Going Postal

I don't expect much from the post office, mostly because "U.S." is part of its official acronym. After my ridiculous experience yesterday, which was akin to an SNL skit mixed in with my most embarassing awkward junior high years, I actually kind of admire the deftness and skill involved with working behind the humiliaton counter.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I will tell you that I chose this particular post office because one of the ladies who works their once told me that my driver's license picture was so nice it "looked like a glamour shot." I think (though now I'm doubting it a little bit) she meant it as a compliment, and it indeed gave me a certain bounce to my step that day. Sadly, each consecutive trip to said post office was slightly less fairy tale. Like the time I forgot how to add correctly and the entire line of people behind me snickered. Or, the rather sad lady who gummed up the line shipping off purchases she looked in no shape to afford (like the electric guitar for her grand-niece in Alabama) and got thwacked in the head by said package while her Rainman-esque son rocked back in forth next to her staring into space.

I should have known the tide turned when they removed the whimsical pens with flower-tops from the faux pots and replaced them with pens on chains. But I ignored this, hoping the round lady with the boxy haircut would tell me I was pretty again. Alas, she was busy . Instead, I got the Nurse Ratchet of the USPS system. I had 5 envelopes to send out and I only could muster up the courage to send 2 because I was scared of getting yelled at. Yes, it was that bad.

Postal Carrier Ratchet: Next!

Me: Hi. I'd like to send these Express Mail with delivery confirmation.

PCR (eternal sigh): You can't get delivery confirmation with Express Mail.

Me: Oh, okay

PCR: It already has it.

Me: Great!

PCR whips out two forms from the ether: You need to fill these out, right here. I'll be waiting. You got a pen?

I reach for pen on the nearest chain

PCR (perturbed): Not that one. Here!

She rolls a pen with a chain dangling like a dismembered limb.

I frantically start to fill out the forms

(45 seconds pass)

PCR: Done?

Me: Um, I've got one just about filled out. ..

PCR: Well, give me SOMETHING. I can't just STAND HERE.

PCR sighs loudly and disappears behind the half-wall. I am now the only person being served while the other 10 people behind me start to shuffly nervously. I start to sweat and contemplate running out the door. She returns with rolls of coins and slowly unrolls them, clinking them one by one into the register. And then, another roll.

I decide to fill out my check while I wait. Unfortunately, the crippled pen has disappeared to her side of the counter and she seems so joyful to be holding everyone with baited breath while she arranges the nickels just so, I decide not to disturb her. I move to the next nearest chain-pen, still within her counter space and begin to fill in the check.

PCR: What are you doing OVER THERE??

Me: Oh. I'm just filling out a check with this pen

PCR: I've got a pen RIGHT HERE.

She rolls old gimpy pen back to me. She then picks up my finished form, holding it like a urine sample in her rubber-gloved hand and starts punching keys violently

PCR: You need an envelope.

I make my way past the crowd and grab two Express Mail envelopes. Before I turn around she shouts "Those aren't going to fit. The other ones. Behind it."

I don't know the last time you have had a stranger inflict control over you--for me it was probably my junor high basketball coach who reeked of Polo cologne and violence-- but all I could think was "Which other envelope? I can't see it! OH GOD she's going to yell at me again." I looked to my fellow customers for support. Nothing. Silenece. Shuffled feet and lots of blank stares.

PCR: The BIG WHITE ONES behind the other ones.

Then I see them. Beautiful white and tyvek. I return to the counter where she scribbles furiously on the forms. All of the other tellers have mysteriously disappeared and I fear that perhaps they know something we customers don't, like animals before earthquakes that seek shelter. This is it. This is how people "go postal." First, they complete your transaction and then they stab you with an unchained pen.

PCR: Thirty-six fifty-two. How are you paying?

Me: Check.

I furiously scribble out the amount and push over my driver's license.

She pushes it back at me. No comment on the photo. At this point, I hope she doesn't remember my face.

PCR: I just need your phone number on this. . . Okay, so here's your receipt and this number (she underscores it delicately with her rubber-gloved hand) that's the number you call if you need to track it. (softly) Okay?

Me: Okay

PCR: Do you need any stamps or anything else?

Me: No, thank you.

PCR (smiling!): Okay honey, have a good day.