Mark From Receiving

The cold, sterile lines of the corridors were sleek and sharp. The darkness consumed the light before it could illuminate.

A small, boxy droid, an MSE-6-Series repair model, rolled to a stop at a malfunctioning door to repair its trigger. A group of Storm Troopers tiptoed around it, lost in their own conversation about who lost what during last rotation’s game as they gathered in front of a lift. Just as the door began to close, a voice called from down the hall, “Wait! Hold the door!”

“Ah, jeez,” one of the Storm Troopers grumbled, and stabbed at the DOOR CLOSE button. His buddy waived his arms at the guy approaching the lift, “There’s no room, pal. Sorry.”

“Ah, come on!” The doors slid closed just as Mark from Receiving yanked his overloaded dolly to a stop and punched the lift button.

A pair of female officers came up behind him and regarded him impassively.

Mark gave the brunette a smile, “Those guys were jerks!”

But it was the blonde who responded, “Those ‘jerks’ are Imperial Troopers, and you would be wise to keep your thoughts on the matter to yourself.”

He shook his head, “I prefer not to keep things in. They tend to fester if you do.”

The door opened and he expertly backed the dolly in. The two officers joined him.

“Level 32, please,” he smiled.

The blonde rolled her eyes and hit 32. She was about to restart her conversation with her friend, when Mark squinted beneath the brunette’s visor, “Are you Major Olaring, Ma’am?”

The brunette raised an eyebrow and regarded him, “How did you know that?”

“Oh, I got an eye for faces. Faces and names. Working in Shipping & Receiving has taught me to remember a lot of things.”

A smile escaped from the corners of her mouth, despite her best efforts to ignore this buffoon, “I’ll bet.”

He gave her a wink, “You can be sure I’ll remember those pretty eyes of yours, Major.”

But the blonde was irate, and would have shot Mark from Receiving, had she been armed, “YOUR INSOLANCE!”

Olaring settled her colleague, “It’s alright, Mabol. I’m sure he meant nothing by it. Isn’t that right, Mark?”

“Not a thing, Ma’am.”

The doors whooshed open and officers and clerk alike departed in the same direction. Mark attempted casual conversation, but Mabol interjected at every venture. When they finally arrived at the same boardroom, Olaring held the door for him, while Mabol darted quickly inside.

Mark called after her, “Don’t worry, Officer Reffy. Your fiber drinks are backordered, but I will push them as best I can so you can get regular again!”

Every head in the room turned to him, then to Mabol, who sunk low in her seat and tried disappearing in the darkness.

Major Olaring removed her hat and sat in a seat near the front. With nothing better to do until the start of the meeting, she watched the friendly Shipping & Receiving guy maneuver himself to the vending machines. “Whoa,” he commented, “I’ve never seen this many officers in one place.”

He winked at Grand Moff Tarkin, “Must be a pretty big meeting, eh sir?”

To which Tarkin nodded, “The biggest. Could you please refill that machine at a later time? We are nearly ready.”

“Won’t be but a moment, your Officiousness. Besides, I gotta make sure there are enough burritos for this meeting, don’t I? These are the best in the galaxy, so I’ve been told.”

“That’s fine —“

“You want one?”

Tarkin looked momentarily dumbfounded, “Uh… what?”

“One of these burritos. I could heat one up for ya.”

“That would be… most unnecessary.”

“Suit yourself. Lord Vader! Can I get your John Hancock for this delivery, please? I got 842 pallets from Jungarioul 6. And since you’re the Sith In Charge, as it were…”

Mark produced a pen and handed Vader the clipboard, instructing, ‘Sign here, please… here… and here. Initial here.”

In a fit of rage, Vader flung the clipboard to the far corners of the room and used his mind to pick up Mark From Receiving. Just as Mark’s neck muscles began to compress, he shrugged and choked out, ‘That’s okay, sir. I’ll just send all the paperwork to your Master. We all know what a stickler he is for paperwork. I’m sure he won’t mind signing all the necessary stuff for you. A good Empire needs every I dotted and T crossed. Am I right?”

Some distance away, Colonel Yularen needled his buddy Admiral Motti, “Too true, too true! An Empire can never be too careful, hm?”

To which Motti nodded, “I’ve got a good feeling about this meeting.”

Vader, despite his overwhelming desire to use the Force to stuff Mark from Receiving into a torpedo tube, had to give him credit for one thing: He was absolutely correct about his Master’s desire for tidy record keeping. He groaned and finished signing.

Which Mark accepted with a grin, “Thanks, your Sithness! Same time next week? I’ll see if the outpost has some of those NERDS you like, huh?”

“The red ones.”

“OF COURSE the red ones!” Mark laughed and wheeled his dolly up the aisles. He passed by Major Olaring’s desk and left a tiny Troll doll key chain on the corner. She looked up at him in surprise and he gave her a wink.

She blushed and the Troll found a place inside her briefcase.

He whispered, “I’ve seen a lot of signatures in my time, but none as Dyslexic as Lord Vader’s. No wonder he never achieved ‘Master’ status as a Jedi. He must have tested poorly.”

This was news to Olaring, but she kept her mouth shut.

Just as Mark swiped his badge at the door, Vader bellowed at him. Mark turned smartly, “Sir!”

Vader held aloft an assortment of burritos and shook his head, “They are all Vegan!”

“Don’t knock them, they’re supposed to be good for colon health.”

Vader grumbled, “I find your lack of meats disturbing.”