Kerry Allen

I had a bunch of REQUESTED MATERIAL to take to the post office. I wanted to do it Monday morning, but there was a line around the block (last-minute tax filers), so I put it off until Wednesday.

On Wednesday, it was nice and quiet at the post office. The first thing I noticed upon entering was the lack of the number dispenser. Oh, we’re now to be trusted to wait in a single-file line until it’s our turn to go to the clerk? Don’t be silly. Apparently one of yesterday’s disgruntled patrons picked it up and heaved it over the counter to express his displeasure, so the number dispenser is out of commission for a while.

I overheard this story because the sole clerk at the counter shared it with the customer she was with when I entered. She was still chatting 10 minutes later. No transactions taking place, just yakking.

After I’d been standing there for 20 minutes, surreptitiously trying to make the clerk’s head explode with my as-yet undiscovered telekinetic death ray, another clerk came to the counter and waved me forward. I’ve been through this before, knew what I was doing, had an efficient system in place that should have gotten me out of there in a mere 2 minutes. I put my envelopes in stacks on the counter. The 3-chapter requests have to go Priority Mail because of weight. First Class is fine for the 50-page requests. And may I please have a book of Forever stamps, please and thank you.

“Do you want to send this overnight?”

No, thanks. Priority Mail for these, First Class for these. And stamps. Please. He got through the Priority Mail stack without further incident. Then:

“Do you want to send this overnight?”

No. As I’ve already explained, I want this and everything else remaining in this pile sent First Class. Thanks.

“How about Priority Mail?”

For every single envelope left on the counter, we had to do the whole offer-of-every-option-other-than-the-one-I-specifically-requested-from-the-beginning rigamarole. I was with that guy for another 20 minutes, by which time my own head was in danger of exploding. Paid the man. Took my receipt. Thanked him for his tremendously thorough help. Stalked out to my car.

Where I realized that although I had been charged for stamps, I had not been handed them.

Needless to say, it was a wise decision not to put the number dispenser back out on the floor because on my second trip inside, I had given up on the death ray and was ready for batting practice.

I bypassed the line entirely. I entered through the exit area. The brave soul who voiced a protest shut up right quick when I gave him the crazy eye. I thrust my receipt toward the clerk, smiled (hey, I tried, even if it was more of a rictus-of-death thing at that point). Pardon me, sir, but you seem to have forgotten to give me my stamps.

“Well, you had so much stuff, I’m not surprised something got forgot.”

Bit my tongue. Got my stamps. Apparently teleported to my car through some sort of blood-red haze, since I don’t remember walking. Contemplated crashing my car through the glass wall in search of fleshy speed bumps. Decided against it because I just washed my car for the first time in a year and the tires are so shiny and clean.

Went home and investigated the feasibility of a digital scale and print-your-own postage in an attempt to avoid a future conviction for multiple murder if I ever have to go back to that place.

Remember, postage goes up a penny on May 12! Visit your local post office and show your support today!