A
STRANGE PLACE FOR DRAMA
You
never know
what will happen at the post office. Often in a slow line I’ve struck up
conversations with people—both men and women--and ended up giving them my card,
or sometimes even a book. Or I’ve stood there doing a crossword puzzle and had
the person next to me lean over to help. Hey,
we’re glued here together, we might as well talk!
Post office
stories come in good and bad flavors. The really bad ones were the times a knot
of protesters camped just outside the door . . . two or three men with a table
and signs in big black letters, “Impeach Obama!” Underneath, hanging from the table, were photos
of the president defiled by a Hitler mustache. I’ve been known to yell at them as
I pass, “Get lost!”
One day recently
a bizarre thing happened. A big man ahead of me in a wheel chair got into a
wrangle with the clerk behind the counter. He wheeled himself closer, and his
chair just happened to hit the little metal stanchion that holds one end of the
divider rope. He grabbed the metal pole and slammed it to the ground. But the
pole bounced back, so he seized it again and slammed it down harder. I stared
at him, amazed. Others stared too, but nobody said anything.
Seemingly
inspired by his own rage, he picked it up with added fury, bent on crushing it
once and for all. Without thinking, I yelled, “Cut it out! CUT IT OUT!” Somebody had to say something.
With others around me murmuring, he finished his last slam and quit.
I couldn’t
believe my voice had been the only one. Eventually the man wheeled himself closer
to the clerk, but he wasn’t quite through. Reaching above his head, he pounded his
money onto the counter—so loud you could hear it everywhere. I left, wondering how
much violence it would take before someone with testosterone got involved.
Today was the
strangest post office day yet.
With twelve
books to ship, I couldn’t pack them at home—I needed one of the postal service’s
big priority boxes.
In a hurry to
get there, I made a swift decision to wear, one last time, a sweat shirt I’ve
been on the point of giving away. It’s twenty-three years old, which I happen
to know because the lively insignia is right there on the shoulder—Queen
Elizabeth Two--and it dates back to our fortieth anniversary on the lovely ship.
The shirt is a flashy mix of white and bright red, and even incorporates some red
and white stripes—loud enough to make an impression across the street.
Who knows what
difference clothes can make?
As I was
standing at the customer table, carefully packing books, a lovely-looking lady
broke out of the line and asked, “What are those books?”
“Memoirs,” I
said. And then added, “I wrote them.”
“You wrote
them?”
“Yes, it’s my
tenth book.” I went on packing. “A story about our family.”
Around her,
people were starting to lean closer.
“Really,” she
said. “I work with some older people, all of whom have great stories to tell.
How did you get this published?”
I named the
publisher, and she said, “That’s the kind of thing we need to know.”
When she
paused I said, “I teach novel writing. Here, I’ll give you my card.” As I
wrestled it out of my purse, to my surprise the man ahead of her in line put
out his hand. “I’d like one.”
I smiled at
him. Well, this is interesting!
I dug a little deeper, pulled out another card. And right
then the lady in front of him said, “I’d like one, too.”
Now I was really surprised! It was as though I’d
suddenly been recognized as a celebrity . . . Janet Evanovich come to Tustin. Immediately others
spoke up, until almost everyone in line wanted cards, and I found my supply
nearly depleted. Here I was, passing out six or seven cards in a row to total strangers.
I was laughing, thinking, how did this
ever happen?
I said to the
original lady, “Tell you what. I’ll get you a book from my car.”
“I’ll watch
your box,” she said.
As I backed
toward the front of the line, everyone was looking at me and smiling, so I said
for them all to hear, “I guess I should give a speech,” and they all laughed. Well, I could, I thought, now that I’ve got the whole post office involved.
Back at the
car I decided, What the hell, I might as well bring in two books. Which I did. The
first I gave to the original lady. And since the man was next in line, I hesitated,
then handed him one, too. The room had taken on the atmosphere of a party.
Further down
the line a lady said, “I’ll BUY one!” So
I gave her a card.
Once back in
line with my books, I could see the man ahead of me reading what I’d given him
and smiling. As I reached the counter, the first woman rushed back inside and
gave me her card.
Just before I handed
over the big box, the lady who said she’d buy a book came up to talk, and we
learned we were practically neighbors. “I’ll be in touch,” she said.
The clerk was
smiling as I reached him. “Did you see what happened?” I asked, and he nodded,
as if to say, Another post office drama.
Home again, I
studied myself in the mirror. Was it me
or the Queen Elizabeth shirt? Impossible to be sure . . . except the shirt
had suddenly become a keeper. Just in case, I’ll wear it to other drama
settings. Who knows what adventures still lay ahead?
