The Post Office

Some of you may have read the brief bio located on the right sidebar of this blog. You may have asked yourself, what does he mean by “possibly last year” as a teacher? Or if you’re smart you might have inferred that this meant I was strongly considering other career paths. What those words refer to is this fact: I’ve applied to several MFA programs to study creative writing. Consequently, I’ve become a regular at the post office, which is what this post is mainly about.

When dealing with something as important as application packages––which contain items ranging from the priceless, irreplaceable writing sample and personal statement, to costly transcripts and test scores, all of which, while in reality a 1.2 ounce manila enveloped full of paper, actually comprise your potential future as a writer/professor at a prestigious university, your hopes and dreams, to use a cliché––one is inclined to spend upwards of a hundred dollars at the post office. Applying to grad schools, twelve in my case, is practically a job in itself. All the work that goes into the application packet, especially if you’re anal regarding your future, every wrinkle in your forehead over whether you should staple or paper clip your manuscript, is represented by this puny envelope, which to everyone else may as well be who-gives-a-damn. All the more reason to spend money on it like it’s your firstborn son.

The good old US of A post office is the perfect place for someone who wishes to swaddle their grad school hopes in cash, or credit, or debit (with the option of cash back!). In times of competition with FedEx, UPS and all the other private companies, the post office has found more shit to sell you than ever before. Most of all, they’re selling the idea of security, that your package is safe, a figurative safety blanket to keep you warm from the chilling thought that your manuscript will become the confetti at the new years party of some vindictive postman.

One of the first things they ask you about your mail is if it is “liquid, fragile, or perishable.” Liquid: no. Fragile: of course! Perishable: as if it weren’t enough to imagine the destruction of my manuscript, the word perishable evokes an even more dramatic feeling, not to mention a racy pulse at the thought of some postman knocking on my door in full USPS garb, even a few medals for surviving all those post office shootings, valor, etc, and when I open the door he says: I’m sorry to inform you that your application package has perished. Overall, the word perishable is a reminder of the package’s fragility. But just try telling the clerk that your 1.2 ounce manila envelope full of paper is fragile. I was met with laughter. “Life, is fragile,” the laconic clerk said, completely unaware that it is basically the next two-to-three years of my life that I’m handing over.

As for speed––because you know all grad schools have their deadlines––you have several options. Though after a fifteen minute Q&A with the clerk, I came to realize, especially around Christmastime, the only guaranteed speedy delivery you’re going to get is “overnight,” which, after adding up twelve grad school application fees, transcript fees et al, is monetarily implausible. You just can’t spend that much. Your best bet is, in fact, the cheapest option, which, unlike coach or the back of the bus, is prestigiously known as “first class,” a Starbucksian sort of idea in which the shitty is sprinkled with glitter, and so on. In the end, I spent about twenty dollars in postage on all my applications instead of four hundred, but not before avoiding a few more intangibles offered to ease my mind.

The post office sells delivery confirmation, which is enticing until you tell yourself that you can monitor the arrival of your application materials through the school’s website. The more difficult sell to counter is the insurance. Unfortunately, the region of the world in which we live considers it rational for someone like J-Lo to insure her own ass for millions of dollars. I guess, if the market research suggests people watch her movies not for her acting skills, and watch her music videos not for her singing skills, but rather consume all things J-Lo for the sole purpose of admiring her ass, then it would be a––gulp––smart move to put some insurance on that moneymaker, just in case she happens to break it in the process of shaking it. So all of this is bouncing around my head while the clerk stares impatiently over my head. It was a simple question: “would you like to insure your package?” But it’s not that simple: the primary job of the postal service is to deliver mail, through rain and sleet and freezing snow! By asking every customer if they want insurance, they are compromising the whole point of the postal service. Imagine you're at a restaurant. You order the steak and your server asks, “Would you like salad or soup? Caesar or house? Vegetable medley or baked potato? Fully loaded? And would you like to pay me an extra five dollars to ensure the cooking staff does not sprinkle your dish with pubic hair?”

Of course, I can’t explain any of this to the clerk, who has by now lost all patience. I must forget the costs of applying versus the package’s potential demise, take a deep breath, and leave the post office to the crazies… like the guy next to me (this is true): purchaser of the most basic commodity the post office offers, he is upset that they are out of Ronald Reagan stamps, and when Jimmy Carter is suggested as a replacement, he declines, admitting, “I want one of the good guys,” and finally settles, oh so ironically, on Star Wars.