(After work, I have to head to the post office to pick up a package. There is a counter at my post office specifically for people to pick up packages, registered mail, etc. I am a few customers in, and we’re waiting while the person working the counter is in the back room. She comes out, and comes up to the counter, talking to [Customer #1].)

Post Office: “I’m sorry, but like I said, we don’t have your packages.”

Customer #1: *clearly irritated* “Well, look again! I need those packages! One of them is for my son!“

(The post office lady just rolls her eyes and agrees to look in the back room for what seems to be a least the third time. There are collective groans in the line, as it’s clear this has been going on for a while. The post office lady comes back a couple of minutes later.)

Post Office: “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t see anything, and according to the computer, this stuff was picked up a few days ago.”

Customer #1: “That can’t be right! Hold on. I’m going to call my wife and prove it!”

(He makes a big show of taking his cell phone out, phoning his wife, and putting the call on speaker phone.)

Customer #1: “I’m here at the post office now, and she claims they don’t have either of the packages!”

Wife: “Why would they? [Customer #1], you picked those up on Friday.”

Customer #1: *long pause* “What?”

Wife: “They’ve been sitting on the counter unopened all weekend. You’re the one who signed for them and everything!”

(Turning a lovely red colour, he hung up the phone and abruptly left the line with his head down. The poor post office lady had a very weary look on her face by the time she got to me, and I could totally see why.)

(I work nights, but I run a business on the side making jewellery and trinkets. As such, I tend to get a lot of deliveries during the day when I am asleep. My post people know this, and are really good at either knocking loudly to wake me when they need signatures or leaving it in one of our agreed safe places. They are also very understanding that I answer the door dishevelled, pyjama-clad, and largely unable to communicate. One day, after a long shift, I have been asleep for about three hours when there comes a loud knocking. I stumble out of bed, manage to get the keys in the door, and locate a smile to greet the post person at the door, as I have already spotted their uniform red shirt and logo through the glass. I notice right away that the woman staring me down is not only not one of my normal post people, but that she has a look on her face not dissimilar to the way one would greet a rancid dog poop that had just made unwanted contact with their favourite pair of shoes. I just brush it off as she thrusts the signing computer at me, and I scribble on it, waiting for her to give me my package so I can get back to bed. Instead of doing this, her look intensifies for an extended moment before she speaks.)

Postwoman: “You know, people like you make me sick.”

Me: *half asleep still* “Huh?”

Postwoman: “Sleeping all f****** day whilst honest people do honest work. Spending your benefits online.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Postwoman: “Just take your benefit-bought s***.”

(She violently thrust the package my way, and I managed to catch it in time. I was still too sleepy to actually form a proper reply to her words. This was lucky for her, because I have a temper, and I’d have probably shouted her ears off. Needless to say, though, I was on the phone to the depot in seconds, and I’m sure there was one heck of a telling-off for her when she got back for her next pickup. I think it may even have gotten her fired or reassigned to a different area, as I have not seen her in the week or two since the event.)

Long ago, when I worked short day shifts in a local shop, I would leave my dog at home during the day and pop in to let him out mid-shift. He was always perfectly behaved, and never chewed anything or bothered the neighbors. I was therefore surprised one day to return home and find that he had shredded my post for the day. This happened two further days running, and I then received a warning from my local post office that my dog had “been threatening” towards the postman, and that I would need to secure him away from the letterbox or ensure he was not in the house alone if I wished for deliveries to continue. He is a gentle giant, who has never growled, barked, or shown any sign of aggression towards anyone; in fact he normally loves to say, “Hi,” to delivery folks.

Nonetheless, despite being puzzled by this, I restricted my dog’s access to the front door, got a post-cage just in case, and carried on the rest of the week until my days off. On my first day off following the warning, just for the sake of my own curiosity, I permitted the dog to react to the postman putting letters through the slot with full access to the door. Lo and behold, the postman arrived, and I heard him calling the dog, tapping on the door, and rattling the slot. I peeked out from the living room to see he was waving the letters around as though he was actively trying to get the dog to eat them.

The guy was actually trying to make the dog eat my mail and react to him.

Next day, I lay in wait with my camera and recorded the entire incident. I took the video up to the depot, asked to speak to the manager, and showed it to him. It turned out the same guy had been the one to complain that my dog had “been threatening” to him.

