Unfiltered Story #57187

Unfiltered | May 30, 2017

(I’m picking up a package for my mum at a post office that has notoriously difficult employees. They’re known for being incredibly stubborn if the name on the parcel isn’t the person who picks it up, among other things. It’s also much earlier than I would usually be awake as a final semester university student running on 4 hours of sleep, so I’m not in the best mood. I join the line as this happens.)

Young Woman: *to me* Do you mind if I jump ahead to ask [Clerk 1] a quick question?

Me: *knowing they will still make it complicated, but not in the mood to argue* Sure, go ahead.

(Clerk 1 is quietly serving another customer, but stares at the young woman in a way that implies that she can quickly help her as well.)

Young Woman: Hi, do you have any trolleys that-

Clerk 1: *loudly to her customer* That will be [price]. Have a good day. *to Young Woman* Yes?

Young Woman: Do you have any trolleys I can use to bring some large boxes in?

(Clerk 1 begins asking her a series of unnecessary questions without answering her. Thankfully, another clerk [Clerk 2] comes out.)

Clerk 2: Yes? How are you today?

Me: *cheerily* I’m good, how are you?

Clerk 2: *Ignoring me* How can I help you?

Me: I’m here to pick up this package. *hands over delivery slip*

Clerk 2: Can I see ID?

Me: Oh yeah, of course.

(Clerk 2 loudly sucks on her teeth while I’m getting my ID from my backpack. When I hand it to her, she stares at it for a long time after getting the parcel. Important note: I live at the same address as my mum, but we have different last names.)

Clerk 2: Who is this? *glaring at me and pointing at the parcel*

Me: It’s my mother’s.

Clerk 2: I need to compare the address. *stares at my ID even longer*.

(Suddenly, Clerk 1 asks her about trolleys as the Young Woman is leaving to get her packages. Both clerks start screaming literally right next to my head after the woman, yelling at her that she needs ID for reasons beyond my comprehension. Finally, Clerk 2 turns back to me.)

Clerk 2: Ok, sign here. Next time, have your mother sign the slip.

(I managed to get out with the parcel, reletively unscathed and saw the young woman piling up her boxes on a trolley as I left. The real killer is that I had applied for my adult passport with these same clerks (which they also made unnecessarily difficult), meaning they’ve seen my birth certificate, and I have lived locally to them my entire life. We don’t know how they’re still there.)