It's like the airport
I had to go to the post office last week. I don't like to, and I avoid it as much as I can. I buy my stamps at the grocery store. But for boxes, I have no choice. As soon as I grasped the metal bars on the double doors, my stomach flipped in anticipation. He was here. Crap.
Our post office has three employees, A fairly normal, nice older man; an aggressive woman who hates all things postal and the people who send them, and will throw your ass out at the first sign of weakness; and Fasttalkingguy.
On the days I get lucky and am routed to Grandpa's line, I suddenly feel 50 pounds lighter. Birds sing, I feel happy. When the chute directs me to Helga the School Marm, I close my eyes and brace for the blows about the face and shoulders. When fate sends me to Fasttalkingguy, which is often, I want to stab him with his own nametag.
Most of my visits are with Fasttalkingguy and Helga. I think they have Grandpa taped up in the back gagged with a stapler, so they can have their fun.
I always start calmly, but it's only a self-preservation technique. I know what's coming.
"Hello, I'd like to mail this packa..."
"Isthereanythinginhereillegalexplosiveperishabledangerouscorrosiveorjustplain
messyorugly?" He grabs it from me and throws it on the scale.
"No, it's just pape..."
"Icangetitthereinonehourwiththesuperexpressluckyspaceshuttleservicefor$315.78"
"No, thanks, just Priori..."
"For$196.40Icansenditovernightexpressandgetittherein17hours"
"No"
He huffs with disappointment.
"Icanhaveittherein5hoursbyusingmyownburromakingnostopsfor$5.75orIcanshoveit
underthecounterwithmyfootandloseitforeverforabucktwoninetyeight"
"No, Priority is fine."
He whips around and puts one tiny sticker on the corner. My old post office would put a row of the stickers along the edge. Clearly, he is disgusted by my lunacy. Hey lady, he seems to say as he shoots me a look, it's your dollar.
"Wouldyoulikeinsurancedeliveryconfirmationcertifiedmailregisteredletterortopsecret
spystatusonthis"
"No" He launches my box across the room into a giant bin.
I try to hand him my money, but his mania will not be deterred.
"Wouldyoulikeanyotherservicestodayanyboxespackingpaterialsstampsbubble
wraporburros"
"No"
"Willyoubepayingwithcashcheckmoneyorderdebitcreditorlivestocktoday?"
I staunchly refuse to answer this question. There's no reason for it. He will know the answer as soon as I put it in his hot little sweaty hand.
I don't bring anything but cash anymore. Going the debit route only buys 8 more minutes of Hell.
"Swipeithereitwillaskforyourpinyouhavetopressharditwillaskyoutopressenter
whichisthisbuttonrighthere"
And in a moment, it's over. With all that talking, he never ends the conversation. No thank you, no have a nice day, no you may leave now, get out of my line. I shake my head to clear the buzzing, locate my children, and swoon a little from exhaustion. I feel dizzy and sleepy, like much time has passed. I reach up gingerly to check to see if I have grown a long white beard.Fasttalkingguy expresses his extreme discomfort at my loitering by yelling for the next customer
"HellohowcanIhelpyoutodayrightdownhere"
I need a plan. I think next time I will go up to him, slap the box on the counter and say, "DomesticmailonlyclothesinsidePrioritynoextrasnootherservicestodaycash". It will either deflate him like a balloon with a pinhole, or he'll want to marry me so I can have his babies.
