The men at the post office

The men at the post office aren't very nice. Well, that's not completely true. Sometimes they're kind of nice in a 'I just work here' kind of way or a 'I'm just standing in line with my crying kid' kind of way. But most of the time they're not very nice, or they're very mean, or they're very 'I don't care'-ish.

First there's Roger. He works behind the counter. He's a scrawny stick of a man with a shiny balding head. It gleams like plastic in the fluorescent lights. Roger is pretty normal, for a postal worker. Except that, he looks at you. I mean *really* looks at you. With his eye. Well, actually, it's just at women.

When you're standing in line, and when you're a woman, and you look at Roger because you're tired of looking at your package or the back of the head of that cute guy in front of you, Roger will sometimes look back. *With his eyes.* And by this, I mean he doesn't look with his mouth. He's not recognizing you as a person, he's not smiling because you're a customer. He's searching at you.

I decided some time ago that--despite the wedding band on his finger--Roger is actually looking for a specific woman. In fact, in his youth he met a young women and they fell in love. Right before she ran off with another man (this was unknown to Roger) she told him that when she returned, she would come find him at the post office. Her name was Muriel, and she had red hair. She never came back, though.

The other man that works there is Steve. Okay, his name isn't actually Steve. I don't know what it is. But he has that kind of dinosaur bone structure that gives off the impression of a sharp name, like Steve, or Jack. Or I could be completely wrong and his name is really Don or Bartholomew. Anyways. He works in the back room, with the packages. He throws them into things. I'm not really sure what he throws them into because there's a big wall, but I can see his muscular and hairy arms tossing Priority stickered parcels into some receptacle behind the wall. And, although I have never met Steve, he seems like the kind of guy to be only feigning kindness or decency half of the time. In reality he's a big jerk that drools at anything with breasts.

There aren't any other men that work at the post office. Not that I've seen, anyway. The other people that work there are Nancy--she's really nice, the Asian lady who was gone for a month, the girl with the big hair and the Boston accent, and the woman with the serial killer eyes and the droopy face. I bet her name is Francis, or Clara. Actually, I just remembered. Her name is Karen. Creepy Karen.

The men that I encounter at the post office are usually in line. Some are old men with frizzy graying beards and dusty jackets or Cosby sweaters that hold the door open for me--I usually have a big box of packages, so it's not like they're going out of their way. Then there are the Korean college students that don't give me a second glance. Or a first glance, for that matter. Lots of Hispanic dudes too, with hoochie girlfriends that wear spandex and flip flops in the middle of December. Once I saw a man with a bandage wrapped around his head.

Most of the men are white, though. White, and dirty. Kind of covered with a thin layer of earth, and they're hairy. They can't correctly grow a beard, so they look like hobos. They all have big dark coats and hiking boots and their eyes seem to say, "Watch out! I have a gun in one of these pockets! Oh, hold on, let me find it... fricken huge coat...."

There are exceptions, of course. Like the Asians and the Hispanics. But occasionally I'll see a man in a suit with shiny shoes, and he'll stand with his hands behind his back and glance over his shoulder, watching all the poor souls in line behind him. Or there are youthful men with sweatshirts and jeans and baseball caps, picking up sports magazines and laughing with Roger. And sometimes I'll see skater boys standing in line with mothers that haven't brushed their hair in several days and have Winnie the Pooh or Garfield screened onto an over sized sweatshirt. They don't have money to update their own style because that teenager wants new Vans.

I think the men I remember most of all, however, are the ones that I met today. (Today being Thursday the tenth of January.) I met one of them before I even entered the building.

He had a mullet. And a white jacket. And a mullet. And a short beard. And a really curly mullet. And he was walking as fast as his short legs could carry him, which was just fast enough to get in front of me, because we all know that this man with his one envelope is infinitely more important than the girl (me) with the big box of packages.

I wanted to punch him in the face. I might have, if I hadn't been holding that damn box. So he just walked, I mean stampeded, right in front of me, to the front of the line. I scowled, and dropped my box off. The moron should have known that I have drop-off privileges because I'm from a business, and I don't even need to stand in line. I have a feeling that Mullet Man would have gotten along well with Steve/Bartholomew.

The other man I met was on my way out. Back to my car. I parked close to the door, so I didn't have to walk far. But the sidewalk is not very wide, and so this young man with short black hair and broad shoulders starts walking towards the entrance and I panic. I don't like strangers in general. So I looked down, and fiddled getting my keys out of my purse. I reached my car, and upon looking up, this man, this young man who is probably actually very possible not young at all but could be thirty years old, looked me straight in the eye.

As I have said before, most of the men at the post office don't give a rip. Or a crap. Or a something else. They're not very nice, or they don't care. But this simultaneously old and young man looked me straight in the eye, and smiled. But it wasn't a normal smile. I couldn't really tell you what kind it was. At first it was a, "I see you are getting your keys out," smile. Then it was a, "I see you are a female and I am a male," smile. I thought for a moment it was a, "Let's do it," smile and I was very disturbed. Still, I have concluded that his intentions were very innocent.

After all, I met him on the sidewalk. The smile lasted maybe three seconds. I'll probably never see him again, regardless of what he was thinking when he smiled. And, seriously, how much can you find out about a man at the post office?

Reviews

[fireblossom]

I wonder what would happen if we met in line?

Perhaps we have all had such thoughts as we wait and wait...and inch ahead...and listen as the counter person chats with a friend who should realize they are holding up the line and life of everyone there...

I like this story because it feels like a meditation being written in your head as you stand there...Reminds me of The Egg and I by Betty McDonald...who wrote about rural life up around Port Townsend.

Anyhow...I enjoyed listening to you. Good writing.