I work in a small-town post office, and when I say small, I mean tiny. I’m working the counter during the afternoon lull when an older gentleman walks in holding a large, battered shoebox sealed with an alarming amount of duct tape.

Customer: “Need to send this to my grandson in Texas.”

He places it down. I look at the address, which is written in pencil and partially smudged.

Me: “Do you have a clearer copy of the address?”

Customer: “[Grandson’s Name], Dallas.”

Me: “…Dallas is a little bigger than that.”

Customer: “He’ll find it.”

Me: “I’ll need a street address and zip code.”

Customer: “He’s got a phone. They’ll call him when it gets there.”

Me: “Who will?”

Customer: “You know. The post people. Y’all track it, right?”

Me: “Dallas is a big place, it’s not like here. If a package comes for you, well, I know you, I can call you. Dallas is a city of over a million people, it doesn’t work that way there.”

Customer: “There ain’t more than a million people! That’s some bull-s***!”

Me: “Perhaps you could call your grandson for his address?”

Customer: “Just send it and call him when it gets there.”

Me: “Even if we could do that, you haven’t put a phone number on the package, either.”

Customer: “Won’t they know him when they see the name?”

Me: “Sir? Have you ever been to Dallas?”

Customer: “Woman, I ain’t ever been outside of Arkansas!”

Me: “Have you ever been to Little Rock?” *The largest city in Arkansas, population about 200,000.*

Customer: “Yeah, but I didn’t like it. Too many people.”

Me: “Dallas is several times bigger than Little Rock.”

Customer: “The h*** are you talkin’ about! No place gets that big!”

Me: “Dallas has. Anyway, I still think you should call your grandson and ask for a full address.”

Customer: “I ain’t got no phone.”

Me: “Would you like to use ours?”

Customer: “I’ll send him a letter and ask him for his address.”

Me: “Letter? As in… writing him a letter?”

Customer: “Yeah! What else would I mean?”

Me: “And do you know the address you use for those letters?”

Customer: “Yeah, it’s 123 Name Street, Dallas, 75226.”

Me: “…”

Customer: “What?”

Me: “Nothing, sir. I think we have everything we need to send the package.”

Customer: “Finally! Y’all a little slow today, ain’t ya?”

Related:
In A State Of Confusion, Part 12
In A State Of Confusion, Part 11
In A State Of Confusion, Part 10
In A State Of Confusion, Part 9
In A State Of Confusion, Part 8

Our post office has a photo booth, where customers can take and print instant passport-sized photos.

Customer: (poking head out of the booth) “Excuse me, do these photos come out… edited?”

Me: “Nope, they’re standard ID-style prints. No filters, just raw photos for official documents.”

Customer: “Oh. Because they don’t look great. Can I retake it?”

Me: “Sure! Just restart the session; it gives you a few tries.”

Customer: “Okay, but, ugh… I look so stressed in every photo!”

I notice the customer has twin babies in a buggy next to her.

Me: “Is this for travel?”

Customer: “Yeah.”

Me: *Gesturing to the babies.* “Are you taking them?”

Customer: “Yeah.”

Me: “So maybe a stressed look will match how you look at the airport?”

Customer: *Forlorn sigh.* “…Yeah.” *Goes back inside and accepts the very next photo attempt.*

A customer approaches the counter, holding a very beat-up, overstuffed padded envelope.

Customer: “Hi, I want to send this to my cousin in Canada.”

Me: “Sure! I’ll just need to know the value of the contents for customs.”

Customer: “Oh, it’s priceless. I made it myself!”

 Me: “Okay, but I still need a number for the form.”

Customer: *Thinks.* “Fine. One million dollars.”

Me: “…Right. Well, if it’s valued at over $2,500, I’ll need a special export declaration and you’ll pay duty on the declared amount.”

Customer: *Suddenly horrified.* “What?! No, I’m not paying that! It’s just some homemade soap and a T-shirt!”

Me: “So… not one million dollars, then?”

Customer: “Ugh, I thought this was a post office, not the IRS!”

Me: “Ma’am, I promise we don’t take your money, we just weigh it and watch it leave.”

 The customer ended up settling on an amount less than fifty dollars.

Customer: “I need to send this to my sister in California.” 

Me: “Alright. Anything fragile, liquid, perishable, or potentially hazardous inside?”

Customer: “No.”

I weigh the box.

Me: “Looks like about three pounds. Would you like standard ground or priority?”

Customer: “I want it there tomorrow.”

Me: “Okay, priority express is available, but it’s pricier.”

Customer: “How much?”

Me: “$48.60.”

Customer: “Excuse me? That’s almost more than what’s in the box!”

Me: “If it’s not urgent, I can show you cheaper options.”

Customer: “No, it needs to be there tomorrow. I just don’t see why it’s so expensive.”

Me: “Well, it’s going cross-country overnight. That takes planes, trucks, and a lot of coordination.”

Customer: “You don’t understand. I’m a taxpayer. I pay your salary.”

Me: “Great, then we’re both disappointed with how your money’s being used.”

She paid for the express shipping.

I used to run a small team, and one of them was a notorious f***-up.

Me: “[Employee], I need you to go to the post office and send off some important documents, tracking and classified post, next-day delivery.”

He came back after a while and reported that all was good.

There was a frantic phone call the next day asking where the documents were, so I went to see the employee.

Employee: “It’s all good. I posted them fine. It must be a post issue.”

Me: “Explain to me every step of what you did.”

Employee: “I bought a stamp, licked my thumb, touched the stamp with my thumb, and then posted the letter.”

The employee, thinking he was done, put his hands in his pockets (one of his habits) and started to walk away. Then, he felt something in his pocket and pulled it out. It was the stamp.

Me: “Why is that there?”

Employee: “Uh… hmm. I suppose stamps are sticky, so it must have gotten stuck to my thumb when I put my hands in my pocket.”

Me: “Did you just… hallucinate the stamp actually being on the envelope?!”

Employee: “I… didn’t realise.”

Me: “Hold on, why did you buy a stamp? You shouldn’t have even bought a stamp; classified post is handled by the cashier.”

Employee: “Oh, yeah, what is classified post?”

Me: “So, now these time-sensitive and important documents are just sitting at the post office, no stamp and no tracking?”

Employee: “Uh… maybe?”

After several incidents like this, he was eventually let go. It became a running joke in the office after that, that when someone did something stupid, we’d say, “You’re so dumb you couldn’t lick a stamp.”