It was a dark and stormy night.
No. It was a muggy and fuzzy morning.
Yeah. That’s more like it…..It was a morning not unlike the weather scene in Psycho when the girl-on-the-run pulls into the motel and gazes up at the house on the hill where, unbeknownst to her a lone skeleton rocks the day away.
Even Church ladies need time to breathe and regroup from the frazzle and dazzle of Fall planning, and my time had come. The week had spun faster than a kid on chocolate, and there were stacks of plates on poles filling my office, too many to balance, so I decided to take a short escape and steal away for a couple of days. I tied up the loose ends the best I could, and called Churchlady Temps, that infamous agency that hires only the best of the best. They sent their number one chick right over, and I was off.
I met up with two other escapees, and we hit the road. About twenty minutes into the trip, I was stricken by a horrid thought. I had not cleaned out my PO box that morning. I did go the night before, but, gosh, that was nearly 12 hours ago. What would Frank say? Frank, the impatient postal person. Frank, first cousin to Jaws (the metal-mouthed angry assassin from 007 movies). Oh, good grief. Should I turn back? I was torn.
Had it not been for my two devoted friends restraining me via multi-seat belt to the seat, I would have leaped from the window and rolled my way back home to take care of that important detail. Oh. Oh, woah. I couldn’t bear to think what may be awaiting my return if I failed to clear out that box in a timely fashion. Nevertheless, the farther we went into the trip, the better I felt.
An hour and two counties later, I decided that it was certainly not wise to u-turn for the sake of a silly little post office box clean out. It could wait until my return in 72 hours. Surely, it could.
We decided to make a pit stop in a nearby McD’s for coffee. I entered the restaurant and waited for my two friends to order. Then I noticed the hairs on the back of my neck. They were standing up, and had started to vibrate. I felt my neck stiffen. My feet felt like lead. I was frozen in the early morning chaos of a highway fast food restaurant. What was THAT about?
Something drew my attention away from the cash register, and a bright blue baseball hat bill leaped into my vision. SIEZE THE DAY was written in glow- in- the- dark- lime . Gray-rimmed tri-focals peeked out from underneath the oversized hat awning. I knew those eyes. I knew them well. Those were the eyes that bore holes into the back of my head every time I visited the Post Office. Those were the eyes of Frank. “What are You doing HERE?” he fussed.
“I’m I- I- I’m going out of town” I stammered.
“What? THAT way?” He pointed toward the open road out of town. My voice trembled “Yes” while my head shook a resounding NO.
He picked up a sugar packet and popped it in his mouth. “Wow” I thought to myself. He eats it paper and all. Wow.
“Shouldn’t you be going the OTHER way?” Sugar crystals spit out across the floor when he spoke.
“ Uh, I think we’re following a map, uh, we’re going that way, I think it’s right.”
Where were my friends? Where did they disappear to?
He tipped the bill of his hat so that I could clearly see the large print. He reached up and pulled out a small wet ball of paper from his mouth. I watched in horror as he rolled it into a super spit ball and sat aghast as he threw it straight up. I was afraid to follow its path, but couldn’t resist the urge. When I looked up, I noticed that the ceiling I had thought was splattered with stucco was really covered with spit balls. I guess Frank frequented this place often-I guessed that he was a regular.
His voice pulled my attention his way. “You got that PO box cleaned out, little lady? You keepin’ it neat?” He shook his head, pulled off his hat and replaced it tenderly on his head of gray hair. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” And then he was gone. It was then I knew.
It was then I realized that Frank would plague me as long as I worked behind the door called Church Secretary. There was clearly no escape. Miles couldn't protect me, nor county distance. That moment was a life altering spec of time. I crushed the empty paper cup I held and lifted it up to the spitball audience. “With God as my witness, I will keep my post office box from overflowing. I’ll never be trayed again.”
“So, are you ready? Or do you want to stay a little longer and maybe sing a song while you stand there?” The familiar voice of one of my traveling friends broke my concentration. “Uh, no, I’m ready. Let me just throw this cup away is all.” And we were off.
The present can exhaust us, the Future draws us ever forward, the past is powerful but I say with great intention, friend, Never underestimate the power of the Post.
