Delivering mail through snow and sleet…and volunteer?

aka, The Saga Continues...

So Friday rolls around and, still, the spot at the end of the street where the giant metal mailbox for the entire neighborhood was rooted remains empty. As I am expecting some important documents from school and want to read my new New Yorker, I decide to give our local postal branch a call to find out what gives. I am informed that “someone ran over the old mailbox” and that the new one is scheduled to be installed that very day. I am then told that the corresponding keys for the new box will be delivered directly to our doors shortly thereafter.

Then Friday night, I receive an email from Sheri, a neighbor from a couple of doors down, informing me that she was told that the keys are locked inside of the newly planted mailbox and will be distributed on Saturday, since more people are likely to be at home then.

Well, Saturday comes and Saturday goes and nobody darkens our door with any keys. Sunday is, of course, the national day of rest for those who carry the mail, so I hang out at home on Monday, expecting my doorbell to chime at any moment. I make certain that music isn’t on too loud and try to summon the arrival of a key-bearing postal worker at my doorstep using my psychic powers.

My psychic powers seem to be taking a personal day off.

I wish to take a shower and am certain that, if I do, that will be when the doorbell will ring and I will miss my opportunity to have access to my mail until…tomorrow? The next day? Whenever they get around to it?

By 4:30pm on Monday I’m beginning to, again, wonder what gives. I decide to phone my local post office once again. As I begin to explain why I am calling, the woman who answered the phone says that she will transfer me to Larry, who is handling that situation. When I explain to Larry the discrepancies between what I was told would happen and what has actually occurred, Larry tells me that “they were having difficulty getting all of the keys out” and that if I go to blankety-blank address tomorrow, I’ll be able to pick my keys up from Arnie.

Arnie does not work for the postal service. Arnie is my neighbor and is one of those distrustful-of-the-government, uber right-wing republicans. He is the one with the bumper sticker on his car described in this post. I do not trust Arnie. He hates gay people and has not been very friendly to me. While my jaw is dropping to the ground, Larry hangs up.

After mulling over my thoughts for a moment and phoning J to see if she knows if this is even legal (as I’m thinking it’s not), I decide to phone the post office again and clear this up with a supervisor. The woman who answered the phone claimed to be a supervisor when I requested to speak with a manager and, when I began to explain the problem to her, she told me that she was going to transfer me to Larry.

“But wait,” I tell her, “I thought you said that you were the supervisor.” She tells me that Larry, too, is a supervisor. Too many chiefs…not a good sign. I tell Larry that I need to clarify what he told me only moments ago.

“So, let me make sure I understand this correctly. All of the keys to all of the mailboxes in the neighborhood are being left with Arnie –my neighbor, Arnie- tomorrow?”

“That’s right,” Larry assures me.

“Is that legal???” I am unable to contain my incredulousness. Larry stammers and tells me that he doesn’t know.

“I don’t think it is and it’s not okay with me.” Larry then informs me that Arnie “volunteered” to distribute the keys since “they were having trouble getting them out.” Interesting.. I never knew that one could "volunteer" with the U.S. Postal Service and gain access to the private mail of others. I'm certain that there are many aspiring criminals who would be quite interested in this civic opportunity.

I inform Larry that I am not comfortable with them giving access to my mail without my permission to someone who does not like me and who I do not trust. I pause briefly for a deep and cleansing yoga breath and then ask Larry if he realizes how rampant identity theft is and that I'm really quite surprised that they would just give all of those keys to a complete stranger. Clearly, this sort of thing hadn’t entered anyone’s mind and Larry tells me that he can leave a note for my postal carrier to leave my key under my doormat if I am uncomfortable with Arnie distributing them. Still, it hasn’t dawned on him that it might not be such a good idea to leave access to twenty homes’ worth of mail to a random stranger who “volunteered” to take care of it.

Content with the outcome that Larry will instruct our mail carrier to leave our mailbox key under our doormat (although not fully believing that Larry will actually do this) and envisioning the awkwardness that may occur as a result of the interchange between our mail carrier and Arnie: "Well, Arnie, here are all of the keys except for one. She didn't want you having access to her mail. Thanks for helping out, Arnie, and if we ever need any more help, we'll let you know!"

I then pose to Larry one final question:

"I'm just curious. If I hadn't called you today to find out what was going on with our keys to our mailboxes, how on earth would I have known that I was to pick them up from my neighbor? Was the postal service planning on sending out some sort of memo to everyone on the street?"

And do you know what Larry told me???

