Free They Had Goat Heads by D. Harlan Wilson

in any case. I rinsed the key, blowdried it, polished it with a handkerchief, put it in my pocket, stared at myself in the mirror, blew my nose, and left the restroom.
   Out in the hallway the entire postal staff awaited me in an orderly triangle, as if somebody had lined them up like bowling pins. The manager occupied pole position. He adjusted his belt several times and said, “Give us the key.”
   I looked behind me. I looked at the manager. “Is there a problem?”
   The staff members shifted uncomfortably and traded annoyed whispers. The manager shushed them and readjusted his belt. “You know there’s a problem,” he said calmly. “The key. Now.” He stuck out his hand.
   “I don’t have the key.” I took the key out of my pocket and showed it to him. “I have this key. But this isn’t the key you mean.”
   “That’s the key,” the manager said, pointing at it.
   I returned the key to my pocket. “Anyhow, I’m on my way to the . . . what is it called? The mailbox room? Is there another name for it?”
   “We call it the key insertion room,” said an anonymous member of the staff. The manager glared at her and reluctantly seconded the claim.     “Well. That’s all, then.” I walked forward. Carefully I weaved through the postal workers, trying not to touch them, pardoning myself if I did touch them. They regarded me with singular expressions of disapproval and enmity.
   In the last line was the postman who had addressed me in the restroom. He hung his head and stared at the floor. I paused next to him. “What’s in the box?” I asked.
   His eyes pinched shut. He took a deep breath through his nostrils, tilting up his chin. His mouth twitched and compressed into funny shapes.
   He fainted.
   I went to the key insertion room.
   An elderly security guard in a loose-fitting green uniform accosted me at the entrance. “You do it like this,” he twanged, then stuck out his hand and made a turning motion. He demonstrated again. And again, and again. I thanked him and began to search for the right box. “Remember what I showed you!” he exclaimed from behind me, making another turning motion.
   P.O. Box 411 . . . 426, 427 . . . 450, 451, 452 . . . 455. I lifted the key and stuck it in the keyhole. I could feel the guard’s breath on my neck.
   “That’s right,” he said. “You’re doing it. Good.”
   “Piss off, you old bastard.”
   The guard clutched his chest and staggered backwards. “That ain’t nice! How’d you like it if I called you an old bastard?”
   Apologizing, I turned the key and opened the box.
   Inside was a figurine. Nothing else. I removed it. Examined it.
   The figurine was about five inches high and made of hard plastic. It had limbs that swiveled at the armpits and groin, but not at the elbows and knees. No scratches, nicks or cracks. It looked normal enough.
   I showed the figurine to the guard.
   He gasped.
   He pointed at the figurine. He pointed at me.
   He clutched his chest again, staggered backwards again . . . and collapsed like a stack of deadwood.
   “Are you all right?” I nudged his chin with the toe of my shoe. He didn’t move. I kicked him in the ribs. He didn’t move.
   I exited the key insertion room.
   Postal workers either fainted or ran away when they saw me coming toward them holding the figurine in my hand like a PEZ dispenser. The younger security guard tried to punch me, but I dodged the blow, and he fell into an ungainly somersault and tumbled down the hall. The manager got in my way, too, although I clearly disillusioned him. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked. “You can’t go anywhere. You’ve imploded. Every step you take is a step in the same direction.” His Adam’s apple quivered . . . He dry heaved. He went cross-eyed . . . He smacked his lips, motioning at the figurine. “You can only march in