What great new adventures await me at the local post office? Absolutely none besides waiting. Despair. Hopelessness. I often wonder about postal workers on their off hours. How do people react to them when they tell them, “I work for the postal service.”? In my mind I envision this conversation taking place at some highbrow cocktail party. I have to stop myself after realizing that “Cocktail party” and “postal service” are diametrical opposites.
My latest jaunt to that temple of customer service afforded me another glimpse at humanity which left me trembling in dread. I got there to find the line out the door (so what else is new?) and only three of the seven windows occupied by workers. Standing in line for about five minutes the heavyset man in front of me finally turned around to complain to me that the line was unbearable and that this was unique to the Burbank post office; others were run much better, I was told.
It was at this moment I became aware that the heavyset man in front of me was in fact a heavyset woman. I nodded in agreement to be kind and muttered the obligatory “well, it’s the government, what do you expect?” Why is it that so many people do not understand that small talk is just that. I really didn’t care whether this post office was worse than any other. They are all universally bad. Working at a post office is surely nothing more than a paycheck to the people who work there and it shows in their wonderful, cheerful attitudes. However, the pulchritudinous woman in front of me made sure to turn around several times to vent her spleen, telling me it was the fault of the management of THIS BRANCH. She was obviously well-versed in post offices and could discern the good from the bad, much like a connoiseur of fine wines.
As we inched along, the venting dirigible turned once more to tell me she would be back in line and that she had to sit down or else she was going to faint. Suddenly I was now confronted with the possibility of a medical emergency. Since she had spoken to me only, was I now obligated to perform first aid if/when she collapsed? I gritted my teeth and prayed this would not be the case. Oddly, after only twenty seconds of sitting, she stood up and rejoined the line, occasionally spewing more invective under her breath at the staff of this post office.
I studied the blank faces of the postal workers and wondered what kinds of thoughts must these people have. One woman appeared from the back room. The line held its collective breath to see if she would open a new window to handle the overflow of customers. Sadly, she did not. She had only come out of the postal cave to collect the remains of a flower, withered, old and lonely like herself, and its vase from one of the closed postal windows. Once in hand, she disappeared back into the cave.
Mrs. Hindenburg, in front of me, balanced herself on the railing beside us which funnelled us in the correct direction. She was bent nearly in half, bracing herself for more arduous waiting. She had stopped sitting and I worried that being on her feet, even if propped up like she was, would precipitate an anurism. If I were to perform CPR would that mean I would lose my place in line? I studied the faces of the postal workers. Blank. Dead. Emotionless. They wore the uniforms. This was their domain. Shouldn’t they be the ones to look after an ill person inside the walls of the post office? I wondered if they were trained for this. I wondered if they could move fast enough to provide emergency treatment. I have seen postal workers move. It is roughly the same as that of the earth’s tectonic plates or the average fingernail. No, it would probably fall to me to aid my fallen postal comrade, should it come to this.
I decided to distract myself and started to memorize the posters hanging above the postal windows. The Postal Service now has Star Wars stamps. Maybe it’s not stamps. Maybe it’s priority shipping for light sabers or something. All I know is there was a life size cutout of C3PO at the head of the line. I noticed a shabby row of stuffed Christmas bears for sale, still hanging up behind the postal workers. I guess they’re getting a jump on NEXT Christmas.
Finally a woman emerged from the bowels of the post office to inquire whether anyone was there simply to pick up mail. The Graf Zeppelin in front of me pushed her body to the limit to make sure she was the first one to reach the worker. She had been there only to pick up mail, not, like me, to mail a parcel. With her out of the way I breathed a sigh of relief and was, after some 30 minutes, at the head of the line. However, my erstwhile linemate was now giving one of the postal workers an earful as she waited for her pile of held mail. As luck would have it, I was then called to the window of the worker Mrs. Z was jousting with verbally. Although I hate the post office, I was confronted with a dilemma? To who did I now owe allegiance? To the woman who now huffed and puffed complaints at this worker who, to be sure, was just as slow as the Postal Service requires her to be, or to the worker herself who could take my package, my money, and let me out of there?
I chose the postal worker.
My transaction was over in a minute. I tearfully took my receipt, gave a slight nod to my inflated linemate (who did not see) and left.
Oh, the humanity.
