Page 75 of Mountain Grump
Ethan
A manin a suit steps into the Visitor Center.
I keep my expression flat, giving him the same look I give everyone. But what I really want to do is narrow my eyes.
Everyone is welcome at the park, but this corporate bozo is not here for a hiking map. I’d bet my savings on it.
I prefer working in the field, getting my hands dirty, sweating through my shirt. But today I’m stuck in the Visitor Center, dealing with guest questions, selling park passes, and other general bullshit.
The front two-thirds of the Visitor Center is filled with interactive educational displays, taxidermized wildlife, state park merchandise, and a variety of free maps and brochures.
The back third of the building contains the employee office—which is a walled-off room tucked into the back corner. And then a hallway that leads to the rear exit, which opens up to a picnic area.
The door to the office is partway down the hall, and it’s controlled with a keypad, so only employees can enter.
It’s a typical slightly outdated office with workstations along one wall, storage on another, and a communal fridge in the back.
The front of the office, where I’m standing, has a large cutout in the center of the wall, above a bar-height ticket counter. It makes me look like I’m working a concession stand, complete with a roll-down door overhead that we close and lock at night.
It’s annoying if someone needs help on the floor because I have to backtrack to the employee door, walk up the hall, and out to the front. But I guess it’s better than just a desk out in the open where people can bother you from all sides. Gives a way for people to pay for their merch or buy their park passes, without me having to move.
I continue standing behind the ticket counter and watch Suit make a face when he spots the stuffed skunk on the wall.
No need to be afraid, Soft Hands. It’s dead. It can’t spray you.
He clears his throat and keeps walking.
I narrow my eyes at him, glaring at him from the shadows under the brim of my formal ranger hat—the one we’re required to wear while we’re working in the Welcome Center.
He stops on the other side of the cutout, the counter between us.
I cross my arms. “Toilets are in a separate building.” I lift my chin back toward the front entrance. “Quarter mile down the road.”
“Uh… What?” He furrows his brow.
“Sorry,” I say in a nonapologetic tone. “You looked like you needed to go.”
“No, I…” He shakes his head. “Are you Mr. Grant?”
I have a name tag pinned to my shirt that says Grant, so I don’t answer.
He looks down at my name tag, back up at me, then takes an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket.
He holds it out.
I keep my arms crossed.
Suit sighs and sets the envelope on the counter. “A man named Jack paid me to deliver this.”
Jack?
I have to work to keep my expression steady.
Suit doesn’t say more. He just turns and heads back the way he came.
When he disappears from view, I uncross my arms and pick up the envelope.
My name is written on the front in neat block lettering.
