USPS: Privatize the Holidays

I had one Christmas package to mail.  Guess that was one too many, because it took me four trips to the Post Office.

The first trip was innocent; the Post Office is a block from my workplace. This is too convenient, I thought.  The neat head of a uniformed African American woman bobbed behind a scratched plexiglass window.  The plump, dark blonde customer chirped through the speaking hole.  “Most of these are going to Canada, this is the only one going to Shanghai.”

I saw the mountain of boxes on the counter.  “I’ll get going on the customs forms!” the customer called reassuringly.  The twelve person line, cradling boxes and envelopes, sagged against the displays of postal supplies, emitting a barely audible groan.  My eyes widened, then narrowed, and taking another look at the line, I turned on my heel and returned to the office.  I wasn’t angry — yet.

Choosing a time when workers’ lunch breaks would be over, I took up my holiday package and tramped back to USPS around 3 p.m.  The line was the same length as it had been that morning and the same beleaguered clerk was there by her lonesome.  A fellow sufferer said, “I come here all the time, and she’s always here by herself.”

Like sand through an hourglass, the woman at the counter ticked away precious moments of my day.  “Do you have tape?”  She held a box, and gift-wrapped presents, and bubble wrap, but they were not packed as they should be. The clerk passed her a roll of tape and said, “Don’t get back in line, when you finish come back up here.”  The line moved one person, and stopped.  I had to go back to work.

I decided to try first thing the next day, when I hoped the line would be shorter.  Not only was it, but it moved quickly and I rejoiced, for my package felt like it weighed 3,000 pounds.  Finally, I was the first person in line!  I smiled, imagining Mom opening her Christmas gifts.

But wait, the clerk — same one as before, the only person in the building it would appear — was saying,  “I’m having computer problems, so y’all are gonna have to come back later.”  Desperation drove a brain wave before it.  “Can I buy stamps?” I asked, like Oliver holding up his empty bowl for more.  “I can,” she said, “But it won’t be an even amount.”  Wha?

Suddenly the elderly African American woman behind me bolted to the window, cutting in line.  I stood dumbly paralyzed.  The world spun crazy on its axis. I listened to their conversation but couldn’t follow a word.  The clerk ended up giving the old lady a sheet of stamps, saying, “You come back later tonight and pay for that, Darlin.”

I know when I’m not wanted.  “Privatize it!”  I grumbled as I walked past the remaining queue.  After work I hit a different post office where there’s an “Automated Postal Center” meaning that I wouldn’t have to deal with any U.S. Postal worker.   I slapped on the postage.  Catch-22:  there’s nowhere to mail it because the package mailbox is bolted shut, and the regular mailbox only accepts parcels under 13 ounces.

I had to — wait for it — take a number and bide 15 minutes to hand my package to a postal clerk,  stamped and ready to go.  Never thought I’d say it, but the Postal Service is dead to me in its current form.  Never thought I’d say “Postal Service” and “privatize” in the same sentence.  That was then.

©Copyright to the Author; All Rights Reserved.