The riot at the post office was small and contained. It changed nothing and of the 23 postal customers who had been standing in line for over a quarter of an hour, no one was hurt, but perhaps a message had been sent even to those deaf and sullen ears of the post office employees.
There were a variety of people in line when I opened the double glass doors and took my place - a young mother with a child in her arms, a very old woman leaning heavily on a cane, a couple of young men in casino uniforms, and an assortment of others, 23 in all. The line stretched well into the entrance and almost out the door and as usual, there was but one clerk at the counter - a heavyset black woman moving at the speed of molasses running uphill, refusing to make eye contact with anyone or even acknowledge their presence. When she spoke it was in a flat, indifferent, monotone, a tone I recognized as her normal speaking voice. A telephone was ringing at steady intervals but it went unanswered by the three or four other employees who wandered randomly around the dark recesses in the back. None paid the slightest attention to the line of restless customers in front and although none seemed to be actually doing anything, none made a move to open a second window. Secure in their monopoly and protected by civil service, they were free to ignore the public without fear of consequence. Could someone in the back come and help you? the young mother finally asked in a tired tone. The lone clerk ignored her, preferring to continue her sullen argument with the customer who had come to the window without the proper postal form. Her boredom and resentment was obvious and she would not give an inch. It's always this way, an old man remarked to no one in particular, Always, and it's shameful. A heavyset man in bluejeans and a work shirt left his place in line and pounded his fist on the counter, Hey! he yelled, A little service out here! The employees in the back looked up in surprise then drifted away from each other but none drifted toward the front counter. Hey! the man in bluejeans yelled again, What's wrong with you people?
The line continued to grow and with each passing minute became more restless. Customers trying to manage bulky packages began shifting from one foot to the other, strangers began sharing post office horror stories, the man in the bluejeans began cursing, louder and more clearly as others in line encouraged him. The woman with the infant finally reached the window in weary tears and the lady behind her offered to hold her child. Thank you, the young mother said gratefully, shoulders sagging with exhaustion and relief. The old lady with the cane asked for a chair and was ignored. We had been in line for nearly a half hour when a second postal employee came to the counter and opened her window. The first immediately slammed her Next Window, Please sign into place and walked away.
There were a variety of people in line when I opened the double glass doors and took my place - a young mother with a child in her arms, a very old woman leaning heavily on a cane, a couple of young men in casino uniforms, and an assortment of others, 23 in all. The line stretched well into the entrance and almost out the door and as usual, there was but one clerk at the counter - a heavyset black woman moving at the speed of molasses running uphill, refusing to make eye contact with anyone or even acknowledge their presence. When she spoke it was in a flat, indifferent, monotone, a tone I recognized as her normal speaking voice. A telephone was ringing at steady intervals but it went unanswered by the three or four other employees who wandered randomly around the dark recesses in the back. None paid the slightest attention to the line of restless customers in front and although none seemed to be actually doing anything, none made a move to open a second window. Secure in their monopoly and protected by civil service, they were free to ignore the public without fear of consequence. Could someone in the back come and help you? the young mother finally asked in a tired tone. The lone clerk ignored her, preferring to continue her sullen argument with the customer who had come to the window without the proper postal form. Her boredom and resentment was obvious and she would not give an inch. It's always this way, an old man remarked to no one in particular, Always, and it's shameful. A heavyset man in bluejeans and a work shirt left his place in line and pounded his fist on the counter, Hey! he yelled, A little service out here! The employees in the back looked up in surprise then drifted away from each other but none drifted toward the front counter. Hey! the man in bluejeans yelled again, What's wrong with you people?
The line continued to grow and with each passing minute became more restless. Customers trying to manage bulky packages began shifting from one foot to the other, strangers began sharing post office horror stories, the man in the bluejeans began cursing, louder and more clearly as others in line encouraged him. The woman with the infant finally reached the window in weary tears and the lady behind her offered to hold her child. Thank you, the young mother said gratefully, shoulders sagging with exhaustion and relief. The old lady with the cane asked for a chair and was ignored. We had been in line for nearly a half hour when a second postal employee came to the counter and opened her window. The first immediately slammed her Next Window, Please sign into place and walked away.
As I left, I noticed the sign on the outside doors. It read ARMED ROBBERY OF A POSTAL EMPLOYEEE IS A FEDERAL OFFENSE AND PUNISHABLE BY 25 YEARS IMPRISONMENT. Taped underneath was a hand lettered sign which read EXCEPT AT THIS BRANCH WHERE IT WOULD BE A COMMUNITY SERVICE.
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