The Dynamic Duo

UltraMom here, reporting from the prison store where I have been given an awesome responsibility. But to fully understand this task, a little background information is in order.
Last month, in my month-end packet, I received an equipment inventory to review and update. On the list were three freezers, each with its own serial number and state issue ownership number, but, alas, in our establishment is only one freezer, though a very nice one. Upon consulting with my staff, they recalled that there were, at one time, two freezers, but one had quit working and the old Lieutenant had it consigned to the outer regions of the camp. I noted on the form that, actually, only one freezer was currently in our possession, signed, dated and soon this very important information was winging its way back home.
I thought the deed was done and thought no more on the matter until a couple of days ago when Jackson phoned me. After the pleasantries and the requisite number of “cools” and “awesomes”, he inquired about the state of the two no longer existing freezers. “Call Ida (the former storekeeper),” he ordered. “Do everything you can to find out where those freezers went.”
“There were ever only two freezers while I was there,” Ida informed me a short time later. “One of those two quit working and it was taken to the dump.” Now we were getting somewhere!
“Okay, okay,” mused Jackson, “See if you can send Joe out there to get the state ownership number off of that freezer. I really need that number.”
Well, okay. “They won’t let me go out there by myself,” Joe predicted. “It’s outside the gate. Besides, its really muddy out there.”
I approached Sarge with my request: “Can I take Joe and Crash to the dump?”
He regretfully shook his head. “No, I can’t allow that. You can ask the LT, but I don’t think so. You’ll have to go yourself.”
On my way to find the LT, I ran into Sarge again. “My boss says I need to go look at the old, junked freezer and get the state number off of it,” I told him. “It looks pretty muddy out there, and I don’t want to ruin my shoes.”
“Oh, you mean the ‘bone pile’, ” said Sarge. “I thought you wanted to take the guys to the city dump. Yeah, go ahead, but be sure to take two of them.”
Okay. John and Crash changed their shoes, anticipating muckiness, and I, having no shoes to change into, anticipated only walking partway, but the ground proved more solid than it looked. We wandered past all manner of rusty, junked appliances, vehicles and impressive metal objects. To my delight, several rabbits put in an appearance; apparently this was their home. Finally we arrived at the freezer, jotted down the number and made our way back to the gate, congratulating ourselves on a job well done.
A note greeted me on my return. “Call Jackson.” Well, I was planning to call him anyway; I had his precious number after all. But, no, he wanted more, and here we come to my task, or quest, if you will: “Bring me the sticker with the state ownership number on it,” he commanded. “I tried to call you back, but you were already gone.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, ready to laugh at his little joke. As it turns out, he wasn’t. “I feel like I’m in one of those Fairy Tales, ” I told him, “You know, ‘Bring me the golden feather from the eagle’s wing.” “Yeah, just get it and mail it to me,” he repeated, unamused. “But, Jackson, how am I going to get it off of there?”
“Just send Joe out with a flat screwdriver,” he suggested. “He should be able to get it off with that.”
Well, we had been through that before, and later in the day, I decided to just go on out there myself and not get involved in all that permission-asking stuff again. Crash procured a screwdriver for me, and out I went. But the screwdriver head was too broad, and all I accomplished was to mash the edge of the flimsy sticker. “I’ll have to try it later,” I grumbled to myself. “Guess I’ll need a thin-bladed knife or something.” It had been raining off and on all day, and the wind was fierce. Fierce, I tell you. On the way back, I started jogging a little to try to warm up and get back a little quicker.
But when I arrived back in the building, the place was in a bit of an uproar. Several inmates were having trouble keeping a straight face, and Officer Holt motioned me over. “Can I talk to you a moment,” he asked, steering me inside the office. Uh oh. “I didn’t know you were out there,” he began, “and suddenly I saw someone running. I almost chased you down. I thought a prisoner was taking off.” I assured him that I had learned two valuable lessons that day: 1) Let someone know if you are going to go outside the camp to the bonepile, and 2) Don’t run. Joe and Jay found this very amusing; me less so.
A few days later, I got permission to take some guys out with me again, this time armed with a small pocketknife. Now we had Sean, our new clerk, and since Joe was really not into changing his shoes, I took Sean and the ever-eager Crash. But we STILL couldn’t peel that pesky label off. This isn’t the way “Quests” happen in those fairy tales. Deal with it, Jackson.

UltraMom, the Failure