El postman
One of my jobs as the receptionist, file clerk, and general office lackey in my law firm is to run the out-of-office errands. This has included buying AA batteries, picking up photos at the developer's, and delivering documents to nearby law firms. Yesterday, a coworker delegate me the job of making sure an envelope got to Chile.
The nearest post office to the Plaza VII office tower is two blocks away in the Baker Center. I knew this from field trips there to get my bus passes. Both MetroTransit and the post office are on street level for the building. I had also visit the post office on Tuesday or Wednesday to buy 2-cent stamps, but I never really realized how much of a grand production a downtown post office was until yesterday. Instead of consisting of a hundred or so P.O. boxes, a service counter, and a bulletin board of wanted posters like the small-town offices of my previous acquaintance, this post office consisted of a deceptively quiet back entrance with three postage-stamp vending machines, a wall of P.O. boxes, and small service window. It's to make country-folk like myself feel unintimidated. That all ends when we walk past the wall of P.O. boxes.
After three more dens of P.O. boxes and four more postage vending machines, a gentleman stands in front of the main post office entry way answering questions about the mailing envelopes displayed in four turning magazine-like racks. Then the line began. About 30 people long. For five service desk helpers.
Fifteen minutes later of people-watching and wondering how much faster Global Express Priority--Extremely Urgent is than Global Express Priority, I met up with my friendly postal worker. For this story's sake, let's say his name is Stan. Stan could have been a cast member of Newhart. His voice was monotone, his face was expression-less. He wore the standard postal uniform: bluish grey button-up shirt, drab tie, little patch with his name. His grey counter included a 3" x 2" pieces of paper with "Jesus" slicing through intensely scribbled graphite in hightlighter yellow lightening-bolt letters. A verse from Romans was etched into a similarly sized piece of white paper. Both were affixed neatly by a frame of Scotch tape. Another scrap of paper with product numbers attested to how long Stan had worked at his job. Many layers of Scotch tape, never smooth, but wavy and shredded from carving number changes into the near-laminated papyrus.
"A coworker sent me to make sure that she had the proper postage for sending this to Chile." I presented Stan with the envelope and the postage-paid envelope that would go inside.
"U.S. postage won't work in Chile," he said.
"Ah. Yes, I supposed that makes sense. How would I go about that then? Could I go online and figure something out?"
"Well, let's just see if you have enough postage to get it there." He placed the envelope, which was metered with $3.20, on his scale. "Nope, you need four dollars."
I had a fistful of dimes, nickels and quarters adding up to $1.50 for such a problem.
He grabbed his sponged envelope sealer and ran a watery streak across the top of the envelope and then stopped. "You still need IRCs."
"Huh?"
"International reply coupons. People in Chile can bring this to their post office and get postage."
"Okay," I replied. "How much are those?"
"$1.75." He squinted to look through the tape on his product number key and punched the numbers in. "The code must be new."
He rummaged around his counter until he found a package of postcard-sized IRCs. "These are IRCs. IRC stands for international reply coupons. Your client in Chile will know how to use them. You'll need three."
"Oh. I didn't grab enough from petty cash. I will have to come back."
"All right. Sorry about your envelope." He handed by the now-wrinkly and damp-tabbed envelope.
"No worries. Thanks for your help."
Twenty-five minutes and $5 later, I returned to the same counter.
"Welcome back," Stan greeted, his expression unable to change with even the chance of showing recognition.
"So, I guess I need international coupons."
"These are IRCs. International reply coupons. I-R-Cs."
"Okay, then I need IRCs."
"How many?"
I looked at him with a bit of shock. "I thought you said I needed three."
"Yeah, three should get you there." Stan proceeded to reference his product key again and punch in the number. "Yes, this code doesn't work. Hey, Rick, what's the number for an IRC?"
"What's an IRC?" replied a younger service counter guy three spots away.
"'What's an IRC?' Get real! An international reply coupon!" Stan's reply of "Get real!" was his greatest display of emotion during my long acquaintance with him.
"Never used one." I was glad Rick was just as clueless as I.
Stan disappeared through a door behind him an returned a moment later. "I think this code will work." He punch in the numbers. "Yes. I was right." He scratched through the tape of his product number key with a pen to change the number.
"Now," he resumed, "this is a IRC. An international reply coupon." He stamped a red seal on each one of the three IRCs he removed from a package.
"Should I include a note about using them?"
"No. They'll know."
"So, they're not ignorant of the ways of the world like Americans?" I quipped.
"Exactly." He put the IRCs and reply envelope into the slightly wrinkled envelope to Chile and sealed it decisively with an eight-inch strip of packing tape before I could utter a protest. I started pulling change from my pocket.
"I'm going to apologize in advance." I said as I removed my pockets' contents. "I decided to clear out a lot of change from petty cash on this trip." I placed 20 pennies, 31 nickels, 15 dimes, and 2 quarters in stacks across the counter. I then handed him 2 one-dollar bills. He shoveled the piles into his change drawer as I double checked them.
"Is that all then?" I asked as I noticed that he wasn't bothering to count the coin.
"Nope. You need you receipt."