To this day I have no idea why someone would do this, and my dog never ate another letter. I also have no idea if they fired or retrained the postman in question, but I really hope so.

(I become a manager in a post office in the early 1980s, and quickly gain a reputation with the union workers. It is first earned when I am called in to handle an office that is delivering an incredibly low percentage of the mail, which has only worsens in the week before I go in. After the introductions, I start my observations, and nobody’s behavior or stations immediately stand out as unusual. However, just as I turn my back to go double check the numbers, I spy someone throwing a few items into the pile for the Dead Letter Office, the resting place of any mail that absolutely cannot be delivered no matter the circumstances. On a hunch, I inspect an item within the obscenely large pile awaiting shipment, and I find the answer. Since the addresses written on the envelopes don’t magically change by themselves, even if the intended recipients’ addresses do, the post office itself has to change it for them after the change of address is filed. Today, that’s not a big deal, since we have computers, but this is the 1980s; while I cannot conclusively say the post office hasn’t started implementing computers yet, I can say that we aren’t anywhere near ready to begin the transition. As a result, looking up the change of address means extra leg-work and going through overstuffed filing cabinets looking for a matching name with just eyes. When mail reaches the Dead Letter Office, the process is repeated in order to ensure the item actually cannot be delivered and isn’t a simple error. If the Dead Letter Office is able to find an address for any mail, the mail is returned with the new address written on. In order to minimize their own work, this office has been foisting their own job of looking up forwarding addresses onto the Dead Letter Office. Rather than taking the one to three days it would normally take for this process to be completed, it instead takes up to a week to find the address and deliver it. I am never able to confirm this, but I believe the further drop in numbers is the result of a silent rebellion from the Dead Letter Office; they have realized they are being forced to do someone else’s job and have stopped applying new addresses to the mail, but the mail is then quickly sent back to the Dead Letter Office, trapping it in perpetual transit between the two. Rather than own up to having the evidence immediately, I instead talk to the other managers and supervisors, and make them agree to abide by whatever I say. Then, I gather the whole team for a meeting, after wheeling in the mail for the Dead Letter Office.)

Me: “As I said earlier, I’m here today because your numbers are down and we all want that problem fixed. After walking around, I noticed your mail for the Dead Letter Office is considerably higher than average. I can’t help but wonder if the mail in here is actually dead, something you’re supposed to be confirming yourself before it’s added to this pile. So, here’s what’s going to happen from now on. At the close of business every day, the other managers and I are going to review every item in this pile. If one item — just one item — could have been delivered, we’re calling in the inspectors, launching a formal investigation, and anyone it declares responsible for wilfully misdirecting mail will be fired.”

(I walk away and motion the rest of management to follow. No sooner than my back is turned, I hear the pile being deconstructed. I settle into my office afterwards. Not even five minutes after I close the meeting I receive a phone call.)

Me: “[Location] Post Office. This is [My Name]; how can I…”

Caller: “Who the f*** do you think you are?”

Me: “Who is this?”

Caller: “What are you, an a**hole?”

Me: *hangs up*

(The phone rings again almost instantly.)

Caller: “Did you just hang up on me?”

Me: “Who is this?”

Caller: “Answer the f****** question!”

Me: *hangs up*

(The cycle repeated for a bit until he finally figured out I wasn’t going to let some random person talk to me like that. I later found out from another manager that he was the union rep, and was not very pleased when he found out what I said during the meeting. And for those curious, I didn’t have to stay late that night looking up forwarding addresses, or any other night, because there was almost no mail being sent to the Dead Letter Office after that.)

(I am delivering mail. It’s my last week. I come to a house where the mailbox is not in the door, but next to the street. Next to the mailbox stands a woman. To prevent theft, if we can’t be sure the mail belongs to someone, we cannot give it to them.)

Woman: *calling from a distance, smiling cheerfully* “You can just hand the mail directly to me!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but giving the mail to someone just standing next to the mailbox is against policy.”

(I arrive at the post-box in question.)

Woman: *suddenly angry* “Why?”

Me: “To prevent theft. Anyone could go stand out here.”

(I drop the mail into the mailbox.)

Woman: *sneers* “And your attitude, is that also policy?”

Me: *considering that, even if she complains, the company won’t have the time to fire me* “Yes, it is, madam!”