Dear God Page #3

- Listen to me!|- God! Postal police!

No. We don't need... Cousin Guy.

How much postage for this bike?

Cousin Guy, I really appreciate|you getting me this job.

The only reason I'm doing this|is cos of your mom, you know.

Before she went away,

I promised her I'd look after you.|So I got you in.

But if you screw up,|I don't know you. You got me?

- I got you.|- Meet your boss, Vladek Vidov.

Your cousin is very great man.

This is Barney machine.

Main conveyor belt|for sorting all mail.

Salute to modern technology.

You know why they call it Barney?

- Cos it's purple?|- You been here before?

- No.|- Yes, purple, like dinosaur,

but bigger than dinosaur.

Ramon! No, no, please!

Safety first. No, no. Don't.

Don't do this. Please.

Sit. Sit. "Descanso." Rest.

His first day as casual.|The guys told him that "fragile"

is postal for "throw hard|against wall and bounce into bin".

Mary, please, explain to Ramon|what means fragile.

OK. Who's that?

Tom. Mary and Wendy,|two of our best sorters.

- Right, we met upstairs.|- They read difficult handwriting.

- What did you mean by casual?|- A temp. Like you.

Which is why|you did not have to take exam,

which is a ball-buster,|pardon the expression.

We hire you for Christmas|then let you go.

I'm sure the posh environment here|has stimulated many a casual to ask,

"What if I wanted to stay longer?|Maybe a year?"

A year? We'll see.

This is your new home.

- The DLO.|- No way.

Yeah.

Everyone, this is Tom.

He's playing with channel changer,|not gun.

That's Claudio Gomez,|they call him Handsome.

And that's Dooly.|Don't call him anything.

Idris.

Rebecca.

Lucille.

So, please, let's give him warm|Dead Letter Office welcome. Come.

You know, I actually might...

Might be better off...

Vladek?

Coffee break!|New guy gotta watch the office.

- It's tradition.|- But I don't know how...

I'm on my break, sugar.

Come. This is your desk.

Idris, right?|I'm not really up on religion.

Is this purgatory or did I die|and go straight to hell?

Getting warm. This is the DLO,|the Dead Letter Office.

All these letters are hopeless, lost,|undeliverable, unreturnable.

We gather the dead, put them|in boxes, put the boxes in bins.

- Are you just on for the holidays?|- I'm two months from my 20th year.

Then I'm outta here, gone.

- 20 years?|- Yep.

I couldn't raise my family|as a musician.

Couldn't raise myself as a musician.

OK.

One year.

Piece of cake.

Bin A, if it's returnable,

which it never is, cos if Whispering|Wendy can't decipher the writing...

No one can. Bin B. Blurred. Smudged.

Torn or, excuse me,|just too cruddy.

Bin D, wrong address.

No return, wrong return. People who|don't know where they live. Pathetic.

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