Every now and then I have to visit the post office. Despite the newfangled techno-shenanigans of the 21st century, various branches of the government still cling to the belief that post is romantic and sift through the endless forms, citations and applications sent to them with unflinching glee.
Or so I like to imagine. From the administrative side, postal work sounds kind of fun. I love organising things into neat little boxes, smiling at satisfied customers and fighting my way through rain, sleet and hail cross-country to an inevitable goal. Postal work sounds like a mighty profession, and uber-super-duper awesome compared to the ‘click and send’ communications of the modern age.
Alas, like other honourable pursuits – be they knighthood, law enforcement or bardism – the chivalry of the postal service has been unceremoniously drowned in paperwork. The proud servicemen who once stood for the communicative upliftment of the human race now sit blank-faced behind glass shields that muffle all contact with the outside world.
I arrived at the post office with a book in one hand and a licence renewal slip in the other. There was a line to stand in, but I expected that. There are lines of people everywhere. I reckon that at any single moment in time, at least 1/3rd of the world’s population are waiting in line; either for food, carnival rides or the opportunity to give someone else money1. Most of the time people are waiting in line without even realising it. They’ve grown so accustomed to the idea they just sit in a restaurant and stare at the décor until it’s their turn to eat, or they wait around in prison until it’s their turn for a lethal injection.
The enigmatic Englishman William Langland must have had a profound vision of the up and coming social changes that would follow in later centuries when he coined the phrase “Patience is a virtue.”
It’s almost a pity that he was lying. As much as we can stand around and try to feel holy about the fact that we aren’t having temper tantrums on the grimy floors of banks and hospital waiting rooms world over, it doesn’t change the fact that waiting around is a pointless and time consuming exercise. It violates the virtues of thrift, haste, philomathy and industriousness. The celestial bonus points awarded to those who sit around and do nothing under the guise of ‘patience’ are moot when put head to head with a better saying: “Time and tide wait for no man.”
The spirit of modernism has turned this aphorism on its head, so that “Man waits time and tide for naught,” as my trip to the post office would reveal.
I have decided that instead of waiting patiently, it is infinitely superior to wait impatiently, damn the consequences. I stood around for half an hour or so reading everything on the post office’s walls, examining the physiognomies of my fellow human beings and trying to remember obscure facts about behavioural psychology and mentalism. I then pulled out a biography and read through a chapter of John Lennon’s life with feelings of superiority as everyone else realised they should have brought a book.
At last I reached the front desk and stepped up to the glass, depositing my licence renewal and cheque into the little metal slider on the counter. I grinned madly while the post officer on call typed out something on his computer, picked up my renewal form and asked “Mff Marf Mffrf mif?”
“Sorry?” I asked, which is an expression meaning, “Could you perhaps say that again a bit slower so I can hear each syllable and perhaps fill in the missing pieces of the jigsaw?”
Additionally there was a wall of thick glass between us, which didn’t help.
He said something along the lines of “Cheque… red stamp… bank… to say… at… post office. Need… red stamp…”
I translated this as, “You need to go to the bank and get a big red stamp put on the cheque to tell me that the cheque is in the post office.”
I looked at him as if to say, “OF COURSE the cheque is in the post office. We’re STANDING in the post office.” I even made the capitals stand out by making my eyes bulge and my eyebrow twitch. I then said, “Okay, thank you.” and left while those poor souls lined up behind me looked at me with doom-etched countenances.
My day continued. I drove my brother across the city, picked things up, dropped stuff off and sang the lyrics to “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” loudly in the sterile confines of my car. After a short break at home I returned to the Post Office armed with cash and the words of Ahzirr Trajijazaeri; “We confidently smile because we know our victory in the end is assured. And we know our smiles drive our enemies insane.”
Again, I waited in line. You would think they would have a separate line for people who have been stiffed by the system within the past twenty-four hours, but they don’t. I daydreamed about camping chairs and read my book. After an initial scuffle with the operational procedure, I managed to pay the government for something I rather wish I didn’t have to.
The whole concept of certifying the cheque is another matter entirely. Does it really matter if someone other than myself is paying for my licence? If someone stole my identity for that sole purpose, would it be such a crime?
I don’t think so, but the post office does.
Earth is ever so crazy.
1: This last one is particularly galling. As if it isn’t bad enough that we need to pay people for merchandise and services, they make us WAIT to do it. I mean, don’t the want to empty my bank account, like, right now? Personally I’d jump at the chance to take someone else’s money.
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