"Oh, Arnie was going to take care of that."

No sooner do I hang up the phone from Larry and it rings. It’s Arnie and he has our mailbox key and can we come and pick them up from him? So, Larry the “supervisor” not only has no clue that it’s quite likely illegal to give keys to locked mailboxes to a random stranger, but – despite being the one who is “handling this situation” – he has no idea that said keys had already been distributed to said random stranger.

J then walks in the door, home from work, just in time to see the steam emerging from both my ears. She offers to take over while I drink my coffee and attempt to locate calm. Like a crazy person wandering urban streets, I’m pacing and muttering to myself…the occasional I can’t believe audible and somewhat clear.

J retrieves our key from our bigoted and unfriendly neighbor and returns home with an armload of our mail. She then phones the main postal number and registers a formal complaint. The woman graciously receiving our complaint tells us this should never have happened.

(insert Theme to Dragnet here...)

The story you are about to hear is true. None of the names have been changed because nobody is innocent.

My story begins on the night of Wednesday, February 8, 2006. I was in the spare room in our home, which we have dubbed “our office.” It was after midnight and I was reading a novel that a friend had recommended while J was sound asleep in the next room. Suddenly, I heard a loud CRASH sound and I put my book down. I walked swiftly, yet quietly, to the window at the top of our stairs and parted the curtains ever so slightly. I saw a man, dressed in black, sprinting up the alleyway behind the townhouses across the street. A black and white police car raced to the end of our street, presumably attempting to meet the sprinter at the end of the alleyway. I looked down the street in the other direction where I noticed three more identical cars, two of them with blue and red lights flashing.

I watched this scene for a little bit, attempting to fully gauge what was happening in my neighborhood and trying to think if there was a way for me to let the officers who emerged from the other end of the alleyway with officer police dog in tow know which direction I had seen the alleged perp sprinting. They appeared to still be searching for him and, as the streetlamps reflected upon their ruddy visages, they appeared dumbfounded. The canine, however, had not yet given up any hope of finding the fellow, as he was pulling in another direction, clearly urging his handler to keep searching.

I returned to the "office" and went about my business, wondering where the perp was hiding and whether or not he’d be found. After a few more hours, I returned to the window, where the scene remained unchanged. Shortly thereafter, officers emerged again from the alley. Again, with canine in tow, but no perp. I watched as a flatbed tow truck hoisted away what appeared to be an older model Mustang. I later learned from a neighbor that the car had hit the mailbox unit on the corner, which houses all of the mail for the entire street, and that the mailbox had been stuck up in a nearby tree.

I can only imagine the facial expression of an unsuspecting neighbor who may have slept through the preceding night’s commotion and walked to the end of the block the next day, hoping to retrieve that day’s mail delivery. At least I thought it was here…

signs

Last fall, we bought a townhouse in what is pretty much the bible belt of Portland. This initially seemed harmless, as we knew that residing in what is barely still considered the city, even though it more resembles rural country land in most spots, was the only way we could afford to buy a house and still remain in Portland proper. (Having been raised in the suburbs from age nine on, the thought of living in the "official" suburbs just churns my stomach). We knew that we were leaving an area where we were in good company with regard to political and philosophical preferences and that we would be venturing into the unknown.

Given the sheer number of churches that dotted the area, it was our guess that this area was somewhat conservative and that we'd be living amongst some folks with whom we disagreed when it came time to exercise our rights each November. But, given the numbers that Portland churns out each election, it didn't seem like it could possibly be that bad...or could it?

When turning onto the street where our newly purchased home sits, the first thing one is likely to see is the bumper sticker on our neighbor's white car. It reads: One Man. One Woman. Yes on 36, a nod to a recent anti-gay marriage initiative that passed by a small margin.

A few weeks ago, an SUV-type vehicle turned on a side street a couple of blocks from where I live. It had a sticker in the back window that said: ACLU and the 'C' was turned into a hammer and sickle and then underneath that it said: Enemy of the State. While I'm not entirely certain what the hell this was supposed to mean, I was pretty sure that it wasn't good and I'd also venture to guess that the driver of this gas guzzler didn't care too much for people like me.

Then today, I was driving alongside a pickup truck that had a sticker of a confederate flag in its back window. I remember feeling somewhat shocked upon noticing this and it sort of frightened me. Who are these people? Do they really stand behind the implications of such emblems? And what do they really mean by these statements? A part of me wanted to ask the driver about it just to satisfy my curiosity, but I didn't because I'm not sure that I really wanted to know.