Postal Torpor

You know the experience of standing in line at the post office. Second only to waiting to be called at the DMV, itself just this side of waiting for Godot.

For some reason, I muster more patience at the Post Office. Imagine, standing on your feet all day, meeting face to face with annoyed people who have been glaring at you each of their 30 minutes in line. Then pushing their papers around and taping their boxes. It calls for a sweeter compassion.

Yesterday I zip into the post office on the way to lunch to find I've forgotten to pay for my P.O. box, and now I'm locked out of it. But great clicking heels of fortune, the line is EMPTY! There are only two people working but with no line, this'll be a breeze...tick...tock...tick...you've got to be...kidding...tock...me...tick...

WHAT is happening? It becomes clear. Patron number 1 is poring over sheets of stamps, deciding on one, changing her mind, deciding on others. Patron number 2 is locked in a quiet but intense conversation with the only other postal worker. They are gesturing with their hands and their faces are expressive. Patron number 2's stack of mail in front of her and it becomes clear that they are NOT talking about mail...tick, tock, tick...

People are gathering behind me. Patron number 2 is so easy in this conversation, I wonder who she is. How does she stand there in this conversation, with only one other worker on duty, and take up all this time, with no compunction whatsoever? She's happy as a lark as the line accumulates. If I weren't so curious, I would be furious. This social more is almost unbreakable in this fast-paced country and she's smashing it to bits. I mean, at least you could LOOK guilty, ACT busy, acknowledge the waiting humanity with a shoulder shrug and a lopsided smile.

After separating and straightening each of Patron number 1's several dollar bills with a snap, the only postal worker working places them next to each other on the counter, then gathers them and places them preciously in the tray. I'm up. I step to it and, while he's away investigating my locked box, I decide to listen conspicuously to the pair STILL talking at the other window. Who could she be? Who is she to this postal worker that the six people now in line do not exist?

I can barely make out what she's saying, but under my obvious scrutiny, she begins to move. But in mid-step she returns and says, "How's Hector?" Postal Worker reponds. She's back and chatting. "What about Lula?" "And Vic?"

I finally get it. Who can stand at the post office window and chat as if no line stacked up behind her? Whose wits can match those of the quietly satisfied, unhurried tree sloth variety of postal worker? ANOTHER POSTAL WORKER!!

She used to work there and she's catching on up with the chit chat from this side of the counter. My postal guy comes back with my mail and only then does the conversation next to me begin to end. The people in line are so used to the yawning stretches of time there, they haven't even noticed.