Showing posts with label post office. Show all posts
Showing posts with label post office. Show all posts
Monday, September 19, 2005
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Zip code Restriction Day
Oh, my Lord. I just have been having such adventures at the Post Office. Frank "trayed" me last week and when I took the slip to the counter he grimaced and said if he did a survey and surveyed me, I”d be fined $800 for having my box overstuffed so often. I backed away slowly and apologized profusely all the way to the car.
Today I dragged myself to the prisonPO, and noticed the scary cardboard cut out (Ms. Battle), has been abducted. She is nowhere to be found.
Some terrorized customer must have had her “taken out” in the dead of night,or perhaps she's been “recycled”, “reassigned”.. hmmm.
So today I had a package to go to Afganistan. Frank, my nemesis Postal desk clerk was on duty. He never looked me in the eye, but said to the computer screen, “ Are you aware of the restrictions to this zip code?” I looked at the shoebox sized package, weighing maybe half a pound and said, “uh, no.”
“ There can’t be any firearms, securities or currency or precious gems in their natural state.” I thought about the contents of the package being a deck of UNO cards and a jar of Newman's own popcorn. I wondered if the kernals might be hiding some emeralds or maybe even the Hope Diamond.
“ Like diamonds?” He shook his head but kept looking at the screen.
“ You can’t be sending diamonds or rubies, young lady. ...Unless they are in a ring. Or a necklace.” He picked up the package and put it back down. Then cleared his throat.
“ Any pork in there? You can’t send Pork to this zip code. Or any raw metals in their unmanufactured condition.”
I looked at the packing slip. “ popcorn, cards, and books. I don’t think there’s any risk of restricted item stowaways, but I'll admit that I don't know the title of the book, sir.”
Frank was absent of the humor gene, I had decided long ago. That thought rang true again at this moment. How sad for him. He took my money and I left. Then I started thinking. What if the book is diamond studded?? What if the popcorn is popped with the top off the pot? It could be considered a fire arm…or if the cards were sharp corners and not rounded. oh. Great. and what Was the book title? Charlotte's Web would never do- oh, good grief.
Church Chick
Today I dragged myself to the prisonPO, and noticed the scary cardboard cut out (Ms. Battle), has been abducted. She is nowhere to be found.
Some terrorized customer must have had her “taken out” in the dead of night,or perhaps she's been “recycled”, “reassigned”.. hmmm.
So today I had a package to go to Afganistan. Frank, my nemesis Postal desk clerk was on duty. He never looked me in the eye, but said to the computer screen, “ Are you aware of the restrictions to this zip code?” I looked at the shoebox sized package, weighing maybe half a pound and said, “uh, no.”
“ There can’t be any firearms, securities or currency or precious gems in their natural state.” I thought about the contents of the package being a deck of UNO cards and a jar of Newman's own popcorn. I wondered if the kernals might be hiding some emeralds or maybe even the Hope Diamond.
“ Like diamonds?” He shook his head but kept looking at the screen.
“ You can’t be sending diamonds or rubies, young lady. ...Unless they are in a ring. Or a necklace.” He picked up the package and put it back down. Then cleared his throat.
“ Any pork in there? You can’t send Pork to this zip code. Or any raw metals in their unmanufactured condition.”
I looked at the packing slip. “ popcorn, cards, and books. I don’t think there’s any risk of restricted item stowaways, but I'll admit that I don't know the title of the book, sir.”
Frank was absent of the humor gene, I had decided long ago. That thought rang true again at this moment. How sad for him. He took my money and I left. Then I started thinking. What if the book is diamond studded?? What if the popcorn is popped with the top off the pot? It could be considered a fire arm…or if the cards were sharp corners and not rounded. oh. Great. and what Was the book title? Charlotte's Web would never do- oh, good grief.
Church Chick
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Postal Part 2
Remember Harper Valley PTA? Well, THAT is the look in the eye of Doris and the eyes of Frank when I enter their turf these days.
Hey- I’m trying. Really I am. I go on my way to work, and clean it out, and I go at the end of the day sometimes, too. I’ve tried everything I know to make amends, but I’m beginning to see that the Frank and Doris duo carry a grudge with a vengeance.
