When cranky meets klutzy at the post office

by Pringle Franklin

My timing was poor on Tuesday. One of our sons needed his passport pronto, so I agreed to mail it to him that day. After a few appointments, I wound up heading to the U.S. Post Office around 3:30 p.m. By that hour, this particular branch is usually packed. As I walked across the busy parking lot, I reminded myself to relax; I was not in any hurry. Even if I had to stand and wait for 30 minutes, I would try to calmly accept whatever happened.

As expected, the line snaked around and doubled back to the interior doors, which separate the package-mailing section from the walls of stacked P.O. boxes. I barely made it through the doors and out of the lobby.

About 18 to 20 people stood in front of me, some holding multiple packages, some absorbed in their phones, some shuffling their feet. We were all wearing face masks, due to the Corona virus. Having a cloth pulled over the mouth and nose makes many people anxious, almost as if they are suffocating. Also, just being around a crowd in the midst of a pandemic can jangle the nerves.

More than ever, many Americans are at the breaking point, overwhelmed by constant news casts about Covid-19, business and school shut downs, job losses, social unrest and violence, racial divisions, Pacific coast wildfires, global warming…. and you name it.

In this toxic soup, even minor misfortunes, like being stuck in a slow moving line, can ignite overheated frustration. In recent months, many retail clerks have complained of being treated horribly by the general public for things outside of their control, like shortages and service delays. A collective tension is clouding the national atmosphere. I don’t feel as safe in public places as I did only nine months ago, back in good old 2019. But wherever I am, I strive to live in the moment, so I recognized a worthy opportunity here to practice exercising patience. 

The post office line was inching along. Despite the crowd, only two sales clerks were working, both middle-aged African American women. The similarities between them ended there. One of the desk ladies was pleasant and serene, while the other was the reincarnation of a cranky gym teacher, minus the whistle. 

I was looking down at my phone when I heard the voice.

“M’am, just what do you think you are doing?” The voice was directed at a white woman near the service counter who was bungling with a dispenser of package tape. The poor woman’s fingers were tangled up in a plastic ribbon of stickiness; upon hearing the harsh tone of the postal agent, she jumped in alarm . Frantically, she tried to disengage herself from the tape. 

“Give me that thing,” the voice demanded.

In a flash, I was transported back to a girls’ P.E. class, circa sixth grade, where a female coach was calling attention in a near-shout to my clumsy handling of a basketball. All eyes locked on me, sending out disdainful looks, wrapped in scorn and superiority. I wanted to vanish into the varnished gymnasium floor. This time, the voice was not directed at me, yet I felt a kinship with the klutzy woman. 

The poor embarrassed customer tried to respond, but she couldn’t manage any intelligible sounds. After several minutes of desperate maneuvers, ,eventually she flung the tape dispenser across the counter like a hot potato. Then she sprinted out the door.

The scene ended, and I still had about 9 people ahead of me. I turned my focus to my phone. My next stop would be the grocery store, so I searched for meal recipes on Dr. Ann’s Wellness site. Five minutes later, I was happily absorbed in typing up a shopping list for “Quick Indian Chicken” and “Green Goddess Wraps” when, for the second time, the voice barked out across the crowd. 

“You there. Sir.” The uniformed woman behind the counter cast her eagle eye toward the end of the line, where an elderly white man stood leaning against a cane. 

“Me?”

“Yes, you. What are you trying to do? Mail something?”

An opaque white garbage bag with red tie-handles hung limply from his hand; it looked as if a pair of work pants or perhaps a cloth jacket was stuffed inside. The flummoxed man, stunned at being singled out, merely nodded.

“Get over here,” she said, gesturing emphatically toward her service counter. The voice did not sound friendly.

Was the old guy in trouble? Folks quickly stepped aside to create a more direct path as the white-haired man with scrawny legs canned his way up to the counter.

When the man stood in front of her, the voice eyeballed the garbage bag. “You trying to mail that?” 

He nodded. 

“You got anything to mail it in?” 

Even as the old man shook his head, the voice cracked a half-grin and her eyes softened. Her efficient hands seized a suitable mailer from the supplies at her station.  Within minutes, she had packaged the mysterious item and its garbage bag.  Then she began processing the cost of the postage. The old gentleman, highly relieved and grateful, turned around to face the folks in line .

“I don’t see why I should get to go in front of all of you,” he said, then he added with a mixture of mirth and wonder, “except that…I am old and feeble.”

He smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. His face mask supported Navy. His khaki shorts were baggy, the belt wound tightly around his waist like a ribbon tied to the mouth of a popped balloon. He must have been losing weight, shrinking. Yet he still carried himself with an unmistakable kindness and dignity. Moments later, he thanked his benefactor and, with his shoulders held a bit higher, made his way toward the exit. When he left, one of the patrons near the front of the line spoke up.

“Thank you for doing that,” she said .

“That was really nice,” another customer chimed in.

The voice nodded. She probably regretted snapping at the tape-fumbler; spoken more to herself than to anyone else, she said, “I am in a bad mood this afternoon, and I am trying to turn it around.” 

The voice was fighting fatigue. Yet she was trying to rally. I watched to see whether she would pull it off. The next customer at her counter was buying stamps.

“I saw sunflower stamps somewhere, I’d like the sunflowers, please.”

The voice smirked. “I don’t know about any sunflowers,” she stepped over to look through her available stamps. “I can give you some flowers, but I can’t do sun-flowers.” 

As she spoke, a sassy, playful tone peeked out from behind the gym-teacher gruffness. The customer caught on and bantered back. A palpable sense of goodwill, of mutual appreciation, began to bloom. People looked up from their devices and smiled behind their face masks. The Voice returned the smile.