I need the post office. According to rough calculation, I've spent at least 1,200 hours inside of post offices over the past 13 years. That's 50 days worth of standing in line in a place that most of the time looks and smells like an elementary school hallway. I've sent thousands of records all over the world with the help of the USPS, at a price that I'd consider rather fair. I can only recall a few times when a package didn't end up where it was supposed to. Eventually I stopped sending records and began selling paintings though the mail. I can mail a 24"x24" painting of Clara Peller to NYC for $15! With all of these compliments, you might be asking yourself, where's the beef?

According to recent reports, the USPS is in big financial trouble. There's talk of the mail behemoth halting Saturday delivery or maybe closing its doors altogether. As I stood in line at the Central District location last Monday, I could understand why. I arrived at the 23rd Avenue post office at 2 pm with a packaged painting of Bill Cosby with a snake tongue addressed to an air force base in North Carolina. There were three people in line in front of me and two clerks, so I figured I'd be in and out. As I settled into line the woman directly in front of me let out a long sigh and mumbled to herself, "This is ridiculous." That's when I noticed one of the clerks was helping a man who seemed to have an endless pile of small boxes to send. After looking closer, I noticed nothing was really happening in the way of progress. They were just having a conversation about Wisconsin.

"Have you ever been up to Eagle River in the springtime?"
"I sure have. I love Tremblay's candy shop."
"Oh, me too! Have you had their taffy?"
"Yes, I have. It's the best."
"It is the best!"

I remember the conversation well, because I've been to Eagle River, WI. I've also been to Tremblay's candy shop. The taffy there is really good. I almost wanted to chime in and ask if they've ever been to the store that only sells Christmas ornaments all year long. What I wanted to do more was heave a handful of CN22 customs forms at the both of them. At that exact moment, the other clerk finished up with their customer and decided to go on a break. The woman in front of me sighed again. I looked at my phone, it was 2:12 pm.

The CN22 customs form is necessary when sending a package outside of the USA that weighs over 16 ounces and under four pounds. They're also necessary when sending packages to military bases. Since a painting of Bill Cosby with a snake tongue going to an air force base weighs about 3 pounds, I filled one out. Then I noticed that the line behind me had added five people. A woman nearby shuffled through the compartments of forms on the table by which we were all standing. All of the compartments were labeled with what was supposed to be in each of them, but the wrong forms seemed to fill each compartment. The CN22 forms were where the CP72 forms were supposed to be. Just then a man came from behind the counter and yelled, "Is anybody here to pick up a package?" Everybody looked up but nobody was, so the line grew quiet. A teenager at the automatic postal machine asked for help because something was wrong with the machine but the man from behind the counter insisted that he could only help people who needed to pick up a package. There are procedures at the post office! I looked at my phone. It was 2:33 pm.

I helped the woman looking through forms find the one she needed. At first she questioned me because the compartment the form was in said that it was for packages over four pounds, but I pointed out on the form that it was simply in the wrong compartment. She tried each of the provided pens on table, but none of them worked. I let her use my pen and she did. I guess now is a good time to explain that the post office runs in my blood. My grandfather was a mail carrier for many years. I didn't know him very well, he died when I was six or so. Apparently my father was a carrier for many years as well, but I didn't know him at all. I used to tell people that I was destined to carry mail when I was a teenager and was delighted to read Post Office by Charles Bukowski when I was 15, when you're supposed to read and like Charles Bukowski.

Eventually the last postal clerk standing finished the conversation about Wisconsin and the man with many packages headed for the door. By this time the sighing woman had given up and left the line. There was only one man between me and what I knew would be a terse exchange with the postal clerk. I knew I wouldn't be able to help it, my ears were hot, I had turned into a grump. It was 2:46 pm. Just then a man came from behind the counter and yelled, "Is anybody here to pick up a package?" Everybody looked up but nobody was, so the line grew quiet. The customer now at the counter only had one package, but couldn't decide if he wanted any of the services that the USPS can provide when shipping a package. There are so many to choose from: Delivery Confirmation™, Certified Mail™, Signature Confirmation™, Express Mail®, Priority Mail™, Registered Mail™, insurance, etc. I noticed that the clerk seemed pre-programmed to mumble all of these options in one long run-on sentece. They all sounded so similar that any rational person would need an explanation to see if any of them were really necessary. He asked the differences about each and the clerk explained them all in a monotone compu-voice. He didn't choose any. Just then a man came from behind the counter and yelled, "Is anybody here to pick up a package?" Everybody looked up but nobody was, so the line grew quiet. It was 2:56 pm.

Eventually the man who refused all services left the line and headed for the door. For a split second there was no other movement. The clerk was at the counter but I hadn't been called yet. That's something I've learned at the USPS. You don't go to the counter until you're called. At any location across the United States, if you approach the counter before you're called, you're going to be spoken to like you're an 11-year-old. The line behind me was nearly out the door now, everybody seemed to be shuffling. Just then a man came from behind the counter and yelled, "Is anybody here to pick up a package?" Everybody looked up but nobody was, so the line grew quiet.

The clerk looked slowly in my direction and motioned in my direction with two fingers. It was a stern direction and I felt in trouble, but my ears were still hot and all I could think about was how happy I would be to write all about this. I placed the Bill Cosby with a snake tongue painting directly on the scale with the address facing the clerk. Efficiency is so important to my life. The clerk looked at the package and then at a computer monitor and then back at me with a blank stare. Eventually she spoke.

"You need a customs form for this package."

I had the form in my hand, it was already filled out. I placed it on the counter next to the package. She looked again at the computer monitor and went through the list of services that I could choose from and the different ways the package could be sent. She asked if I'd like for the package to arrive in two days or seven days. I asked the price diffence and was told it was 30 cents. I opted to pay extra for two days to support our troops. After further computing, I was told that the package didn't need a customs form after all. I shrugged my shoulders while she told me that sometimes things need forms and sometimes they don't. "It is what it is," she said as she handed me a receipt. NO JOKE, LADY.

Oh, it was 3:12 pm.