I visited my minibox and heard some mystery shuffling behind the gremlin box door. When I turned the key, something turned it back. It took me a good 5 minutes to just open the darn thing. Then, when I pulled out the wad of junk mags, something pulled back. That’s when I heard the snickering. There’s nothing more insulting when you are trying to clean out your bonsai post office box, than hearing snickering in the shadows.
The next day, I didn’t have resistance to my unloading attempts, but the contents seemed endless. I no sooner had pulled out a chunk of mail and dropped it in my basket, than another one appeared. And wouldn’t you know that when I asked Frank for a bigger basket to carry it to work in, he just pouted out his bottom lip and said, “How sad for you”. I didn’t realize until I finally made my overloaded way to work, that most of the mail was not even ours. Thanks, Frank, you’re a real gem…..
Then when I went by one night, the security code had been changed on the after hours door so I couldn’t get in, but when I mentioned this to Mr. Frank N. Steiner, the next morning, he crossed his arms and said, “No spricken de dortch”. Yeah. Right.
One day, I got to the Post Office RIGHT at 4:57; I was surprised to find the the door already locked. Peering in the shaded glass window, I saw Doris climbing down a ladder that stood underneath the wall clock. Their clock said 5:01. Frank just shrugged at me. Hmph.
This morning was the worst, though. I came in early, and stopped by for my daily drudge- mail pickup attempt, and found by a serendipitous moment- my security code worked and the door opened. I cautiously walked in and tiptoed to my baby box. I bent down, opened it, and then was overcome with a wave of nervous wriggles. I had the distinct sense of being watched.
Slowly, I raised my eyes, shifted slightly left, and found myself looking straight up into the oversized pupils of a life size mail person named C. Battle. She stood over me, in a most cheerfully chilling manner. My mail flew out of my hands and I fell right down on my bottom. That’s when I saw the cardboard cut out support stand at her feet. Now who in their right mind would first, name a cheerful post person Battle? And what purpose does it serve to leave the Post Office in the overnight care of a cardboard cutout anyway? What were they thinking? Oh, woah is me. All I want to do is pick up my mail, oh woah.
Church Chick
Hey- I’m trying. Really I am. I go on my way to work, and clean it out, and I go at the end of the day sometimes, too. I’ve tried everything I know to make amends, but I’m beginning to see that the Frank and Doris duo carry a grudge with a vengeance.
I visited my minibox and heard some mystery shuffling behind the gremlin box door. When I turned the key, something turned it back. It took me a good 5 minutes to just open the darn thing. Then, when I pulled out the wad of junk mags, something pulled back. That’s when I heard the snickering. There’s nothing more insulting when you are trying to clean out your bonsai post office box, than hearing snickering in the shadows.
The next day, I didn’t have resistance to my unloading attempts, but the contents seemed endless. I no sooner had pulled out a chunk of mail and dropped it in my basket, than another one appeared. And wouldn’t you know that when I asked Frank for a bigger basket to carry it to work in, he just pouted out his bottom lip and said, “How sad for you”. I didn’t realize until I finally made my overloaded way to work, that most of the mail was not even ours. Thanks, Frank, you’re a real gem…..
Then when I went by one night, the security code had been changed on the after hours door so I couldn’t get in, but when I mentioned this to Mr. Frank N. Steiner, the next morning, he crossed his arms and said, “No spricken de dortch”. Yeah. Right.
One day, I got to the Post Office RIGHT at 4:57; I was surprised to find the the door already locked. Peering in the shaded glass window, I saw Doris climbing down a ladder that stood underneath the wall clock. Their clock said 5:01. Frank just shrugged at me. Hmph.
This morning was the worst, though. I came in early, and stopped by for my daily drudge- mail pickup attempt, and found by a serendipitous moment- my security code worked and the door opened. I cautiously walked in and tiptoed to my baby box. I bent down, opened it, and then was overcome with a wave of nervous wriggles. I had the distinct sense of being watched.
