City Love(33)

FIFTEEN

ROSANNA


WHY IS THERE ALWAYS A crazy-long line at the post office no matter what time you go? That’s what Sadie told me. She said that every time she goes to the post office, she has to wait in line forever. Ten in the morning. Three in the afternoon. It doesn’t matter when you go. There have been times she’s even waited for almost an hour. Almost an hour to mail a freaking package. The long lines are indicative of the whole postal system downgrade. Take right now, for example. There are only two people working when all six windows should be open. The other four people were probably laid off.

The lady in front of me lets out an exasperated sigh. She makes sure to direct her sigh toward the two open windows so the employees can hear how exasperated she is, as if she’s the first person in one of these excruciatingly long lines to ever be exasperated. Does she think the employees don’t know how disgruntled people get in their long lines? Especially New Yorkers. Waiting three minutes in a New York City line is like waiting an hour anywhere else.

Our postal system probably won’t even exist ten years from now. Everything is changing so quickly. No one had the internet when my parents were teens. The entire online universe just . . . wasn’t. My dad didn’t even have a computer until after grad school. How crazy is that? How can you even graduate without a computer? They didn’t have cell phones. Okay, I don’t have a cell phone, but that’s only because I can’t afford one. They couldn’t listen to music or watch videos online. Online shopping wasn’t an option. If they wanted to buy something, they had to go to the store. What was life like without email or social media or texting? How did people communicate? The whole thing is bizarre. When I think about how much the world has changed in the past ten years, it makes me wonder what else won’t be around ten years from now. And all of the inventions to come that are currently only concepts. My kids will wonder how I survived without those essentials just like I’m wondering how my parents survived.

“They should open more windows,” the lady in front of me huffs. “Only two windows open? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

Does she want one of us to answer her? Or is this more of a rhetorical huffing? Several people in line watch her. Mainly because there’s nothing else to do, but also to see if she freaks out. I remember what D told me about weirdos. They could be anywhere. One second they’re blending in. Then all of a sudden something triggers their damage and bam! A freakout ensues.

A thirtysomething woman in a pretty sundress walks into the post office, takes one look at the crazy-long line, turns right back around, and leaves. Why wasn’t I that smart? I’ve already invested so much time in waiting that walking out now would be cheating myself. Plus, I’m almost to the front of the line. Four more people to go. Does D stand in post office lines? Or any lines, ever? I’m sure his life is so refined that lines don’t factor into it at all. He probably has everything delivered.

Fabulous. Now I can’t stop thinking about D. That’s the way it’s been for the past two days. Something reminds me of him and I can’t get him out of my head. I don’t want to think about him. I definitely don’t want to call him. But there are forces greater than me at work.

D represents everything I revile about society. I want to be with someone more on my level. Someone who is passionate about making the world a better place. Someone who understands that it’s better to be poor and happy than rich and miserable.

A tourist couple is attempting to mail a humongous box home to France. They had to fill out miles of paperwork. Then they got yelled at for putting tape in the wrong place. After the tape is ripped off and applied properly, there’s a huge discussion about mailing options and postage and insurance. This international drama has monopolized one window for the past ten minutes. The lady in front of me is about to lose it.

“What’s the problem?” she shrieks at them. “Why are you taking so long? Move aside and figure it out so the rest of us can have our turn.” She shakes her head at me, scandalized by the injustice. “Can you believe them?”

I give her a sympathetic look. Of course she wants to get out of this endless line like the rest of us. More importantly, she wants to be heard. I can hear her loneliness under the anger.

The guy at the other window finally finishes up. The line shifts a tiny bit forward. As he’s heading toward the door, he drops something that looks like a receipt. He keeps walking.

Sadie was so confident when she ran over to open the door for that old lady. She didn’t even think about it. I wish I had the confidence to go up to strangers like Sadie does. I know I need to be part of the solution. I can visualize what I want to do when someone needs help. Right now I can see myself running over to pick up that guy’s receipt. But there’s a chance he was intentionally littering, so I’d seem like an idiot going up to him. Then everyone would be staring at me. And I’d have to leave the line and might lose my place.

But my biggest obstacle is that I’m shy about approaching strangers. What if the person yells at me for interfering? Or thinks I’m being condescending for doing something they’re more than capable of doing on their own? That happened a few times at my volunteer job back home. I volunteered at a low-income senior-citizen housing complex. For three years starting when I was fifteen, I’d go there after school two days a week and almost every day over the summer. One time a guy who had just gotten his mail was shuffling along holding the handrail that ran along the hallway wall when his mail cascaded to the floor. He went ballistic when I bent down to pick it up.