The Adventures of The Absent Minded Albino (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} scotttaylor) wrote,@ 2006-09-07 05:07:00 |
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The Chelsea Post Office is a Paper Tiger
The Chelsea Post Office is a Paper Tiger
The post office in Washington Heights is the worst post office in the whole of these 50 United States. When I first moved to New York City last winter I was unemployed. My only duty was serving my fiancé Allison by preparing her cereal in bed and obtaining her many packages from our local post office. Allison, see, is an Ebay fiend. We normally receive AT LEAST one package a day. My girl can shop.
The postal deliverymen and women who serve our building will often leave notes asking us to retrieve packages from the post office even if we are at home. They will leave those slips with the name and date and the “sorry we missed you!” B.S. I’m sorry you missed me, too, by not bothering to ring my bell and see if I was home. My only job was obeying the unforgiving God that is GTA: San Andreas and I never left the house. These people were LIARS.
On the small orange notes the post office leaves in your box (or, even more brazenly, on your door when you are sitting on the couch) there is a section where you can assign an “agent” to pick up your package for you. Allison would fill my name in the agent section and send me on my way. Yay! A task!
The 10032 Post Office of Washington Heights holds much anger. Lines are long and temperatures are sweltering. The first time Allison sent me to this hellish place I encountered a creature known as “Wiggins.” Wiggins doles out the packages, see, and she takes this task seriously. On this day Allison had assigned me to pick up TWO packages. I handed the two slips to Wiggins and she looked at me. “You’re not Allison,” she said. “I know Allison.”
“I know,” I said, “I’m Scott.” I pointed to my name on the slip where it said you can have someone pick up your package. “That’s me.”
“That means nothing to me. I don’t know what that is,” she said.
“Huh?” I asked.
“I don’t know if this is from her. You could have signed this yourself. You tell Allison she should come pick her own packages up.”
“Uh,” I said, “ I live with her. Allison’s a nurse and works nights and she asked me to come get the packages for her. That’s why she signed this.”
She looked at me.
“Hold on,” she said, disappearing into the back. A few moments passed.
Wiggins returned with one package. “I will give you this one, but not the other one, because it is insured. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
This is one of the stupidest solutions to any problem I have ever heard. She thinks I am not legit, so she only gives me HALF of what I came for? Call me crazy, but I think I should be leaving with either zero or two packages. One makes no sense. I pleaded, but no, this was the Wiggins way.
“You tell Allison to call Wiggins.”
Fine. I left with my one package.
Several days later Allison and I returned to pick up her remaining package together. Wiggins was not there.
Allison and I spend a good %15 of our overall conversation fantasizing about living in an area with a nice post office. So it was with tremendous excitement that today we walked into the Chelsea Post Office between 15tth and 16th on 9th. I had a bill to send and I wanted to check out what a rich person’s post office looked and smelled like.
“Air conditioning!” Allison said. It was swanktastic. My envelope was already stamped, so I looked for a place to drop it.
I didn’t see one. There was a worker talking to an employee behind some glass. The employee was shaking her head as the customer spoke with her. The customer left in a huff and I handed her my envelope.
“We don’t take mail here. There’s a mail drop across the street.” I looked behind me. Indeed, on the curb, there was a postal drop.
I laughed. In New York City there is a post office that doesn’t sell stamps or take mail. And it has air conditioning. And an employee whose sole task is to send people away.
Beautiful.
I am currently flying to Seattle high above mighty South Dakota. The person next to me has been watching my screen as I type, and I type this for you: I hate you. Are you reading this? What are you to do if the person who is sitting next to you is typing about you and you are reading it and pretending not to?
It must be a tough position.
Currently you are pretending to sleep. But were you sleeping when I was watching the Stonecutter episode of THE SIMPSONS? I don’t think you were, friend. I think you were watching my every move. And to think I moved so you could get a blanket. Don’t expect me to get up again.
When I got on the plane I noticed my female flight attendant had a shaved head. “Cool,” I thought, “This girl looks like an interesting human being.” Girls who voluntarily shave their heads are cool and/or abuse victims, two traits that can lead to a fun filled plane ride. Since I am traveling alone it is SHE who I will share my observations about the couple with the albino baby in the back and the woman sitting next to me who announced loudly that, “if we taxi for 30 minutes before take off I am getting off this plane!” Based on her southern accent, though, and the fact that she appeared cross when I dared to ask for a bag of animal crackers IN ADDITION to my request for a bag of Classic Munchies Mix, she is not in my favor.
My theory has changed: I now think she has or had a disease of some kind. That sucks for me. I was hoping to make a new bald friend. And for her, too, I guess. Because of the dying and the shaving. And people like me, they probably don't make her life any easier.