Slowly, I raised my eyes, shifted slightly left, and found myself looking straight up into the oversized pupils of a life size mail person named C. Battle. She stood over me, in a most cheerfully chilling manner. My mail flew out of my hands and I fell right down on my bottom. That’s when I saw the cardboard cut out support stand at her feet. Now who in their right mind would first, name a cheerful post person Battle? And what purpose does it serve to leave the Post Office in the overnight care of a cardboard cutout anyway? What were they thinking? Oh, woah is me. All I want to do is pick up my mail, oh woah.
Church Chick
Going Postal
Pissing off Postal.
What do you do when you piss off the postal service? Well, it’s quite simple.
After spending 6 months learning and growing into the role of a top-o-the-line Church Lady, I can say with great confidence- You DON’T.DO NOT. Danger Will Robinson Danger!! Run Forrest, Run-get the message?
I’ve written earlier about vibrant interactions with Doris, the psycho desk dame at the PO. Well, let me just reinforce the importance of keeping your postal attendants pleased.
I think the doc never got Doris’s meds quite right. She’s out a lot, and when she’s here, she’s not really here, if you know what I mean. Doris holds a very important position at our local branch, she holds the desk up with a firm double grip; and seeing as she’s only got (at last report) 21 months left to go before retirement, she’s on a track. And I’m not talking trains. She has everyone in the small 4X4 office walking on tip toes, stamping and licking their “P’s” and “Q’s” so to speak. Bottom line is NO one rocks Doris’ boat, and when her gauge begins to slide from cold to warm to hot, they pull her out and plug in Frank.
I’ve come to know Frank quite well in the last few weeks, an opportunity you really need to try to avoid if at all possible.
Frank used to be a bouncer at an all night diner/bowling alley for wayward truckers. He looks benign, but is anything but. His voice is soft, Vincent Price soft and he wears a smile that will eat you alive. Beware of Frank. Don’t know him. They only put him out front when Doris is about to blow. …..and as I said a few lines back, I’ve gotten to know Frank pretty well lately. I’d call him Frankie, ‘cept I’m afraid of what he might do if he heard me. I’m sort of scared to think it.
----------------------------------II-----------------------------------------------------
We have a lovely mail person who stops by every day to visit our lady’s room, and re do her hair. Sometimes she brushes her teeth, makes a few copies; on occasion she spends a little extra time trimming her cuticles. Every now and then she brings us a few parcels of mail; mostly, she uses us as a rest stop- and that’s fine. I like her. She’s pleasant, and easy. Good qualities. I’ve not ever really seen her deliver any mail, but she looks pretty spiffy driving that mail truck, I can tell you.
I stop by the post office to collect our mail from our PO box every other day. Being a large church, one would think we’d have a big box, but ah!! Not so!! We have a lovely bonsai box. It will graciously hold a few post cards and maybe half a magazine. I like visiting the box because it makes me feel like Petra Pan. I have the key. The key to the box.- The treasure box.- Well, it might be. So far, I’ve only come across the items listed above, but one day, just like the lottery, I’ll open that thing to find gold and treasures. Yes, one day, I’ll find the announcement that Doris is done. She’s on retirement row. But, ah.. I digress…
When the box gets too full, the mail crew pulls everything out, and replaces the overage with a simple slip of paper, a pink slip if you will and it has but one word on it. Tray
That means that your mail has been ripped from it’s warm and fuzzy bonsai box home, and thrown carelessly into a cold and heartless white plastic tray. Oh, the grief of it all.
The first time I unlocked our PO box door to find that slip of news, I was baffled.
“What does this mean?” I asked Doris.
She pulled the paper from my hands so fast it left me with paper cuts that ran across my fingers.
“Ouch!” into the mouth the digits flew. Paper cuts sting like the dickens. Holding my sliced fingers in my mouth, I glanced up at Doris.
She was staring at the pink sheet. She slipped into a fugue state, stood motionless. Her eyebrows were the first thing to come back to life. They started moving up towards her forehead. First one, then the other. The duo brows peaked and held. She kept staring at my slip. It began rattling in her hands, and then, without notice, one of her eyeballs plopped right out of her head!! It hit the formica desktop with a thud, then rolled around, in search of a willing edge, and plop. There it went onto the floor and into the nearest corner.
Immediately,from out of nowhere, came Frank.
