The Dead Postie

I bound out of my driver's seat, over puddles and snow-heaps, up the stairs of the post office. Entering before me is a warmly-bundled old woman. I hold the door open for her, and she smiles at my courtesy. Here I think, do I dash past her to get one up on the queue? I fall in behind her respectfully. What should have been for me a mere triple-jump from door to line-up becomes an agonizing minute-long saunter where two people pass us.

Line-ups are maddening when you're over-revved like I am. Toes tap, you fiddle with lint down your pocket. My heart patters, lungs heave, and sweat glands gush enough now to leave everyone here behind. Worse, one wicket is open, served by a statue.

Or someone as animated.

While a postal worker preoccupies himself in back, this woman at the counter could use the day off. She moves like she's roaming the ocean's bottom - strained, leaden. Real time it seems has no bearing on this room. For all I know the clock overhead runs fast.

My chomping-at-the-bit stands out beside the old woman. Her calm demeanour suggests I should relax, for we'll all get mailed in due time. Then, as if in return for her optimism, the wicket becomes available. I'm less anxious now knowing I'm next.

But something obstructs us. The old woman looks back at me helpless and befuddled. She's discovered the wicket attendant slumped forth unconscious at her station. I turn back to the other customers in line just to receive shrugs and evasive looks. We could well be here till dark if I don't speak up.

Reluctantly, I call to a staff member who's so far ignored us in favour of his paperwork. I repeat "Sir?" several times until he slams down his pen. Ah-ha, he hears me. I pardon for interrupting, then point across to his inactive comrade. "Could need help," I suggest. To his credit, the employee's response is quick and certain: "I'll get the manager."

He trots back to the cube erected as an office for the station manager. With blinds pulled shut over a little window, it closer resembles a tree fort than an office. The boss is called out, then briefed by the employee. I get distrustful stares from them both. They're oddly uninterested in their colleague, and come straight towards me.

"Can I help you over here please?" says the manager like any other maitre d'.

He thinks if we huddle no one will hear our discussion. But 30-odd pairs of eyes over my shoulder are interested in its outcome. The queue now snakes through the office. It's cold outside and everyone in here is dressed for it. The temperature and humidity in this office are growing in proportion to peoples' frustration. Personally, I'm twenty-five minutes late for a meeting, and parked in the middle of the damn street.

"Look," I interject, "I'm not interested in your bullshit. That woman is clearly out of commission. So let's get things under control here, huh?"

The manager nods as though I've said something that makes perfect sense. And he keeps nodding. He nods and glances slowly around the entire room; at the growing mass of post office customers; at the fogged windows dripping with condensation; at the old woman who smiles patiently; at the staff member who stands awaiting directions, and towards the employee face down at her wicket.

The man's dumbstruck.

Calmly, I suggest that he move the woman away from the counter, call help, and meantime have someone else serve the customers. Indeed he does it, and the other staff member serves the old woman, then me, and one-by-one the rest of the throng.

I push towards the door through the crowd; many pat my shoulder and shake my hand gratefully en route. Near to the exit I encounter the old woman again. She takes my hand. "Dear," she says, "I'm so glad you spoke up. They make me so mad in there sometimes I could scream." I open the door for her once more, and wish her well.

Back on the street I feel a sudden chill, both from the crisp conditions and from the discovery my car's missing. I start down the snowy walk and wonder: if the people who impound cars ran the post office, and vice versa, wouldn't that be better?

Illustration provided by Pete/Digiboy