Monday, December 03, 2007
Going Postal
There are some places where you can’t avoid a degree of intimacy with your neighbors and fellow humanoids that, perhaps, you’d rather not endure. The bus, of course, is one such place; so’s the DMV, and the post office. This one’s about the post office.
It was a while ago, ten years or so, and a beautiful afternoon. Somehow everybody was out and about, so it might have been some kind of holiday, but not an official one because the post office was open and very busy. At our small local branch, the line stretched the entire length of the narrow facility and almost out the door. Kel was picking up a package and I was there to keep her company, but it seemed she had plenty of company anyway.
She took a spot at the back of the line and I excused myself for a few minutes to get a newspaper and some stationery at a nearby shop. By the time I got back, the line hadn’t gotten any shorter but Kel had moved several yards forward and was now only two-thirds of its length away from the service desks. I sidled past the many people waiting behind her who were daydreaming, staring at the LED “silent radio” display, or meditating on the linoleum underfoot, and greeted Kel with a peck on her cheek. The line before us and behind us was typically lackadaisical, a chain of shifting feet and blank faces, everybody just occupying space till a new space opened ahead of them, and then occupying that new space. Everybody, that is, but one.
Even had she not been standing right behind us it would have been impossible to miss her. Hell, I always noticed her whenever our paths crossed on the street, which was where she seemed to spend an inordinate share of her time. She was of about twice the typical weight for her height, which was short, with flamboyant faux jewelry hanging off her neck, ears, wrists and jacket lapels. Her clothes appeared to have been found, rather than bought, and were crusted from overuse and undercleanliness. Her hair was a towering rat’s nest of blonde-grey tangles and dirt-black roots. In the warm, crowded room, she bore a distinctive scent of spoiled cumin, soiled laundry, cheap perfume and halitosis. Her skin draped her generous frame like a rumpled tarp. Her lipstick, thick and red, smeared her long, grey plaquey teeth. If she wasn’t actually homeless, she had certainly achieved a very convincing simulation.
“HEY!,” she cackled with outrage at the back of my head. “You can’t cut in line!”
Well, I knew this game - I’ve put in my time with the functionally unstable. She just needed a calm smile and a clear answer from a trustworthy source, and that was my specialty. It was, as it were, my thing.
“Oh I’m sorry, I’m not in line; I’m just with my wife here and she’s been here this whole - “
“ASSHOLE! NO CUTS!”
My plan had failed, and failed spectacularly. Every head in the crowded office whipped around to see what was wrong. What they saw was this: a disheveled obese hag ripping into me with every ounce of her enormous decrepit bulk. I tried again.
“I have nothing, no mail, I won’t even go to the counter - “ My solicitude infuriated her. She continued to shriek at me, an accursed line-cutter. People writhed in their ranks, witness to a full-on freakout by a verifiable loony. It felt interminable, though I doubt that little more than twenty seconds elapsed before I capitulated.
“I’ll get out of line,” I told her, and stepped two feet leftwards to the window, leaned against it, and took up my newspaper. She charged and snarled at me, face red and jiggling, nearly apoplectic and seemingly most furious of all that I’d deprived her of complete victory by remaining in sight, living proof of my own inconsequentiality to her, so she’d have to see me continuing to be there, temeritously existing. As I thumbed through my paper with somewhat conscientious apathy, she returned with lingering agitation to her place in line, right behind Kelly, whose neck was visibly prickling to be stuck there with her for the foreseeable future. The woman was still huffing and muttering, but had mostly pulled back to within herself; still, you never knew what to expect from some people, and she was one of them.
A guy towards the front of the line offered to trade places with Kel - so it wouldn’t be like she was cutting and no one else would be impacted - just to get us out of there sooner. Still, we thought it would piss her off so we declined, with gratitude nonetheless. Soon enough the line moved on, Kel left me behind and reached the front counter, concluded her transaction, and we were on our way.
I feel like this story should have a moral of some sort, but it happened a decade ago at least and I’m still drawing a blank on one. It would be good to get some closure on that crazy old bat but for now all I’ve got is this: You can’t account for every maniac at the post office. If you’ve got a better one, I’m open to suggestion.
