Our mail comes to the mailbox at our driveway's end—a black plastic box that replaced the metal one the plow took down last winter. This is where I stick my outgoing mail, as well, flipping the red flag to attention so the mailman will stop, which he'd do anyway, because there are always supermarket fliers to deliver, if not bills. But today I need to mail a book to someone who reviews for the Internet Review of Books, so I go to the post office.
Post offices are funny places--friendlier than the Registry of Motor Vehicles, but not much more efficient. I've met some great people in both, and had some wonderful conversations while waiting my turn. Efficiency is not conducive to chatting; I'm fine waiting and talking.
Today I stand in line with a book in a "Priority Mail" envelope and a five-dollar bill in hand to pay $4.90 to send the book from snowy New England to New Mexico's desert in a day or two.
The line shuffles forward; only one of the two windows is open, but people are patient. Each person has a reason to wait—they send packages to servicemen, birthday gifts to grandchildren, a camera to a winning eBay bidder. And a book to a reviewer.
The clerk is Al. He has a toupee. It's an old one, well-worn, and the part is wide as a pencil… white fabric of some sort, no hair there. He's a serious man and he always asks me five questions:
Do I want delivery confirmation?
No.
Insurance?
No.
Do I want something else?
No.
Do I want another thing?
No.
And when my package is in the bin behind him, do I want stamps, today?
No, thanks. Have a good day. Bye.
Today, when he opens his mouth to ask, I say with a smile, "No, no, no, no, no. I'll save you from asking. You must be sick of saying it."
"I could say it in my sleep," he says.
Puffy eyed from a wakeful night, I say, "At least you sleep."
"First I talk to my uncle Jim," he tells me. I notice his lack of a wedding ring. I picture him, lonely, touching base with his uncle, his mother's brother maybe, before he sleeps.
And I get it. I laugh. "Your uncle Jim Beam?" I ask. "And Uncle Jack…?" I know the name, but I can't bring it to mind.
"Daniels," he says. His eyes twinkle and I don't even look at his toupee. I see the life in his eyes instead.
"You know," I tell him, "I have an Auntie Merlot. Maybe I should give her a call tonight.
"You should," he tells me. He smiles and forgets to ask if I want stamps, which I don't.
No, thanks.
Comments
I used to get all fired up everytime I went to the post office because they are so slow and they never have enough help. Now I am excited that it takes me out of the office for so long - ha! ha!
My favorite line is "the part as wide as a pencil"...I was smiling through the read.... :)
You've inspired me - I'm going to the PO tomorrow! Thanks.
Alice
I loved this, very funny; it reminded me of my mother's post office where one of the clerks has a name tag that reads: Lawrence, don't call me Larry.
In England post offices are often inside shops. Mostly you don't get much information out of them, but every now and again they surprise you. When I was sending some things to my daughter in Uganda the clerk asked me did I want to send it registered mail, because the post was very unreliable there. I said, What's the difference? Will it help if I send it registered? He said, Oh, yes, if you send it registered they have to sign for it before they steal it.
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