I wish I had had the presence of mind to get into one of those industries where everyone expects the customer service to be bad, like airlines or the post office.
I appreciate that both entail a lot of complexities and extenuating circumstances, and if I buy a plane ticket or mail a letter, my letter or my person will most likely get to the intended destination. Along the way, though, there’s a lack of attention to detail that can be annoying.
Everyone expects to be dehumanized and treated like a cow moving inexorably to the slaughterhouse when they fly. Its just part of the deal. That’s why I wish I worked there, so I could press home that feeling of listless abandonment of self with the zeal that only a government employee can manage. If I saw anyone smiling or laughing in line, I would immediately swoop down upon them and make sure they didn’t have any bottles of water larger than an ounce. Or I might make sure they know that shoes are only for government workers.
Take ’em off, grandma! Lord only knows what you’re hiding in your crocs!
My mailman makes sure I know who is boss as well. This week he delivered a letter to my mailbox addressed to Kathleen Hodgson at my street address, but with apartment number “S”. I am apartment “1”. I’m also not Kathleen.
I put a note on it that said as much, and put it in the out box. The next day I found it back in my mailbox. So, I attached a second note:
No, buddy, I’m really not Kathleen! I promise! I’m sure she wants her greeting card or whatever it is. I do not.
I guess he didn’t take kindly to my note, because he got his revenge yesterday. I was waiting for a package of bicycle parts from the UK, so I left the door open to make sure if he came by I would hear him, but he used the ninja stealth that all mailmen have to sneak up to my door and put a note on it instead. Damn it.
The note said I should go to the post office this morning after 9am to pick up my items. Damn it, mailman! You couldn’t just say “Hello!” one time?
Oh well, I drove to the post office just a few minutes ago. I arrived at 9:50, and was the only person inside, including employees. None were visible. Eventually, a woman appeared and I handed her my note.
“Oh, I hope your parcel has made it, some of them haven’t come over yet.”
My parcel hadn’t made it.
“Come back after ten or eleven to check again if its here,” she told me.
I wanted to say “Well then why does it say 9am on here?” but that would be approximately as effective as pulling up my shirt and slapping myself a few times on the nipples. In fact, at least if I slapped myself and made some silly whooping noises one of us might get a laugh.
Asking why the note says to come too early is just a senseless waste of effort.
Come on, mailman! I need my bicycle parts damnit!