“Come, Doris, it’s LUNCHTIME!!” ( Apparently Doris enjoys that part of her day)
The frozen woman stood still. Her mountain top eyebrows relaxed a little. Frank gently guided her away from the desk and led her into the back.
They paused at the curtain that separated the desk from the “back”. He tugged on the pink slip that was now sticking to her skin via her own sweat.
His voice, gentle and kind slipped out. “ Let it go, Doris, that’s a girl. Just let. It. Go.” Frank retrieved enough of the slip to realize what it said, and helped her find her way into the “back”. Then he straightened up and took her place at the desk.
“You need to clean out your box more often.”
“Doris doesn’t like overage mail.”
I recalled that Doris also didn’t like misdated mail, either, and that she had mastered the art of murdering mail that didn’t make it into the home office in a timely fashion. I was overcome with sympathetic feelings for my poor parcels, having now been slapped so viciously with an insulting label. Overage. I’d like to see someone call Doris Overage sometime. How insensitive.
“I’ll try to do better. Frank, is it?” I looked at his nametag.
“My name is Mr. Frankelcosielniasky. I’m from the old country, they just couldn’t fit it all on this prissy pat tag. And you need to clear out your box more often. Kapeesh?”
“ Yessir, Frank, uh. Mr. Frank. I kapeesh. I mean I get it. Thank you, um. Could I have the tray, now?”
“You’ll be lucky if Doris hasn’t shredded the whole lot of it, lady.” He huffed off to the “back”, the curtains opened for him and slammed shut behind him, as slammed as fabric can.
He returned, gave me my tray and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The next day was Saturday, but I was so shell-shocked from my desk-time chat with Frank and Doris, that I went anyway, and cleaned out the box. No surprises.
Monday morning, I went by on my way to work. The week proved to be an easy one. The big bosses were gone, my regular work was caught up, and I looked forward to doing some simple Church Chick filing and copying. I opened my box, on that fateful early early Monday morning and stepped back aghast. A lone piece of pink paper caught my eye. I’d been “tray”ed again.
I gently backed out of the PO and got into my car. I hit the road running and went straight to work. I was so nervous, that even my typewriting quivered, my font fuzzed on the page. How could I get my mail and come out alive?
One of our interns came in that day, and stopped in the office to say hi. She was a cute, really rather breathtaking beauty. She helped out almost daily, and was always willing to do something new and different.
“I need your help”
“Sure, what is it? “Can you go to the PO and give the desk person this paper? Don’t speak, just flash those baby blues and smile for all you’re worth. Take your cell phone, and call me if you need to. Can you do it? You’ll be saving my life if you do.”
“Sure, I’ll be right back”
And so she was. She returned with a “tray” full of this and that mail. No prob. No complaints, no fears voiced. No threatening sense. None. Wow.
I’ve learned that the only way to make good on mistakes is to face up to them. I didn’t really feel I had made the mistake this time, but taking credit for mistakes is something I do exceptionally well, so I just jumped right in and claimed it anyway. I should have met the desk clerk face to face and taken my punishment like a man, but instead, I wimped out and relied on the beauty of another. A hard lesson learned, let me tell you.
The next day, there was a stack of postcards sitting in wait for me, with a note that said, “needs more postage”. Now, I’ve sent postcards plenty of times, with no problem, so I decided it was a subliminal message to me. A message in code. “Don’t send the messenger, wimps pay out.” I think it pissed off Frank that I sent in reinforcements. Oh, great. Just great.
Today, I went in early, and when I opened my bonsai, I heard some shuffling behind the open end of the box, saw a shuffle, a flash of blue and white. I cleaned out the box, and stood to face Frank. Gulp.
“ Good morning, Frank.Sir”
He stood like Mr. Clean. Arms crossed across his expanded chest. He just nodded.
I stood at the trash can and pulled out the junk mail, and dropped a piece of it into the trash can. “You’d better not be putting anything in that trash, as hard as it was to get it in your box. You’d better not be throwing that stuff away. You’d better not.”
He stood up straighter and looked over the desk, as if he could see inside the trash can, although it stood a good 15 feet away and behind a table.
I reached inside the trash and pulled out my junk ad. I opened my mouth to speak-
“Don’t be.” I saw Doris peeking out from behind the trembling curtains.
