Location: Post office on Central Ave, ABQ, 2 weeks before Christmas
There were eleven people waiting for one clerk when I walked through the doors of the post office one late afternoon. They all seemed to have agreeably accepted the fact that they'd be waiting for a while. "It's like Black Friday," joked an older woman wrapped in numerous dark-colored layers to the man in front of her. A second woman, farther back in line, complained in return, "Those Walmart employees, they don't know where anything is."
A man wondered aloud, "What do I get as gifts for spoiled, yuppie grandchildren?" "Athletic equipment," suggested the Walmart-aggrieved woman. "iTunes gift cards," I offered. "Yeah, but then they'll want newer devices to play their music on," grumbled the grandfather.
We fell momentarily silent, perhaps thinking about people in our own lives for whom it is hard to choose gifts. I got my turn at the window and was told I needed a different form than the one I'd filled out because my package was 6 ounces over a designated limit. I headed back to the end of the line to work on my new form.
Suddenly, the grandfather was yelling at the postal clerk. "How about if I write to the Postmaster General and tell him about how you refused to help me with my problem?"
I looked up, startled at the sudden change in mood. I didn't understand what the grandfather wanted. He'd shaken several sheets of stamps out of a large envelope onto the counter and continued to talk loudly over the clerk, who was patiently attempting to give the man an explanation. Finally the grandfather scooped up his stamps, threw out his last indignant words, and exited the room.
I approached the clerk for the second time. "Sorry about all that," I said.
"It's ok," he replied. "That guy had a problem when he came in, and he had a problem when he left."
The grandfather started yelling again, just outside the door. "So now he's talking about customers behind their backs!"
"He wasn't talking about you behind your back," a woman yelled back at him.
"Hope your day gets better," I told the clerk, as he stamped my forms.
"It already is," he said. "You can't let that stuff get to you, or else it'll drag you down. That guy already has problems, but I don't have to let his problems become my problems."
Shit gets real deep at the post office.