Ah, well. I have my own problems. It took like 15 tries to get my brother's WEP Wireless password to work. Life really sucks sometimes.
The Chelsea Post Office is a Paper Tiger
The post office in Washington Heights is the worst post office in the whole of these 50 United States. When I first moved to New York City last winter I was unemployed. My only duty was serving my fiancé Allison by preparing her cereal in bed and obtaining her many packages from our local post office. Allison, see, is an Ebay fiend. We normally receive AT LEAST one package a day. My girl can shop.
The postal deliverymen and women who serve our building will often leave notes asking us to retrieve packages from the post office even if we are at home. They will leave those slips with the name and date and the “sorry we missed you!” B.S. I’m sorry you missed me, too, by not bothering to ring my bell and see if I was home. My only job was obeying the unforgiving God that is GTA: San Andreas and I never left the house. These people were LIARS.
On the small orange notes the post office leaves in your box (or, even more brazenly, on your door when you are sitting on the couch) there is a section where you can assign an “agent” to pick up your package for you. Allison would fill my name in the agent section and send me on my way. Yay! A task!
The 10032 Post Office of Washington Heights holds much anger. Lines are long and temperatures are sweltering. The first time Allison sent me to this hellish place I encountered a creature known as “Wiggins.” Wiggins doles out the packages, see, and she takes this task seriously. On this day Allison had assigned me to pick up TWO packages. I handed the two slips to Wiggins and she looked at me. “You’re not Allison,” she said. “I know Allison.”
“I know,” I said, “I’m Scott.” I pointed to my name on the slip where it said you can have someone pick up your package. “That’s me.”
“That means nothing to me. I don’t know what that is,” she said.
“Huh?” I asked.
“I don’t know if this is from her. You could have signed this yourself. You tell Allison she should come pick her own packages up.”
“Uh,” I said, “ I live with her. Allison’s a nurse and works nights and she asked me to come get the packages for her. That’s why she signed this.”
She looked at me.
“Hold on,” she said, disappearing into the back. A few moments passed.
Wiggins returned with one package. “I will give you this one, but not the other one, because it is insured. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
This is one of the stupidest solutions to any problem I have ever heard. She thinks I am not legit, so she only gives me HALF of what I came for? Call me crazy, but I think I should be leaving with either zero or two packages. One makes no sense. I pleaded, but no, this was the Wiggins way.
“You tell Allison to call Wiggins.”
Fine. I left with my one package.
Several days later Allison and I returned to pick up her remaining package together. Wiggins was not there.
Allison and I spend a good %15 of our overall conversation fantasizing about living in an area with a nice post office. So it was with tremendous excitement that today we walked into the Chelsea Post Office between 15tth and 16th on 9th. I had a bill to send and I wanted to check out what a rich person’s post office looked and smelled like.
“Air conditioning!” Allison said. It was swanktastic. My envelope was already stamped, so I looked for a place to drop it.
I didn’t see one. There was a worker talking to an employee behind some glass. The employee was shaking her head as the customer spoke with her. The customer left in a huff and I handed her my envelope.
“We don’t take mail here. There’s a mail drop across the street.” I looked behind me. Indeed, on the curb, there was a postal drop.
I laughed. In New York City there is a post office that doesn’t sell stamps or take mail. And it has air conditioning. And an employee whose sole task is to send people away.
Beautiful.
I am currently flying to Seattle high above mighty South Dakota. The person next to me has been watching my screen as I type, and I type this for you: I hate you. Are you reading this? What are you to do if the person who is sitting next to you is typing about you and you are reading it and pretending not to?
It must be a tough position.
Currently you are pretending to sleep. But were you sleeping when I was watching the Stonecutter episode of THE SIMPSONS? I don’t think you were, friend. I think you were watching my every move. And to think I moved so you could get a blanket. Don’t expect me to get up again.
When I got on the plane I noticed my female flight attendant had a shaved head. “Cool,” I thought, “This girl looks like an interesting human being.” Girls who voluntarily shave their heads are cool and/or abuse victims, two traits that can lead to a fun filled plane ride. Since I am traveling alone it is SHE who I will share my observations about the couple with the albino baby in the back and the woman sitting next to me who announced loudly that, “if we taxi for 30 minutes before take off I am getting off this plane!” Based on her southern accent, though, and the fact that she appeared cross when I dared to ask for a bag of animal crackers IN ADDITION to my request for a bag of Classic Munchies Mix, she is not in my favor.
My theory has changed: I now think she has or had a disease of some kind. That sucks for me. I was hoping to make a new bald friend. And for her, too, I guess. Because of the dying and the shaving. And people like me, they probably don't make her life any easier.
Ah, well. I have my own problems. It took like 15 tries to get my brother's WEP Wireless password to work. Life really sucks sometimes.
