There is a great collection of garden-variety rhetoric surrounding the plight of the messenger. Don't kill him, don't hinder him, and don't blame him for the message. Nike, Hermes. Many grand examples with wings on their shoes.
I made sure the last message I ever carried was never opened by its intended recipient. I dropped it on 42nd next to the city's second largest pothole, in the middle of the thunderstorm that washed away my father's garden. You're probably wondering which street had the distinction of containing the very largest pothole, and that proud byway would be east Cesar Chavez, where a little Hispanic boy broke his leg with a misstep last October.
The overstuffed brown accordion folder sank, along with all the evidence of a broken prenuptial agreement. The CEO of Barton Pharmaceuticals, wherever he was, got his divorce without incident. Like classic pulp noir, I would never (have to) work in this town again.
The horticultural rebirth was landscaped around a humble cement bird bath that stood like a stone golem in the middle of my father's backyard. The expensive regalia of exotic plants and rare flowers was overwhelming icing on the old frame house. The storm and Lake Pothole and the indiscretion of powerful strangers had rebuilt my father's garden.
The garden was the only thing he recognized. There it is, he would say, his glassy eyes like sagging question marks. There I am, he would say. I am the moonlight walking! His exclamations were absorbed into flora, but I could still hear him ask my name. Just once more, he would say, just once more, what is your name?