He dropped two last piles into his register, closed the drawer, printed the receipt, and handed to me and sent me off with
"Well, it's been an interesting nightmare."
The nearest post office to the Plaza VII office tower is two blocks away in the Baker Center. I knew this from field trips there to get my bus passes. Both MetroTransit and the post office are on street level for the building. I had also visit the post office on Tuesday or Wednesday to buy 2-cent stamps, but I never really realized how much of a grand production a downtown post office was until yesterday. Instead of consisting of a hundred or so P.O. boxes, a service counter, and a bulletin board of wanted posters like the small-town offices of my previous acquaintance, this post office consisted of a deceptively quiet back entrance with three postage-stamp vending machines, a wall of P.O. boxes, and small service window. It's to make country-folk like myself feel unintimidated. That all ends when we walk past the wall of P.O. boxes.
After three more dens of P.O. boxes and four more postage vending machines, a gentleman stands in front of the main post office entry way answering questions about the mailing envelopes displayed in four turning magazine-like racks. Then the line began. About 30 people long. For five service desk helpers.
Fifteen minutes later of people-watching and wondering how much faster Global Express Priority--Extremely Urgent is than Global Express Priority, I met up with my friendly postal worker. For this story's sake, let's say his name is Stan. Stan could have been a cast member of Newhart. His voice was monotone, his face was expression-less. He wore the standard postal uniform: bluish grey button-up shirt, drab tie, little patch with his name. His grey counter included a 3" x 2" pieces of paper with "Jesus" slicing through intensely scribbled graphite in hightlighter yellow lightening-bolt letters. A verse from Romans was etched into a similarly sized piece of white paper. Both were affixed neatly by a frame of Scotch tape. Another scrap of paper with product numbers attested to how long Stan had worked at his job. Many layers of Scotch tape, never smooth, but wavy and shredded from carving number changes into the near-laminated papyrus.
"A coworker sent me to make sure that she had the proper postage for sending this to Chile." I presented Stan with the envelope and the postage-paid envelope that would go inside.
"U.S. postage won't work in Chile," he said.
"Ah. Yes, I supposed that makes sense. How would I go about that then? Could I go online and figure something out?"
"Well, let's just see if you have enough postage to get it there." He placed the envelope, which was metered with $3.20, on his scale. "Nope, you need four dollars."
I had a fistful of dimes, nickels and quarters adding up to $1.50 for such a problem.
He grabbed his sponged envelope sealer and ran a watery streak across the top of the envelope and then stopped. "You still need IRCs."
"Huh?"
"International reply coupons. People in Chile can bring this to their post office and get postage."
"Okay," I replied. "How much are those?"
"$1.75." He squinted to look through the tape on his product number key and punched the numbers in. "The code must be new."
He rummaged around his counter until he found a package of postcard-sized IRCs. "These are IRCs. IRC stands for international reply coupons. Your client in Chile will know how to use them. You'll need three."
"Oh. I didn't grab enough from petty cash. I will have to come back."
"All right. Sorry about your envelope." He handed by the now-wrinkly and damp-tabbed envelope.
"No worries. Thanks for your help."
Twenty-five minutes and $5 later, I returned to the same counter.
"Welcome back," Stan greeted, his expression unable to change with even the chance of showing recognition.
"So, I guess I need international coupons."
"These are IRCs. International reply coupons. I-R-Cs."
"Okay, then I need IRCs."
"How many?"
I looked at him with a bit of shock. "I thought you said I needed three."
"Yeah, three should get you there." Stan proceeded to reference his product key again and punch in the number. "Yes, this code doesn't work. Hey, Rick, what's the number for an IRC?"
"What's an IRC?" replied a younger service counter guy three spots away.
"'What's an IRC?' Get real! An international reply coupon!" Stan's reply of "Get real!" was his greatest display of emotion during my long acquaintance with him.
"Never used one." I was glad Rick was just as clueless as I.
Stan disappeared through a door behind him an returned a moment later. "I think this code will work." He punch in the numbers. "Yes. I was right." He scratched through the tape of his product number key with a pen to change the number.
"Now," he resumed, "this is a IRC. An international reply coupon." He stamped a red seal on each one of the three IRCs he removed from a package.
"Should I include a note about using them?"
"No. They'll know."
"So, they're not ignorant of the ways of the world like Americans?" I quipped.
"Exactly." He put the IRCs and reply envelope into the slightly wrinkled envelope to Chile and sealed it decisively with an eight-inch strip of packing tape before I could utter a protest. I started pulling change from my pocket.
"I'm going to apologize in advance." I said as I removed my pockets' contents. "I decided to clear out a lot of change from petty cash on this trip." I placed 20 pennies, 31 nickels, 15 dimes, and 2 quarters in stacks across the counter. I then handed him 2 one-dollar bills. He shoveled the piles into his change drawer as I double checked them.
"Is that all then?" I asked as I noticed that he wasn't bothering to count the coin.
"Nope. You need you receipt."
He dropped two last piles into his register, closed the drawer, printed the receipt, and handed to me and sent me off with
"Well, it's been an interesting nightmare."