On the desk sat a miniature sign. It read, “Doris 300 down, and 20 months, 25 days to go.”……. Where’s the pony express when you really need it?.
What do you do when you piss off the postal service? Well, it’s quite simple.
After spending 6 months learning and growing into the role of a top-o-the-line Church Lady, I can say with great confidence- You DON’T.DO NOT. Danger Will Robinson Danger!! Run Forrest, Run-get the message?
I’ve written earlier about vibrant interactions with Doris, the psycho desk dame at the PO. Well, let me just reinforce the importance of keeping your postal attendants pleased.
I think the doc never got Doris’s meds quite right. She’s out a lot, and when she’s here, she’s not really here, if you know what I mean. Doris holds a very important position at our local branch, she holds the desk up with a firm double grip; and seeing as she’s only got (at last report) 21 months left to go before retirement, she’s on a track. And I’m not talking trains. She has everyone in the small 4X4 office walking on tip toes, stamping and licking their “P’s” and “Q’s” so to speak. Bottom line is NO one rocks Doris’ boat, and when her gauge begins to slide from cold to warm to hot, they pull her out and plug in Frank.
I’ve come to know Frank quite well in the last few weeks, an opportunity you really need to try to avoid if at all possible.
Frank used to be a bouncer at an all night diner/bowling alley for wayward truckers. He looks benign, but is anything but. His voice is soft, Vincent Price soft and he wears a smile that will eat you alive. Beware of Frank. Don’t know him. They only put him out front when Doris is about to blow. …..and as I said a few lines back, I’ve gotten to know Frank pretty well lately. I’d call him Frankie, ‘cept I’m afraid of what he might do if he heard me. I’m sort of scared to think it.
----------------------------------II-----------------------------------------------------
We have a lovely mail person who stops by every day to visit our lady’s room, and re do her hair. Sometimes she brushes her teeth, makes a few copies; on occasion she spends a little extra time trimming her cuticles. Every now and then she brings us a few parcels of mail; mostly, she uses us as a rest stop- and that’s fine. I like her. She’s pleasant, and easy. Good qualities. I’ve not ever really seen her deliver any mail, but she looks pretty spiffy driving that mail truck, I can tell you.
I stop by the post office to collect our mail from our PO box every other day. Being a large church, one would think we’d have a big box, but ah!! Not so!! We have a lovely bonsai box. It will graciously hold a few post cards and maybe half a magazine. I like visiting the box because it makes me feel like Petra Pan. I have the key. The key to the box.- The treasure box.- Well, it might be. So far, I’ve only come across the items listed above, but one day, just like the lottery, I’ll open that thing to find gold and treasures. Yes, one day, I’ll find the announcement that Doris is done. She’s on retirement row. But, ah.. I digress…
When the box gets too full, the mail crew pulls everything out, and replaces the overage with a simple slip of paper, a pink slip if you will and it has but one word on it. Tray
That means that your mail has been ripped from it’s warm and fuzzy bonsai box home, and thrown carelessly into a cold and heartless white plastic tray. Oh, the grief of it all.
The first time I unlocked our PO box door to find that slip of news, I was baffled.
“What does this mean?” I asked Doris.
She pulled the paper from my hands so fast it left me with paper cuts that ran across my fingers.
“Ouch!” into the mouth the digits flew. Paper cuts sting like the dickens. Holding my sliced fingers in my mouth, I glanced up at Doris.
She was staring at the pink sheet. She slipped into a fugue state, stood motionless. Her eyebrows were the first thing to come back to life. They started moving up towards her forehead. First one, then the other. The duo brows peaked and held. She kept staring at my slip. It began rattling in her hands, and then, without notice, one of her eyeballs plopped right out of her head!! It hit the formica desktop with a thud, then rolled around, in search of a willing edge, and plop. There it went onto the floor and into the nearest corner.
Immediately,from out of nowhere, came Frank.
“Come, Doris, it’s LUNCHTIME!!” ( Apparently Doris enjoys that part of her day)
The frozen woman stood still. Her mountain top eyebrows relaxed a little. Frank gently guided her away from the desk and led her into the back.
