Going Postal, Part II

"But if I come back tomorrow, which to be frank is a huge inconvenience because I need to get to a job interview, I can get my box with no problems?"

"Yes Sir."

"Because I don't want to come back out here only to wait in line again and get turned away."

"Come back tomorrow and we'll have a box for you."

"Thanks," I reply skeptically, fearing that this will inevitably lead to a two part blog series on the incompetence of the postal system. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

These words haunt me as I step toward the post office doors the next day. It is eight in the morning, right as the office opens, but I still have a limited amount of time budgeted to get my post office box and still make it to the job interview I have scheduled for later in the day.

When I get into the customer service room (think the lobby of The Bellagio, Donald Trump's bedroom, or the prized harem of an Arabian prince to properly envision the room's ambience) I am pleased to see the woman who promised me no issues today working at the front desk.

After a small wait in line, I approach her with the proper paperwork and a smile.

"Hi. Remember me?"

"I do." She pauses. "Let me go to the back and see if I can get you a box."

Two minutes pass, and she does not return.

Three minutes.

Four.

Five.

With each passing minute, my confidence in the government postal service wanes. Six minutes later, she inevitably returns with a confused look on her face.

"I'm sorry. We can't rent a box to you if you don't have a local address."

"But you said yesterday that..."

"I'm sorry. My manager says we can't rent out a box to someone without a local address."

I ask to speak to her manager. That's right. The US Postal Service made me become that guy.

A small statured Latino man approaches the counter.

"Why can't I have the post office box I purchased on your website?"

"It is our policy not to rent one out without proof of address."

"It doesn't mention your policy on the website before charging my credit card for a box that apparently doesn't exist."

"We have nothing to do with the website."

"But I can still rent a box of that website? And why can't you rent to someone without a local address?"

"It's just our policy."

"I thought this was the United States Postal Service, not the Texas Postal Service." Okay, admittedly a bit melodramatic, but this is two days in a row. I explain my current situation to the manager calmly, then ask, "How could it possibly serve you to deny me the common courtesy of a post office box simply because I live in a van rather than an apartment?"

The man pauses, searching for a response, then looks back at me blankly and says the following phrase:

"We have to do everything in our power to avoid terrorist attacks."

"Wait, what?"

"Terrorists can use post office boxes to send anthrax and weapons through the United States."

"What does that have to do with me having a local address?"

"Sir, 9/11 changed things."

Slam!

The post office manager and I are both taken aback by the loud sound. It takes me a moment to realize that my natural reaction to his pulling the 9/11 card was to slam my fist down on the counter with such impact as to scare the living crap out of everyone around me.

"Sir, if you are going to be violent, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the manager musters in his most authoritative voice, though his fear belies him.

"I'm sorry," I reply calmly. "I shouldn't have done that, but it was just my natural reaction."

And I must say, it is surprisingly effective. After scaring the man with my fist pound, he quits spewing his irrational rhetoric and actually lets me talk.

I explain to him that I find the use of a national tragedy as an excuse to deny American citizens simple luxuries such as a post office box to be patently offensive. I also outline the opinion that proof of a local address is a completely arbitrary and half-assed way to screen for terrorists and that any terrorist capable of procuring anthrax would surely be able to manufacture proof of a local address. Furthermore, I detail that I am extremely unimpressed with the service being provided by the post office he manages and that I do not appreciate being sold a make believe post office box online and then denied service for suspected terrorism.

At some point, the man starts to change his stance. I don't know if it's because he agrees with my logic, if he sees the woman at the counter smiling in support of my impassioned plea as if this were a scene in a movie and she were an extra used for a pathos-inducing cutaway, or if he just realized that I was going to be more trouble than he wanted to deal with, but he eventually writes down his number and promises to get back to me personally.

Finally, a victory for the little guy. And all it took was the perceived threat of violence. As it turns out, the government knew what it was doing all along.

Fear is a pretty powerful tool to get people to do what you want.