I work for the post office in a very, very rural area. The door opens, and there’s a thud on the counter. A customer is standing there with a box, taped up, with nothing on it.

Me: “Hi! What can I do for you?”

Customer: *Grunt.*

Me: “…I’m sorry?”

Customer: *Nods at box on the counter, grunts.*

Me: “Were you looking to send this off?”

Customer: *Grunt.*

Me: “Okay, well, let me get a weight on it and while I’m doing that, if you could get the address ou—”

Customer: “Bubba.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “Bubba. Send it to my cousin Bubba.”

Me: “Sure, that’s no problem. I just need his address.”

Customer: *Disapproving grunt.*

Me: “I’m sorry, but without at least a ZIP code and weight, I can’t even get you a price on it.”

Customer: “I dun know. You dun know Bubba’s address?”

Me: “No, sir. I’m sorry. I don’t and there’s no way for me to look up addresses for a person.”

Customer: *Disapproving grunt.*

Me: “I’m sorry, there’s just a lot of people in the U.S., and for security reasons, we don’t keep a huge database for everyone to access with that information.”

Customer: *Grunt.*

Me: “You could maybe call him?”

Customer: “Georgia.”

Me: *Eyebrow raise.*

Customer: “Bubba stays in Georgia.”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, I’d need more info—”

Customer: *Grabs box and stomps out.*

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Knows Zip About Zip Codes, Part 2
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A customer in line at the post office starts complaining the moment she steps up to the counter:

Customer: “Why are you catering to all the foreigners and immigrants?!”

Me: “I don’t understand, ma’am. This is a post office.”

Customer: “And all your signs are in every language!”

Me: “The languages are in English, Spanish, Chinese, Korean, and Vietnamese.”

Customer: “Exactly! You’re catering to them!”

Me: “Ma’am, I might be wrong, but based on your accent, you sound like an immigrant yourself.”

Customer: *Scoffs.* “I married an American! That’s different!”

Me: *Sigh.* “Was there anything you needed from the post office today, ma’am?”

Customer: *Without the slightest hint of self-awareness.* “I need to send these forms to the Immigration Service ASAP! I forgot to do them, and my visa expires soon!”

An old lady (one of our kinder regulars) steps up to the counter of our small post office.

Customer: “I’d like to post all these letters. They’re to all my family all over.”

Me: “Wow, all over is an understatement. Okay, so these two are for Canada, this one is Australia, and… blimey, is that South Africa?”

Customer: “Yes! My grandkids get around!”

I start processing each envelope with the correct amount and type of postage. I’m working fast, but not fast enough for the customer behind her.

Next Customer: “Can I just go ahead? I only need to pick up an Amazon package.”

Me: “I’ll be with you as soon as I finish here, sir. I’m going as quickly as I can.”

Next Customer: “Who even writes letters anymore? Even email has been around forever.”

Customer: “Not that it’s any of your business, but I prefer to write letters. It’s more personal.”

Next Customer: “Well, do it on your own time! Some of us don’t have time to wait for you to send all the snail mail to the other side of the world!”

Me: “Sir, please stop. You’re being very rude, and by making me stop and tell you this, you’re only slowing everyone down. No one wants that.”

Next Customer: “No one wants this old bat either, that’s why her family has all moved abroad!”

Customer: *To the next customer.* “Go rob a bank so that it’s the first time you’ll have ever been wanted.”

I stopped typing in the information for the label for a second to process what I had just heard. The silence between the three of us was almost like a physical force. I had to shake myself free of it and continue my work, while the young man in line stood there, engaged in a furious tension between wanting to say something to this amazing woman but not having the ability to come up with anything even half as destructive as what had been laid out to him.

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I took a job that requires traveling to different states for long periods of time, sometimes over a year at each assignment. I got a PO Box at my first assignment and requested that all of my mail be forwarded to that PO Box. When I moved to my next assignment, I went online and applied to move my PO Box to a post office near my next place.

In order to finalize the transition, I had to go to the new post office and present my ID. It was a few weeks before Christmas, and the office was slammed, with one employee behind the desk.

At first, I felt bad for her, then I heard her talking to the people waiting in line. To summarize, the first person wanted to buy a single stamp but she would only sell the entire book and the second was asking to buy a roll of tape to affix a shipping label to a box, but the employee kept repeating that she could do nothing until the label was attached to the box (while standing beside a display filled with rolls of tape for sale).

Finally, it was my turn.

Me: “Hi, I’m transferring my PO Box here.”

Employee: “You what?”

Me: “I transferred my PO Box to this location?”

Employee: “Okay, and?”

Me: “You … need to verify my ID?

Employee: “Okay, so give it here.” *She takes my IDs.* “Nope. Next!”

Me: “Wait, why?”

Employee: “You gotta have a Georgia ID for a PO Box.”

Me: “No I—”

Employee: “—Yeah. Next!”

I left instead of arguing, but I did call customer service to verify that I was correct.

Customer Service: “Well, you do not need an in-state ID to open a PO Box, much less transfer one. Will you be able to go back tomorrow?”

Me: “I can.”

Customer Service: “Okay, my name is [Name], and I will be there from [hours].”

Me: “Thank you.”

I went back the next day, and the same woman was at the desk.

Employee: “I already told you—”

Me: “—I spoke with [Name], who confirmed that I do not need an in-state ID, and she said she would be here today. Please go get her.”

Employee: *Rolls her eyes.* “This is ridiculous. You went and told because you didn’t like the way I was talking to you.”

Me: “Please get [Name].”

[Name] came out and processed my transfer with ease. [Employee] stood by, glaring at me the entire time. I smiled and waved to both as I left with my new PO Box keys.

I work the front desk at a neighborhood post office. It’s late December, so we’re deep in the holiday chaos.

Customer: “I need this to get to California by tomorrow.”

Me: *Checking the time.* “Okay, we’ve missed today’s last express pickup, but we can do next-day delivery if you drop it at the hub by 6 PM.”

Customer: “No. I want you to make it happen from here.”

Me: “Unfortunately, I can’t; this location doesn’t do late express dispatches. If you drive twenty minutes to—”

Customer: “—Can’t you make an exception?”

Me: “I wish I could, but the truck already left. There’s no one to hand it to.”

Customer *Scoffing.* “Wow. What am I paying for, then?”

Me: *Gesturing to the long line behind her.* “Ma’am, you walked into a post office a week before Christmas, an hour before closing time. All we can offer is a saintly amount of patience, stamps, and the illusion of control.”