They paused at the curtain that separated the desk from the “back”. He tugged on the pink slip that was now sticking to her skin via her own sweat.
His voice, gentle and kind slipped out. “ Let it go, Doris, that’s a girl. Just let. It. Go.” Frank retrieved enough of the slip to realize what it said, and helped her find her way into the “back”. Then he straightened up and took her place at the desk.
“You need to clean out your box more often.”
“Doris doesn’t like overage mail.”
I recalled that Doris also didn’t like misdated mail, either, and that she had mastered the art of murdering mail that didn’t make it into the home office in a timely fashion. I was overcome with sympathetic feelings for my poor parcels, having now been slapped so viciously with an insulting label. Overage. I’d like to see someone call Doris Overage sometime. How insensitive.
“I’ll try to do better. Frank, is it?” I looked at his nametag.
“My name is Mr. Frankelcosielniasky. I’m from the old country, they just couldn’t fit it all on this prissy pat tag. And you need to clear out your box more often. Kapeesh?”
“ Yessir, Frank, uh. Mr. Frank. I kapeesh. I mean I get it. Thank you, um. Could I have the tray, now?”
“You’ll be lucky if Doris hasn’t shredded the whole lot of it, lady.” He huffed off to the “back”, the curtains opened for him and slammed shut behind him, as slammed as fabric can.
He returned, gave me my tray and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The next day was Saturday, but I was so shell-shocked from my desk-time chat with Frank and Doris, that I went anyway, and cleaned out the box. No surprises.
Monday morning, I went by on my way to work. The week proved to be an easy one. The big bosses were gone, my regular work was caught up, and I looked forward to doing some simple Church Chick filing and copying. I opened my box, on that fateful early early Monday morning and stepped back aghast. A lone piece of pink paper caught my eye. I’d been “tray”ed again.
I gently backed out of the PO and got into my car. I hit the road running and went straight to work. I was so nervous, that even my typewriting quivered, my font fuzzed on the page. How could I get my mail and come out alive?
One of our interns came in that day, and stopped in the office to say hi. She was a cute, really rather breathtaking beauty. She helped out almost daily, and was always willing to do something new and different.
“I need your help”
“Sure, what is it? “Can you go to the PO and give the desk person this paper? Don’t speak, just flash those baby blues and smile for all you’re worth. Take your cell phone, and call me if you need to. Can you do it? You’ll be saving my life if you do.”
“Sure, I’ll be right back”
And so she was. She returned with a “tray” full of this and that mail. No prob. No complaints, no fears voiced. No threatening sense. None. Wow.
I’ve learned that the only way to make good on mistakes is to face up to them. I didn’t really feel I had made the mistake this time, but taking credit for mistakes is something I do exceptionally well, so I just jumped right in and claimed it anyway. I should have met the desk clerk face to face and taken my punishment like a man, but instead, I wimped out and relied on the beauty of another. A hard lesson learned, let me tell you.
The next day, there was a stack of postcards sitting in wait for me, with a note that said, “needs more postage”. Now, I’ve sent postcards plenty of times, with no problem, so I decided it was a subliminal message to me. A message in code. “Don’t send the messenger, wimps pay out.” I think it pissed off Frank that I sent in reinforcements. Oh, great. Just great.
Today, I went in early, and when I opened my bonsai, I heard some shuffling behind the open end of the box, saw a shuffle, a flash of blue and white. I cleaned out the box, and stood to face Frank. Gulp.
“ Good morning, Frank.Sir”
He stood like Mr. Clean. Arms crossed across his expanded chest. He just nodded.
I stood at the trash can and pulled out the junk mail, and dropped a piece of it into the trash can. “You’d better not be putting anything in that trash, as hard as it was to get it in your box. You’d better not be throwing that stuff away. You’d better not.”
He stood up straighter and looked over the desk, as if he could see inside the trash can, although it stood a good 15 feet away and behind a table.
I reached inside the trash and pulled out my junk ad. I opened my mouth to speak-
“Don’t be.” I saw Doris peeking out from behind the trembling curtains.
On the desk sat a miniature sign. It read, “Doris 300 down, and 20 months, 25 days to go.”……. Where’s the pony express when you really need it?.
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