricted number. I check the phone display, as if that will explain how her call got through and how she knows my name. When no apparent answer comes to mind, I put the cell back to my ear. “Did you just call me Barry?”

“What, honey? Barry? Is that your name?” Phlegm gurgles in her throat, giving away her three-pack-a-day habit.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, Barry, how can I help you?”

“Help me? Didn’t you just call me?”

“Honey, why would I call you?”

For a moment, I contemplate hanging up and calling the police instead.

“Hello?” she says. “You still there?”

“I hit one of your vans and I can’t find the driver,” I tell her quickly.

There’s a deep hacking cough on the other end. “Sorry, honey, I’ve got the emphysema. Did you say you’re calling about a job?”

I frown then yell into the phone, “No, I hit one of your vans.”

“I’m not deaf, honey.”

“Sorry . . . Ma’am.”

There’s an awkward silence between us while I think of what to say next.

“You got a valid driver’s license?” she finally says.

“Sure,” I answer while fumbling to pull my proof of insurance out of the glove compartment.

“How about an aversion to heat?”

Huh? I think then study the back of the red van. What the hell kind of packages do they transport?

“Can you tolerate heat?” Her tone is slow and irritated this time.

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with me hitting your van.”

“Have you killed anyone?”

“What?” I gasp. “I said I can’t find the driver, not I killed the driver.”

“Don’t worry about that one,” she says. “You speak Latin?”

Is she senile? I wonder.

“Can you come down to the warehouse and sign some paperwork? We can start you tomorrow morning. Will fifty an hour be enough?”

“Listen lady, I’m not calling about a job. I’m calling to tell you I hit one of your vans. I can’t find the driver.”

“So you don’t need a job.”

I pause. My eyebrow raises.

“Honey? You still there?”

“You really want to hire someone who just smashed into one of your vans?”

“I need ten new drivers by tomorrow. If you want a job, I’m hiring.”

Is this really happening? Maybe I have a concussion; I’m unconscious and dreaming. Any way I look at it, I need a job and she’s offering . . . . “I’m in the Tech Center, approaching Arapahoe. How do I get there?”

“You’re close,” she says. “Get off at the next exit. We’re in a red warehouse off of Arapahoe and Revere.”

“What about the van?”

“What van?” she says then adds. “Oh, never mind.”

The van pulls back onto the highway.

“I can . . . be there . . . in ten minutes.” I say with a tone of confusion in my voice.

“Ask for Margery. I’m always here, in the office.”