Listen to Jim’s 4-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/g9xzjWamgC8
or read his tale below…
TODAY THE NUMBER 3 DOES NOT EXIST
This very morning, I am boldly going where no person has gone before: the land where 3′s do not exist.
Beaming down to the post office parking lot, I list to the right while left-hand-toting a red-and-white polka-dotted bag filled with books wrapped and ready to mail to distant lands.
It’s a several-times-weekly trek that is sometimes routine and predictable, sometimes surprising and quite funny.
Some mornings, I startle the dozing postal clerk from her nap. That’s when no-one else is on duty or patronizing the place.
She is always on automatic at first, rapid-firing the required routine script provided by absentee bosses, “GoodmorningmayIhelpyou?” Then, once she sees that it is only I, the elderly gentleman from the bookstore, she manages a smile and even, when prodded, a bit of small talk.
The postal clerk, as demanded by the Postal Gods, continues the script, just in case someone is viewing her through dispassionate cameras. “Anything liquid, explosive, sticky or dangerous in these packages?” she asks (actual words are different, but this is what I understand is being meant).
I tap the computer button several times to awaken it and verify that I am not a terrorist or sneaky felon of any kind.
She diligently weighs and sticky-labels each package. She has learned long ago that rather than wait for a patron to double-check her keyed-in address to verify it is identical to the label provided, she just quickly taps the “this is incredibly accurate” button and gets on with the processing. Much to my relief.
As the receipt begins printing, she frowns, leans closer, and notes, “The threes are not working on this machine.” I laugh and make a lame joke about a world without threes, she smiles slightly as best she can, then hand-inks 3′s wherever they are missing on the tape.
I wait, acting as patient as possible, since she has enough to deal with in this strange little branch that is missing half its ceiling tile, that sports vinyl peeling from the walls…this little branch where service windows behind her are papered over so that patrons cannot see what goes on within the mysterious sunless bowels of the building.
Threes are not the only objects missing. Unkempt displays and puzzling signs sit bedraggled and forlorn, some out of date, some indecipherable. The floor tiles and stanchions are situated much the same way that Disney World controls crowds—even when there is no other customer about, one still has to walk the curving line and wait at a certain point to be summoned.
It’s hard not to laugh, not to feel sorry for the painful rules governing each postal employee. And, after chatting with her day after day, I learn bits and pieces to the silly-ruled life she has to tread while at work.
She always smiles when I mention approaching postal holidays and breaks. I always smile when she smiles, feeling that I have mustered a ray of light to share with her during these brief-enough encounters.
My books eventually get mailed, I gather up re-three’d receipt and polka-dot bag, wish her a good day or a good day off, and make sure I leave her with a big grin. My harmless but effective gift.
As I leave, another, less friendly, patron arrives, primed for battle with plans to make the clerk’s day a little less pleasant.
I duck and weave to avoid hearing the ensuing encounter.
I head for work and prepare to make intense customers slow down and relax, and slow-mo customers to focus their attentions on the things they really wish to purchase but are too shy to verbalize right away.
I am now beamed in.
I beam and get on with the remainder of the day
© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed
www.jimreedbooks.comhttp://redclaydiary.com/
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