She wanted to know what I did have. I told her I had nothing. I was bereft. She said if I had nothing and was bereft, she could give me nothing. I said she had to give me something, because only she could give me anything, because she had it. She asked me what I thought she had. I told her I had no idea.
She nodded for the next person to step up. Zip, that's it. I'm gone. But this is where the Harry Potter part begins.
Jen Sorensen
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A guy comes up. I'm not sure if he's postal or what. He asks me if I remember the old University Station post office. Yeah, definitely! They tore it down. He shakes his head no. It's still there, he says.
No, it's not! Yeah it is. No! Yeah. Where is it? Go down the street, he says. Turn. Go to the construction site. Drive down the alley. It's still back there. Knock on the door.
No! But I go. I find myself bumping along over broken curbs and trash through the construction site, down an alley, then through a big open fence ... and there it is, shrouded in dust and rubble, the old University Station, with a solitary unmarked metal door on one side standing open just a crack. Mysterious!
In a tiny foyer inside, a single window is open but unoccupied. I lean in through the window and look. A narrow aisle of shelves extends out of view to left and to right, piled with drifts of battered boxes, envelopes and tubes.
I call out. No one. I call again. "Hellooo?" I hear my own voice, thin and uncertain in the close air muffled by mountains of cardboard, like the voice of a poor little waif in a stone cottage in a dark forest in Michigan. "Anyone there?"
Wham! Like a giant jack-in-a-box, a postal lady pops right up in front of me! Damn! Damn! Scares the shit out of me. Where was she? Damn! Under the counter?
I start to mumble my case — my address, how I received a notice, signed it, then nothing, weeks went by, I wandered from post office to post office, a waif from a stone cottage, and then I found this place, but I thought they tore this place down years ago ...
I get about that far into my sad story, and the lady blurts out, "Ah, yes!"
But it's like, "Ahhhhh, yeeessss," with her eyes really big and bright. You know? Like she's a w-i-z-a-r-d or something?
And then she says, "I think I remember that one."
No! What? That's not possible. What? She remembers my individual whatever it is? And I don't even know what it is? That's not possible.
She disappears. I lean in. I can see her way down there, rooting through a big mountain of boxes, tossing them in the air like a prehistoric creature tearing apart a stone cottage. She comes back to the window with a little box in her hands.
"Is this yours?" she asks. But it's like, "Izzz thissss yerzzzzz?"
Phew. I'm fighting off the shakes. But I look at it. Oh no kidding! The little digital recorder from YouGotIt.com in Korea or something. It's been so long I forgot I even ordered that thing. And I already bought another one.
"Is this yours?" she asks again, possibly for the third time.
For an instant I am tempted to say no. But then I'm afraid. This woman has powers. Is she the one who sends Mr. Zig Zag? I take it from her, thanking her unctuously and retreating backward out the metal doorway.
I have my package. I have obtained it. I shall take it and deliver it to my house. I know how to do this now.
I did reach McKinney Boyd, spokesman for the USPS in this region, to tell him I was working on a column based on anecdotal evidence saying parcel delivery had gone to hell in a handbasket. I asked for any evidence he might have to the contrary. Over several days we had multiple chats in which he seemed not to remember my questions from prior chats. Finally he said he had to check with a lawyer. Then I never heard from him again. Like when you sign your notice and put it back on the door.
Of course, I know where I could have gone to get the answer to any question I might have about the postal service, possibly also to questions about the future or about loved ones no longer with us, etc. But I did not go to her, because I need to keep that lady in reserve for when the next idiot ships me something via USPS.
I don't want to wear out my welcome. And I'm also just the least teensiest little bit ...
Afraid.