I met Mr. Dolson many times over my years at “Dolson’s Courier;” the owner made it a point to know all his employees. He was a heavyset man imbibed with a personality you couldn’t force yourself to dislike. It didn’t matter how rich or poor, black or white, how upper or lower class you were with Robert Dolson. He extended the same cheer and goodwill to every man in his path, from the day he founded the company in 1925 to his recent last days on earth. The reason his courier service had been such a success was no doubt due to Mr. Dolson’s insistence that his couriers exhibit the same attitude. I can’t tell you how much it saddened me to see him leave his company, as precious to him as his own son, in its greatest time of need.

I couldn’t turn my mind away from these bleak thoughts as I stood at the airport curb, waiting for the driver. He was already five minutes late. The cold air was bitter to my lungs, and my thoughts turned from Mr. Dolson to a hot cup of tea I knew would be waiting for me back in Philadelphia. That kid had better have a good excuse.

Despite my dedication to the profession, I couldn’t stand to work with Spencer. That wasn’t even his real name, but he wouldn’t answer to anything else. The quirk is only the start of his desecration of the time-honored tradition of hand-to-hand correspondence. He had no respect for the grand vision Dolson had.

Robert Dolson had fancied himself as a postman in his early years, but by his eighteenth birthday he knew that he wanted to do much more than deliver the mail. He wanted the responsibility and honor of delivering the most important of news, timely and respectfully, to the recipient as if it were his own. It’s easy to forget the importance of correspondence when you can waggle your fingers and send some electricity to China. “The Personal Guarantee” promises face-to-face courier service, a long-distance handoff you wanted to make yourself, but couldn’t. I, and all Dolson couriers, held this concept above all else.

And that little prick Spencer was messing it all up.

—-

I knew that old man Hensley was going to bust my ass for being a few minutes late, but I still took my time getting to the airport. I had been partying the night before and didn’t feel like dealing with high-speeds. The company car is pretty sweet; four door black Lincoln with all the options. I can’t imagine how Dolson can afford it. Could afford it, I guess.

This gig was supposed to be a stepping-stone, but it turned into a four-year stint overnight. Still, the pay was good and the labor easy. Sometimes it was even fun, if you were driving the right guy. The couriers were a mixed bag. Some of them were cool; they’d sit up front and shoot the shit with you, maybe smoke a joint with you if the guy was young. Others would sit in the back, looking like the job was the most serious thing in the world. Hensley was the latter, and the worst of his kind.

When I pulled up to the curb, I almost started laughing. The little prick was wearing a fucking fedora and a three-piece suit, like he was on his way to a funeral. His face was serious; he always acted like he was delivering a donor heart to Dick Cheney or something. I don’t know why he gets so upset about legal papers and wills and shit, it’s not such a big deal. I don’t know how this business stays afloat in the first place. Haven’t people ever heard of the post office?

Hensley got in the back seat and started bitching about the music before he closed the door. He wanted NPR, of course. I clicked it over from the CD player to shut him up. I didn’t even know what the hell NPR was before this bastard dropped into my lap.

Thankfully it was a short drive, and before I knew it I was reclining my seat in front of a dilapidated house, smoking a cigarette while the man in the ridiculous black hat made the delivery. The door opened and I heard Hensley say “Good afternoon, Mr. Dolson,” which kind of confused me. I must have heard wrong. Couldn’t he just get the signature and leave? I knew for a fact he got paid the same no matter how long he stays.

Then they started having tea, for the love of God. What they talked about I can’t imagine, but when he finally came out and clopped down the battered porch steps the streetlights were clicking on. It was getting late, and all I could think about was the beers I wasn’t drinking. All for some letter that could’ve been emailed in about two seconds. I scowled at the old coot and his backwards ways in the rearview mirror all the way back to the airport.

—-

I could see Spencer’s eyes in the mirror, but I paid him no mind. I was still filled with the sense of satisfaction that can only come from a job well done. In this case, I took special pleasure in the delivery due to its importance.

I’ve met Mr. Dolson, Sr. on a number of occasions, but this had been my first meeting with his son. Cecil Dolson had proved to be just as charismatic as his late father, and we passed more time than I realized reminiscing about my deceased employer and the business. While I always take care to speak with my customers I took extra pleasure in my early tea, ensured the will I had just delivered would leave the company in good hands.

Spencer peeled away from the curb, chattering into his cell phone. Somehow the cold didn’t bother me this time around. Even as I watched a trench coat-clad businessman typing words into his cell phone, I knew everything would be all right—that much had my personal guarantee.