Part 1.

EXT.

I was standing in line at the post-office. The line was going out the door as it swaggered back and forth between velvet ropes that would, in any other situation, be an indication that the final destination was going to be a fun or interesting place. Clearly, this was not the case. Sometimes when you're waiting in line at a governmental institution, there is a faint and often underappreciated whiff of solidarity in the air. We the people, stand together, needing stamps or certified receipts of delivery. All of us are impatient to the point of anger, and we direct that anger at the one or two overweight and unobservant counter workers who seem to regard their job as something to pass the time while they contemplate whether or not to commit suicide. We the people, high-five each other with our raised eyebrows and audible sighs. Five minutes becomes ten minutes, and ten minutes becomes twenty, thirty-three minutes is my personal best. By the time it's our turn to engage in a postal transaction we've all decided to start smoking again.

My boss had given me a twenty-dollar bill, with which I was instructed to have two letters sent certified mail with return receipt. I like that my boss gives me twenty-dollar bills to use on purchases that generally cost no more than nine dollars. I take the eleven dollars and spend it on beer. My boss either intends for this to happen, or doesn't care. The next day I will hand him the receipt and no money and he will thank me for going to the post office. This job is the only job I ever feel like having.

Mercifully, after twenty-seven minutes of waiting in line, it was now my turn. I approached the counter-woman in much the same way I approach IKEA furniture: Cautiously. Now that you've driven to the suburbs walked three miles for a shelf, bought the damn thing home and assembled it, you sure as hell don't want to put any books on it because it looks like it's going to fall apart. Your average customer service representative is a similar specimen.

"Good Afternoon." I said in a tone so neutral I should have been speaking in Swiss.

"How can I help you?" She replied, sighing through the entire statement.

"I would like these sent certified mail please. I would also like a return receipt. I have filled out the necessary documents and have sufficient funds for payment."

It's always helpful if you're reassuring.

She took my envelopes and placed them on the scale. She ripped off the adhesive portion of the certified mail receipt and affixed it properly to my envelope. So far everything seemed to be going smoothly.

"Hey Bill." she said to the man at the next station who's nametag read "George". George or Bill resembled a constipated ape drawn by Walt Disney and animated by a disgruntled intern.

"Yeah-Uh" he said. Just like that.

"How long you gonna have to be staying here tonight?" she asked.

"Six-ish" he replied.

"Six? See, that's what I'm saying. I have to stay here until seven tonight because Becky got sick. Like Becky getting six should come as a surprise. Did you know that she has three kids? " After this last questions she glanced back at me, and seemed somewhat surprised that I was still there. Nonplussed by my presence, she continued,

"Three kids. She gonna be sick all the time if she's got three kids to take care of? That's what I want to know."

Bill or George just nodded and sighed. Poor Bill. Poor George.

She continued, "I mean I don't be getting sick and skipping work when I got just two kids that I need to take care of?" Her logic was certainly flawless and her grammar was impeccable, still I had somehow lost interest.

"I'm sorry ma'am." I choked.

She turned toward me with that same look of casual surprise.

"It's just that I've already missed my bus, and it looks like I'm going to miss another one."

"Sir, I'm going just as fast as I can." This was obviously not true, but in the interest of common courtesy I decided to pursue the matter no further. She resumed processing my requests. She took out the second envelope, and affixed the certified mail receipt to it. My heart started pumping with excitement and anticipation. All we had left was to exchange some money and I could finally fucking leave.

"That will be nine dollars and forty-two cents." She said.

I handed her the twenty-dollar bill.

She turned to Bill or George and placed my money next to the computer. Although I have never been trained as an employee of the United States Post Office, I know that "next to the computer" is not where my money goes.

"Becky ain't sick." She said. "Oh shit." I thought.

"Becky ain't sick, she's at home sleeping and getting a massage or something." She chuckled. I smiled sarcastically. She glanced at me again.

"Is there something else you need?" She asked. "I thought you had to catch a bus or something." I swallowed my anger. It tasted like blood.

"I believe that you forgot to give me my change." I said, showing what I now consider to be the greatest amount of self-control that any man has ever shown in the history of the world. Seriously, I know Jesus was crucified and didn't resist even though he was the son of God and could cast spells and stuff, but the Romans had nothing on this woman. At least the Romans were fucking efficient.

"I didn't forget anything sir. Next please."

"How much did postage cost?" I asked.

"What's it say on your receipt?" she replied.

"You forgot to give me my receipt." I pointed out, thus invalidating her first point.

"Oh, here. Nine dollars and forty-two cents."

"Okay, and I gave you a twenty-dollar bill, so you owe me ten fifty-eight." I hoped that my mental math skills would impress her enough to forgo the rest of the argument.

"You gave me a ten-dollar bill." She said. No such luck.

"No, I didn't." I pointed out. "I gave you a twenty-dollar bill. It's sitting right there next to the computer."

She looked at the twenty-dollar bill, hesitated for a second, and said "That's from something else."

"What? Are you kidding me?" I asked, now without the slightest attempt to conceal my irritation.

"I gave you a twenty-dollar bill. Even if I had given you a ten dollar bill, you still haven't given me my fifty-eight cents. I gave you a twenty-dollar bill, you sat it next to the computer and started talking to him about Becky. You weren't paying attention the entire time I've been in here which has now been over half an hour, and you are mistaken."

I looked back behind me. I was hoping to see my people, standing with me, I was fucking Malcolm X right now. I was hoping for a song, maybe some applause. I was hoping for some support, someone shouting "give the man his money" or "Oh captain!, my Captain!." Maybe we'd all jump over the counter as the music swells and start sorting our own mail, it doesn't look that hard anyway. However, this is not what I saw. When I turned around I just saw my people staring bullets through the back of my head. I was taking too long. They wanted me to hurry.

"Don't you have a bus to catch?" Someone shouted from the back of the room. Laughter rippled through the line. My people, they are a treacherous people.

"Ma'am" I said placing both hands on the counter and leaning very close to her. This was between us now. I wanted her to understand the severity of the situation.

"That was my boss' money. Now, I have to go back and explain to him what happened to his ten dollars. Or I have to pay it out of my own pocket." "I want to thank you for that." This was not true. My boss wouldn't ask for any money. My beer was at stake though. And my pride. Beer and pride both. It's amazing how often these two things come together in my life.

"Fine." She said.

"Whatever." She also said.

"Here." She gave me a ten dollar bill.

"I'll remember you though." She said handing me a pad of paper. "Write down your name and telephone number, because if my drawer is short tonight, you owe me ten dollars."

"Sure" I said, writing "fuck you" on the pad of paper she gave me.

I stormed out. Later that night, after I'd calmed down and enjoyed part of my well-earned six-pack. I realized that writing "fuck you" was probably the wrong thing to do, since I have to go to the post-office everyday.

The next day I waited in line for seventeen minutes. When I approached her, she looked at me and said.

"How can I help you?"

She certified my mail very quickly that day. The ten dollars have never been mentioned again.