Going Postal

It took five weeks for me to finally experience just once what everyone said I was going to see on a daily basis – the pushy New York a-hole.

Dressed in his adorable United States Postal Service costume, William was the prototypical tough guy from his comfy perch behind the counter, but I didn’t flinch. Twice he told me "that’s a complaint for the postmaster. You can tell—" and I cut him off both times. And I enjoyed it.

Because I’m equally macho, I do some selling on eBay, and I had to take a couple of packages to the post office Monday. I also had to take an item to be boxed right there. Armed with a Sharpie and the recipient’s address, I figured I’d just buy the box from William as he weighed my other items. But you had to go to another line to buy a box.

"You seriously can’t just sell me a box? I have to go wait in that line to buy one, then pack it up and get back in this line again?"

"That’s a complaint for the postmaster. You can tell—" whatever dude, I said as I handed him my credit card. When he turned back to me with the receipt a moment later, I noticed that the entire credit card number was printed on the merchant copy. The Baton got me hip to this; whenever you see that your number isn’t Xed out, scratch it out with the pen to prevent identity theft. I’m religious about it now.

"Wait. What happened? What are you doing?" William asked, getting louder with each syllable. He sounded like a whiny Jeff Spicoli when Mr. Hand ripped up his tardy senior’s schedule in "Fast Times At Ridgemont High."

"Preventing identity theft, William," I said with all sorts of uppity attitude.

"It was Xed out. We don’t want you to do that," in his continued whine.

"If it was Xed out, I wouldn’t have scratched it out myself."

"Well we don’t do that here. You’ll have to—"

"Sir, I work in the news business and almost daily we do a story about identity theft and credit card fraud. I always scratch my number out."

"That’s a complaint for the—"

MORE MONDAY NOTES: I had a small work assignment I needed to take care of in Central Park Monday evening. Right after I’d finished, I made my way back to a pedestrian path to begin my walk home. Keep in mind that it’s July in New York City. Monday’s temperature was about 90. It was humid and nasty. But that didn’t stop a 65-year-old looking guy from thinking, "Yeah, I think I’ll leave the house in this here trench coat, buttoned up all the way to the top, with some white tube socks and loafers."

Now I know on most days that’s a pretty nice look and all, but it just didn’t do much for me. A couple sitting on a bench watched my double-take, and when I turned back around, the guy’s reaction was priceless:

"How come you didn’t say hi to your dad, dude?"

STAY TUNED: I’ll be attending the famous hot-dog eating contest on Coney Island today. Hopefully I’ll have a good Kobayashi story for you.