going postal

I can't even find a space to park and dreading the inevitable I head inside, the line winding to the door. The man before me has several packages, he's hunched over the counter in repose. I sigh, a heavy sigh and lift my own parcels on the long counter that stretches the length of the building. Behind me quickly comes three, four, five more.

Each as they enter sigh deeply, as if the vapid bureaucracy sucks the life out of them the moment they hit the door. I am impatient and I rummage around in my bag looking for some form of distraction. Finding none, I hunch as the others hunch before me.

Slowly we inch forward. I enter the hallowed double doors where the controllers of my morning sit like chattel, stamping and pecking and heaving packages into a bin. They move slowly because time is on their side. Slow or fast they've got eight hours to go.

There are seven stations but only three are open. Another sigh combined with the quick multiplication of the parcels and bodies in front of me. I hunch lower still. As we creep along the endless counter towards mecca there are occasional disturbances, heavy sighs and groans, a seething frustration binds us all.

The people three spaces in front of me are quietly arguing. A mother daughter situation I assume, and wonder what the issue is or how many issues it always is. The daughter turns her head in irritation suddenly fascinated by her chipped blue nail polish while her mother, haggard yet watchful nudges her forward. Sighs. More sighs.

Thirty minutes pass and I am second from the front. One of the three stations has been occupied by an elderly couple who in another language argue and argue and argue some more. Time is wasted on this couple and we all know it and will it to end. They argue on. I focus my energy on the remaining two, willing godspeed and a bit of charity. Please for the love of god move along.

The man in front of me finally gets a spin and lo and behold, he's not addressed his packages. Thirty odd minutes of hunching and he waits till he's sitting on the jackpot to blow his wad. I hate this man in this moment for his inconsideration and also his insensibility and lack of manners. A broken wheel in the cog and man overboard the boat will goddamn sail. Others notice and one man behind me groans and mutters what the fucking hell under his breath and I stand silently in solidarity.

Finally and painfully the person in the coveted next spot shuffles away from the station. The aged indian woman spends a few moments doing god knows what before acknowledging me forward. My entire body grimaces and yet feels strangely close to freedom. I start to itch.

Four parcels all the same. No insurance no delivery confirmation whatever is cheapest I implore and yet she asks me the same three questions for each and I want to weep on the counter from the futility of it all.

Finally she finishes and my parcels are tossed into the great postal abyss. She glances towards the door and says so many people waiting. Yes, I say, it seems it would go faster if there were more of you. She clucks, the universal clucking of women from ancient times till as far as I can see from my little town in America to India and all around the world. The clucking binds us for a moment, the centuries of women who stand in disappointment and resignedly push on.

They don't care how long you wait, she said. They don't care. And I know she is speaking of the Man. I know, I said, and for some reason I feel impulsive and want to give her a long embrace or at least touch her brittle hand. But I don't and my eyes fall downward, exhausted from the tepid peeling paint and the utter lack of anything other than longing for the door. I turn and leave and walk out into the sun and as I make my escape I think of her clucking, clucking for seven lifetimes more.