Certified Pain In The Butt Versus The Union

I was working at the postal station from Hell, and I had a piece of rolling equipment get caught on a piece of broken tile and pop up onto my toe, shattering the toenail. I was lucky not to have a broken toe from it, too. So, I’m on “light duty” now, which means I have to work the service window where people come to pick up packages and signature-required mail, fill out change of address/hold mail forms, and stuff like that.

Remember: I have a foot injury. This means that getting around is NOT easy for me.

A customer comes in about an hour before closing and hands over two “Pick up your mail” forms for certified letters. Y’all probably don’t realize this, but in big-city facilities, we don’t have your certified mail sitting in a gold case all by itself, with postal workers staring wistfully at it wondering when we’ll see you. No, we have your mail sorted out by the last number of your street address in trays with HUNDREDS of other certified letters just like yours. This means it can take quite a while to find your mail when you finally drag your butt in to pick it up.

So, I go looking for these two letters. It is a recent enough thing that I check the stand-up cubby we have for the “latest” pickups. Ugh. Not there. So, I hobble to the longer-term storage area, about ten feet from the door. I finally find both letters and go back to the window.

Customer: “I want to talk to the postmaster! You took three minutes to get my mail. That’s unacceptable!”

I try to convince him to let me get the party more likely to be on the premises to handle his complaint (a supervisor), but nope, he’s adamant about speaking to the postmaster. Hint, people: the later in the day it is, the LESS likely it is that the postmaster will be there.

But okay. You want the postmaster? You get the postmaster.

Me: *Smiling* “Sure. I’ll go get him now.”

And I shut the Dutch door.

With his mail still in my hand.

You thought three minutes was a long wait? Ha! You just activated a union worker trap card, bub!

Now, I do go to the postmaster’s office first, but as usual, he isn’t in there. Still, I make a good-faith effort to look there. I don’t see him on the floor, either, so I check the dock — conveniently getting in a smoke while I am out there — nasty former habit. I checked the breakroom (and drink a soda while I am there). I knock on the men’s room door. No answer. Oops. That soda just worked its way through me — need to use the ladies’ now.

I am about to check the parking lot to see if the postmaster’s car is even here… Oh, look. There’s the postmaster, coming back from an offsite meeting. I take the time to bring him up to speed on the customer’s complaint. This guy knows me, and he smiles.

Postmaster: “How long have you kept him waiting now?”

Me: “I think it’s been twenty, twenty-five minutes. You can deal with him while I handle the paperwork.”

Postmaster: “This will be fun. You’re lucky I like you because you’re a hard worker, though.”

The customer was absolutely livid when the door finally opened again. He demanded that I be fired, right then and there — as if that’s how it works in a union job. My boss, to his credit, chewed out the customer for being such a jerk to an injured employee who had actually done a great job in taking only three minutes to find two letters amongst hundreds, in two separate locations. He even took one of the trays over to the ledge, slammed it down, and said, “See how long it would take YOU to go through this to find not one but two letters, and then tell me three minutes is too long!”

Lesson to be learned: union workers don’t have to take crap off of dirtbags, and we won’t, so spare yourself a whole lotta grief and chill the eff out. It’s only mail, for crying out loud!