The Post Office Lady with the Dragon Tattoo Read online

  In addition to the automatic-tape debacle, almost everyone in line had some sort of mail disaster to contend with, whether it was trying to ship vast amounts of liquids and perishable items (how long does it take for a corn nut to perish, anyway? Is it even within the realm of possibilities? I bet corn nuts have been found in the tombs of Egyptian royalty and still taste exactly the same when unearthed), sealing a box up with Scotch tape, or arguing that a customs form was not needed for her package, “because it’s just going to Italy.”*

  The next time I had to go to the post office, I went to the branch rumored to have a parking lot, hoping to avoid the downtown contingent and tattoo museum. And I did and was confronted with people who had been unemployed for a long, long time, so long that they had lost perspective of the phrase “time frame” in any conceivable meaning, even though I could easily measure the duration of their life span left on Earth with my fingers. For example, at this post office, I waited in line behind patrons who liked to round out every money-exchanging transaction with a nice, pointless conversation about a) are Disney stamps more expensive than regular stamps; b) what is the difference between a book of stamps and a sheet of stamps; and c) if they write a check, can they write it over the amount and get seven dollars and forty-two cents back?

  It was then that I realized it completely wasn’t fair for anyone to say ever again that post office employees are slightly askew, because if you were dealing with morons demanding automatic tape for their corn-nut packages day in and day out, things might get a little sketchy for you, too.

  I didn’t go back to the post office—any of them—for over a year. If I had to mail a package, I’d go to other shipping places that were way more expensive and farther away, and I bought my stamps online. But as I was taping up the box of unders for my nephew, I realized that I really didn’t want to pay twelve dollars to ship them to Phoenix. Down the street, I could do it for several bucks. It was time, I knew, to try the satellite post office again. Especially if I could save two dollars.

  As I stood in line, getting closer to the counter, my heart raced, my mouth got dry, and suddenly I was next.

  When she looked up and saw me, she knew. There was no mistaking it. She knew exactly who I was and that I was the Two-Cent-Stamp Bandit. I knew she was the Mean Lady. Her mouth pursed, she looked at me with disdain.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. On her wrist. Bright, colorful, and unmistakably new. An Achilles’ heel.

  “That,” I said, pointing to her hand and the flashy and enormous red, orange, and black outlined dragon on it, “is a lovely tattoo.”

  Frankly, I have to say that I was shocked. I don’t see too many middle-aged Korean post office ladies getting themselves all inked up with medieval symbols and legends, but here we were.

  She looked down and knew there was no way out.

  She smiled a teeny tiny little bit.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “Those are very pretty colors.”

  “I think so, too,” she added. And looked at the box. “First-class or Priority?”

  “Priority,” I said. I wanted to show her that I took the post office seriously.

  “Any contents that are perishable, liquid, or prohibited?” she asked.

  “Nope,” I said cheerfully. “Just little-boy’s underwear.”

  Excellent! I realized. By the time I got home, the FBI would be carrying my computer out of the house. But she didn’t bat an eye.

  “Have a great day!” I said before I left.

  We ended that day on decent terms, but when I got home I tracked the package to make sure it had been mailed in the first place, because our trust was new, delicate, and most likely still raw in the middle. I hadn’t spent twenty-five minutes looking through irregular underwear in a store that sells matching mommy-and-baby outfits just so the lady at the post office—who I’m sure was certain that I was sending a pound of corn nuts to my husband, who gets very snacky after spending his days working on a Louisiana chain gang—could sit on my package for a week in a slippery act of revenge. Listen. She was a middle-aged Korean woman with a flaming dragon tattoo who’d kicked me out of the post office when I asked for eight dollars worth of stamps. In my book, that’s a lunatic. Who knew what she was capable of?

  But I went back again, and this time I brought two packages. Both Priority. With tracking numbers. I wasn’t fooling around.

  As she was getting ready to slap the post office label on the second package, someone shouted out to her from the photo department and told her she had a phone call. I watched her face drop as the person informed the Mean Lady that the call was about her daughter.

  “Can you wait a minute?” she asked me, her skin tone suddenly ashen.

  “Sure,” I said.

  She went over to the photo department and took the phone call, then returned to the counter a couple of minutes later.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I was so worried when they said it was about my daughter. But everything’s fine; she just wanted to stay at her friend’s house longer, so her friend’s mom called. I was so scared!”

  “I know,” I replied. “I saw the look on your face. I’m glad everything is okay.”

  “Me, too,” she said. “Thank you for being so nice about it. You’re nice. A lot of people wouldn’t have been so nice.”

  I stopped for a moment.

  “I know you must have to put up with a lot working at the post office,” I told her, to which she nodded vigorously.

  “Some people are crazy,” she semi-whispered.

  “I know. I’ve seen it. I saw a lady freak out about ‘automatic tape,’ ” I informed her, after which I shrugged, furrowed my brow, and mock-laughed loudly.

  The Mean Lady nodded. “I know her!” she hissed, lightly pounding her fist on the counter.

  “And I think you’re nice, too,” I finished, to which she smiled, nodded, and smoothed the postage label on one of my packages.

  “Hey,” I said quickly, noticing something very, very odd about her wrist. “Where’s your tattoo?”

  It was gone. The fiery, tempestuous dragon had vanished.

  “Oh,” the nice lady said as she laughed and pointed behind her, where on the wall was an entire display of vibrantly colored tattoo decals, including the legendary dragon.

  And right then, at that second, we were cooked in the middle.

  *The corn-nut lady, by the way, sent her package to some P.O. box in rural Louisiana, where I am positive that not only are corn nuts available, but they’re a staple of the diet, along with Karo syrup and obscure pig parts. It’s a main protein source. I bet Corn Nut Stew, Corn Nuts and Dumplings, Corn Nut Salad, and Chicken-Fried Corn Nuts are served at every funeral or parole party.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LAURIE NOTARO has disproportionately chubby arms, which once helped her save the life of her best friend, who was trapped in a wheelchair and choking on a quiche. She has fought a size M shirt in a dressing room (she lost), has been banned from the local post office for wanting too many stamps, and has burned her neck on several occasions by trying to get out of a car too quickly without releasing the seat belt first. In third grade, she sucked a fly up her nostril. It died and several classmates screamed. She now lives with her husband and dog in a small house, and when something tickles her nose, she has learned to breathe out instead of in.

  Read more of Laurie Notaro’s hilarious essays in

  It Looked Different on the Model: Epic Tales of Impending Shame and Infamy

 

 

 
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