...When All is Said and Dunn

Last week our mild mannered chiropractor, Doc Martin, (by the way I love your boots) was pushed over the edge by one of those large corporate monsters that are incredibly hard to combat. Washington “we just ate your bank” Mutual refused to cash his check due to some semantic terrorist rule. I have to agree with you Doc, that would have pissed me off too.

Last week, I too, was faced with the same sort of belligerent big business nonsense that made me want to change where I do business. Unfortunately I do not have that option. Because unless you want to move, there is really no way to change your closest post office. I could do what one of my mother's friends does, and drive to another city instead of going to her local post office, but alas, this is not in the cards for me. The hooks are in far too deep.

If you are lucky you can keep your relationship with the postal service to a minimum. The occasional hello to the mailperson as they drop off your mail, and providing that the one who delivers your mail is not a border-line psychotic, that is fine. But heaven help you if have to venture into what Dante described in the Inferno section of his master work “The Divine Comedy,” the seventh ring of hell, or as it is more commonly known nowadays, the Post Office.

If I had known what a grueling experience it was going to be six years ago, I would never have set up my business' P.O. Box there. I probably would have gone to someplace like the S-N-S Postal Center where the crowds are fewer, the service is faster, and the people are more pleasant to deal with. Unfortunately that wouldn't have helped me in the dilemma that has finally pushed me over the edge.

Since my parents retired they are on the move quite a bit. When they are out of town one of my little jobs, which I share with my sister, is to pick up their mail which is being held at the post office. I then either drop it off at their house or give it to whomever is going to see them next. I have been doing this drill, without ever having being asked for anything more than my driver's license, for 13 years.

That was until last week. When to my utter shock and surprise I was told that because the address on my driver's license was not the same as the address that I was picking up for, they would have to check the card that was filled out to initiate the hold. This is coming from someone who in the past had given me the mail without question. As soon as she walked away, I knew this story was not going to have a happy ending. I had a gut feeling that my mom, like she does half of the time, didn't feel it was necessary to list who was authorized. Why should she? There had never been a problem before.

I should have known that something was up. From the second I walked in the picture was all wrong. As I walked in, I noticed that out of the six stalls that house the postal drone, four had people in them, as opposed to the usual one or two. I guess they reserve the understaffed torment for peak times like lunch hours or after work. With that mysterious occurrence in place, I further noticed that the line didn't reach all the way to the door. Another strange oddity. I was beginning to wonder if it was a full moon or if I had found the magic time to get in line at the post office.

Then back came my “postal friend” waving the hold card, and sure enough, nobody was listed. She stated that she couldn't give me the mail. When I attempted to remind her that she and I had done this numerous times over the past few years, she panicked, and went to search for a supervisor in hopes of quelling this building dilemma, apologizing all the way.

Out comes the “supervisor” who I had never seen before. By his disheveled appearance and surly manner it was obvious why. This man was one of those people completely lacking in people skills. And in the wise judgment of the Postmaster of the Postal Service had him hidden in the back. In sticking with the company line, he repeats what I was just told by contestant number one in this ongoing game of let's see how much we can piss off this customer.

I again repeat that this shouldn't be a big deal. I had been doing this for 13 years and every one of the postal workers who were currently serving customers had given me the mail previously without question. At this point, I looked down the line of postal drones and they all looked away. As opposed to stepping up and vouching for the fact that I am in the Post Office multiple times during each month and they all knew me, they chose to do their best Marcel Marceau impersonations.

I asked the supervisor for his name and he said “I'm Dave and I don't know you and I'm not going to release this mail to you”. I thought, "Well, Dave, you don't know me, I don't know you either, therefore I don't think you should be holding my parents mail, especially with that attitude."

So, after half an hour, I leave without the mail. I go home and call my parents at the cabin and tell them not to be expecting their mail because Dave, whom none of us know, wouldn't give it to me.

My mom springs into action. She worms her way through the ridiculous phone system the postal service has set up in order to keep you from speaking to the postal workers, and talks to Dave. She sends him a fax immediately to authorize me to retrieve her mail.

Now, for the second time that day, I have to stop work to go pick up the mail. Twice in one day to have to descend into post office hell is more than anyone should have to endure. Because while I may have been lucky once, with short lines and numerous employees working, I knew for certain my luck would run out on my return trip. This time I knew I would have to contend with all the tortures of the damned, you and I being the damned, whenever we attempt to approach the post office.

First you have to find a place to park. What is with the people who initially planned these places? Did they think that no one was ever going to drive to these places and park? Apparently not. Once you find a place to park and you're inside, it seems like they are in some sort of contest with all the other post offices to see who can make the longest line and make you wait the longest.

Once inside the inner sanctum of the building, I wait in line with, I counted, 18 people. Except now, instead of four workers, there are only two on duty. As the 18 of us slowly inch our way in I have the pleasure of seeing Dave pop in and out asking everyone if they are there to pick up mail while ignoring me. Finally, when I get his attention, I ask if he has received a fax from my mom whom he had spoken to only an hour before. With the blank stare of a child who had just been caught doing something wrong, he says “No, but when I have a minute I'll check.” I guess that meant when he was done serving everyone else in the line and the parking lot.

Finally, I see Dave go back to check the fax machine. I found this a bit ironic that the post office even had a fax machine because I'm sure they view it as one of the current anti-Christ's of their antiquated system. What Dave apparently forgot about was the large radial mirrors that they use in reverse from the back to view what's going on in front. In this case it worked to my advantage because I could see his every move as he went to check the fax machine.

As I watched Dave, via the mirror, he moved with the speed of an arthritic turtle. Once he had in his hands what was apparently the only fax received on the machine, he paused, he hesitated, and he took as much time as he possibly could. I'm surprised that he didn't skip over to Subway to order a sandwich and eat it there. Then came the ray of hope. The worker bee that had professed a sincere apology at the beginning of this escapade, came to my rescue.

“Are you back to get your mail?” “Yes. Dave was going back to check on a faxed authorization,” I answered. “I'll go check for you” and off she went. Into my view of the mirror, I see her with Dave, she takes the fax from him, gets my parents' mail. and is back in a matter of seconds. Thank God. If she hadn't done that I firmly believe I would still be standing in that line.

So Mister Postmaster please take note. Right now, you are still a monopoly for something that is quickly evaporating. With the advent of the fax machine and e-mail, your market share is dwindling. UPS and Federal Express are nipping at your Priority Mail heels. So please take care when hiring and promoting the people who are representing you to the public. In the immortal words of Cheech and Chong I would really like to hear these words. “Dave's not here.”