In the week between Christmas and New Year’s, the week in which the only retail purchases I make are those you can make in the small local grocery store, I ran out of stamps. I held off, though; principles are principles.
By January second, I had bills that had to go out. I also had to send our annual family New Year’s photos to relatives in other states. There was no getting around it: I had to go to the post office.
My branch is rather small. The clerks there predated my move to this community, so they’ve got at least 10 years of service at this diminutive branch. They know me. One man in particular knows that my son went to DC last summer; we’d chatted about it a few times before the trip, and he asked me about it when we returned. The two main guys are nice, solid, steady. Salt of the earth.
The line was fairly short: An elderly woman with a couple of envelopes already stamped, but she prefers to hand the letters in person to the clerk rather than drop them through the slot; a mom and her two young children with big boxes, one larger than the smallest child; another mom with a toddler and a gift she was returning that needed insurance, so she had to get out of line to fill out additional forms. And the woman in front of me. Fur coat (in the land of faux, real fur is quite surprising), painfully pink lipstick, teased and obviously dyed hair, lots of make up, an enormous crocodile leather bag, leopard print leggings and fabulous leather boots. And a phone. She was on the phone the entire time she was in line. Conducting business, it sounded like. Real estate – the person who was supposed to see the unit (condo? apartment?) would have to call the resident’s cell phone when he went to view the place, as the buzzer was broken. She left the information. The cell phone number. Twice. She took a call. She made another call. One hand, age-spotted, with nails manicured painful pink, holding the phone up to her overly-made up face, the other searching – clawing – through her vast animal-skin bag. All the while turning and turning in place, so that she broadcast her calls to every nook and cranny of the small space. A slow, cacophonous pirouette revealing the discrepancy between her attempts at feminine charm and the results – stale, over-done, things not adding up despite the obvious cost of the individual accessories. And more inconsiderate than the three young children, forced on an errand that usually taxes the best-behaved of youngsters.
When it was her turn, the age-unknown woman harrumphed to the counter. The next clerk was open just moments later, so I made my way up. Pleasant small talk, as usual. Then I heard the other clerk say, “Yes, don’t worry. You’ll be pleased to know – I made the recommendation that they close this branch.”
I gasped the gasp of the eavesdropper who hears only just enough to respond as if the conversation included me.
“You’re closing?!” I asked in dismay. This would be awful. Our little village can’t seem to maintain shops. We lost an astonishingly good ice cream joint, two high-end boutiques carrying one-of-a-kind furniture, kitchen ware, table linens, even antiques, Blockbuster video, and the short-lived pie place. Yes, you read that right, pie place, with every kind of dessert pie imaginable, but also savory pot pies. Scrumptious. Sans pie, sans post office – how much can a small community take?
Turns out we’re not losing the post office. The clerk was being sarcastic, goading the woman. “I know how much she complains about us, so I thought I’d tell her that and see what she said.” He began to tell the story. Of her million dollar home on the hill. Of how mean she is every time she comes in. The person who was helping me chimed in about how many times she’s yelled at him, not only at the counter, but from the line while she’s standing in it. She stands in line and hurls insults up to the people at the counter.
“She’s a bitch,” summarized the first clerk. In this small space, every word spoken at these counters can be heard by every other person in line. So every single person heard the verdict. The trying-too-hard-to-hold-on-to-youth woman who is too busy to merely go to the post office and must conduct business at the same time so that everyone is forced not only to see her, but hear her, is a bitch.
Hmmmmm, I thought. These guys say “Hi there” to the kids in line. They ask if you want anything else when you’re done with your transaction. They nod and small-smile back when you send out a cheery “Bye, see you next time.” They take longer to get you out the door because they actually look you in the eye, treating you as if you are an individual, not just a nameless, faceless person in between their last customer and their next.
You gotta be some kind of piece of work to piss off these postal clerks. You gotta have some kind of nerve to take out your frustration at looking like crap in designer clothes on people who have to wear postal uniforms – the same impossible dull blue-grey and faded white that made everyone look somewhat anemic and gangly in our middle-school, one-piece, striped, zip-up gym uniforms – but still manage to smile with their eyes when it’s your turn to approach the counter. You gotta be some kind of miserable to inflict misery everywhere. Pity the gal who does her painful pink nails, or the house cleaner who scrubs her toilet and cleans her floors, as there are a whole lot more ways to make mistakes on those tasks than there are at the post office. It’s just postage, for Pete’s sake. And looking for packages that you were too busy to be home to receive. The base rate of errors in a business that conducts, say, 5 types of transactions is not exactly soaring. Yes, there might be a long line. Yes, you might get to the counter and learn they’re out of Forever stamps. Yes, you might need another kind of label to slap on that package. But they’re not exactly making up the rules as they go. It’s a federal business, folks. There’s only so much they can do. The rest is in the in-between.
The in-between of small social encounters. The small talk, the chit chat, the minute of standing in line and smiling at the person in front or behind you. The silent acknowledgment that you’re both somewhere you’d rather not be, but, hey, here we both are. Great weather, isn’t it? How were your holidays? Can you believe they made a whole roster of scientist stamps? How cool is that?
The small moments that come between what we think of as the important parts of our day – work, school, making a meal, paying bills, taking a shower, making sure to tell our loved ones that we love them. But maybe not so small. Maybe being yelled at by a stranger is a huge moment. Being unjustly blamed by someone you can’t say anything back to (federal business, folks – not exactly the kind of place where employees can tell obstreperous folks to back off, nor is there a “we have the right to refuse service to anyone we want” kind of poster on these walls). Nope, they have to stand at the counter, tap out postage rates on the screen, hand over stamps, ask if this woman wants cash back. Silent in the face of her abusive and hostile behavior.
I’m not sure what federal regulation allows the clerks to tell the rest of us that she was out of line, but I’m glad they did. I’m glad they were able to be subversive and honest. And I’m sorry the woman believes she has the right to be inconsiderate and mean to those she doesn’t consider important. Because I was right behind her the whole time, not understanding why I was feeling unpleasant toward a woman who was wearing really great boots, not giving name to the idea that was forming in my head, the way in which I was giving myself free reign to dislike her, until I heard the postal clerk say the bad word. I think he might be right.
Of course, there are a million reasons why someone is mean to others – yes, yes, yes, we are all aware of how misunderstood and mistreated people become bullies because of their low self esteem. And how we’re not supposed to label a person a bitch or bully, because that implies the whole person is condemned to this judgment when it’s just their isolated behavior that is bitchy or bullying. And we wouldn’t want to unfairly slander a perfectly nice, misunderstood, confused person who is just doing the very best they can and really didn’t mean anything bad.
Please. Enough already. Keep your inner bitch to yourself, folks. Because I’m in line behind you. And there’s a hard-working clerk who is about to help you. Because no matter what happened to you, there’s no excuse for inflicting it on the good guys. We’re all just building our day, one small moment on top of the next. If you’ve had a difficult background, then aged prematurely and feel invisible and powerless, fine. If you opt for painful pink, enjoy it. You’re at the post office now. With a lot of really nice people who haven’t ever hurt you and likely won’t. A lot of people hoping for a pleasant small moment. And maybe another sheet of Forever stamps, before the rates go up.