Writer. Warning: opinions. My lawyer advised a disclaimer, but didn't include any jokes to go with. Damned if I can think of any either.

Mail Box Assault

As I have said on this very blogular area of the much-vaunted Interplops many times, I am reluctant to leave my home. Should I find myself out of my house, I am then reluctant to leave my neighborhood.

Luckily for me there isn’t really any need for me to venture out very often. My work relationships, apart from the occasional meeting, mostly take place via phone or email, and I sit here at my desk to actually perform the work I do.

Thanks to Spring and the nice weather that it has brought, I have taken to propping open my office window so that the spring air can wander around my apartment like a bored date might wander around an art gallery.

On Monday, however, my peaceful and enjoyable work environment was disturbed by a rattling sound. I identified the source of the rattling immediately as the bank of mailboxes on a post in the front yard. I know the sound because I hear the mailperson delivering my bills and junk mail every afternoon, but it wasn’t time for him or her to be here yet.

I then heard a man’s voice say “Ridiculous!”

I paused my Miley Cyrus mp3 collection and got up to go look out the window. Sure enough, a gentleman was assaulting the mailbox, jiggling a key in one of the locks with one hand and holding a phone with the other.

I wondered immediately if he realized that the apartment numbers and mailbox numbers do not match up. I’m not sure why this is, but for some reason the landlords of Manland have seen fit to divorce them. I was told about it when I moved in. I assumed that if this were the issue, the landlord would certainly tell the new tenant as I had been told.

“Garage Dome Fargle Ridiculous!” I hear the mailbox assaulter exclaim again, giving the thing another rattle. He swore and chattered some more, apparently informing someone of the situation via his cell phone.

It was then that I could have sworn I heard him say something about mailbox six. Mailbox six is mine.

Somewhere in the building an organ played an ominous chord, and I turned to look over my shoulder with eyes squinted. Then I dramatically raised one eyebrow.

That done, I donned my flip flops, grabbed my keys and went outside to see what the hell. The mailbox assaulter was now sitting in the front seat of a car talking on a phone. I used my key to open my box, found nothing inside, and came back inside to get some work done.

I assumed that the assault was over and everything would be fine, but not twenty minutes later I heard even more rattling, a pause, and then a knock at my door.

It was the maintenance man. He handed me a key.

“This is your new mailbox key,” he said. “You’re mailbox five right?”

I walked outside with the maintenance guy following me, and found the door to my mailbox swinging open, having been pried open, the lock now broken.

Now how will I get seven million coupons a day for crap I will never want?

I addressed the mailbox assaulter.

“So, you do know that the mailbox numbers and apartment numbers don’t match up, right? They did tell you that, yes?”

They didn’t tell him that. He said he’d had them come out and change the lock on his mailbox three times already and his key never started to work. The maintenance man had never thought to make sure he was trying the right box, and no one at all had thought to tell him which box to open, or they’d told him and he’d forgotten.

Lacking that tidbit of information, my new neighbor just assumed, as anyone would, that his apartment number and the mailbox would match.

The maintenance man said they would get it all sorted out. This all happened on Monday afternoon.

On Tuesday morning I noticed that the problem had not been fixed, so I called my landlord’s office. The girl I spoke to answered the phone, gave the name of the company, but not her own name. In my experience, if someone answers the phone but doesn’t give their name its because they don’t think you need it, which means they don’t care about being known to you in the future, which means you are a faceless voice to them and they will have no problem being a dick to you.

But that’s just one man’s opinion.

She assured me that they knew about the problem and would get it taken care of. It is now Wednesday morning.

Would anyone care to guess what state my mailbox is currently in? Hanging crazily askew like a drunken businessman’s shirt tail at a strip club, you say? Why, yes!

Now I will go about my workday as normal and wait for the mailperson to come by this afternoon so that I can get his or her take on matters.

I’m not even expecting anything particularly important in the mail, I’m just annoyed that out of all this confusion and stark lack of customer/tenant care, I am the guy with the pried-open mailbox.

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