Return To Sender

One of these days, the phrase "going postal" will apply to CUSTOMERS instead of EMPLOYEES. Today almost became that day.

I was supposed to mail off my child support check yesterday, but I noticed there were no stamps in the house. I filled my pockets with change and tramped downtown to the nearest post office, think, "Ah, well, I'll just buy a stamp from the vending machine in the lobby." Ah, but fate had other plans in store for me that brisk Thursday morn... Imagine my SHOCK and DISMAY when I discovered that there were no 39-cent stamps in the vendor!!!!!! Books of stamps, yes, as well as many over-priced collector's prints... But single, ready to paste stamps? Forget about it! In desperation, I turned to the automated postal scale, hoping I could weigh and stamp my meager check with a quick swipe of my debit card-- NO DICE!!! My head began to spin... I suddenly remembered that this had all happened once before, after hours, when the only stamps the vendor had to offer were those books of little 3-cent upgrades... With no other options, I had made my purchase and applied the entire booklet to the front of my envelope before dropping it in the slot.

But not today. There were no three cent stamps for sale, and besides, business hours were still in effect. I was left with no other choice but to wait in line. I'm now convinced that this entire situation is nothing more than a ploy devised by the postal service to get you to buy something from the endless racks of mail-themed souvenirs that line the walls. Are you dying to get your hands on a commemorative plate dedicated to the bravery of 9-11 firefighters? They've got 'em, in THREE different sizes, along with thirty thousand other flavors of useless bullshit to fill that empty void in your heart. I waited in line amongst the bustle and noise for more then twenty minutes, seething.

Just as I was about to whip out my UZI and do some serious damage, a golden light appeared to break through the clouds. My number in line came up, and I realized that my favorite mail clerk in the universe was waiting to sell me a stamp. Have I ever talked about this woman before? Let me call her "Doris." Doris is in her mid-to-late-fifties (or well-preserved sixties), has a cranberry-red bouffant, cigarette-orange teeth, and a pair of fake eyelashes glued to her face that would send Mary Kay screaming for cover. With her squared-off press-on nails and seductive, throaty growl, she is equal parts Charles Bush and Flo from Mel's Diner. She is the lounge-lizard queen of our downtown post office, and I am totally in awe of her.

Needless to say, I've mad excuses to hang around the post office before, just to watch her operate.

She cocked a familiar half-smile as I approached the counter. "Help you, sugar?"

I was still feeling a bit pestered at this point, so I let the change drop from my hands, one coin at a time, just to make a production out of it. "Yeah, I'd like to buy ONE STAMP. That's all, just ONE STAMP."

She didn't blink, didn't budge. She just sat there and watched me with that same sly, bemused grin.

I pushed the mound of change towards her. "I didn't realize there weren't single stamps in the vending machine any more."

Doris took my money without looking at her. Her eyes remained locked on my face. "Yes, well, I can sell you stamps here. But it's gonna cost you a dollar."

"A whole dollar?"

"Yes, a whole dollar."

A moment passed between us. In a fit of crazed delusion, I actually imagined that she was coming on to me. Then she snorted and shook her head. "No, I'm kidding. The prices haven't gone up that much. Not yet, anyway."

I watched her dig through a small drawer. She rifled through flag stamps and ribbon stamps and stamps with pictures of jazz singers on them. At last, she found one that was just right for me (although, in my stupor, I didn't bother to notice what was printed on it-- her power over me was THAT strong), licked it slo-o-o-wly, and affixed it to my envelope. Thanking her, I tried to reach out and take it back, but but she turned and dropped it into the basket behind her.

"I'll just send it off for you, darlin'. Have a nice day."

She sent me off with a wink and I was on my way, through the front door and out into the warm (almost) spring air. As I passed all the other poor suckers arriving to take their places in line, it dawned on me how quickly my mood had changed. The overpowering urge to commit senseless acts of violence had been replaced by an expectant calm, something almost bordering on joy... It angered me to let go of my rage so easily, but there was nothing I could do about it. Doris had effectively DEFUSED me.

I looked back over my shoulder as I crossed the street and shook my fist. You win again, Post Office! But next time... Or maybe the time after that... Doris won't be around, and THEN you'll be sorry!

Then again, maybe not. I could have just made this whole thing up... These days, it gets harder for me to tell.