If it looks like a petrified state-owned institution, if it behaves like a petrified state-owned institution and if it’s as user-hostile and unreliable as a petrified state-owned institution then it’s … our beloved post office. That was the experience I had always made, and so I had liked visiting the post office accordingly – until I moved to a new neighbourhood.
One single thing was enough to make Mr. M and myself some kind of secret allies – a smile. Waiting in a long queue for my mail with recorded delivery, I noticed how, no matter how unfriendly, tired or bothersome the customers were, he always greeted them with a smile. He greeted me the same, I smiled back, we said hello to each other, he found my mail.
“Now, if I may have your autograph…” he said, handing me the acknowledgement.
“Oh, I’m aaaall yooooouuuuhz,” I said, trying to immitate an elated rock star, signing the delivery.
We both laughed, said good bye to each other and I went home, for the first time in years happy to have been at a post office. Since then anytime I went there, I hoped it would be him behind the counter. We remembered each other and made a joke whenever we could.
“My apologies to your back in advance,” I said to him one day, picking up some books. “As far as I know, it’s about 10 kilos.”
A while later he came back with the two packages. “This body may look old but there’s still a lot of strength inside! Besides, it’s just 5 kilos each. I can handle that just fine but now you, dear addressee, show me how you effortlessly carry away both of them at once, a-ha!” Of course I theatrically staggered under the heavy burden.
Every visit of the post office turned into a little improvised stage play. It wasn’t much but it was bloody more fun than I’d ever had at any other institution. Next to being funny, he was a real pro and anytime there was a problem, the other clerks always asked him for advice.
When I was moving away seven years later, I went to the post office just to say good bye to him and thank him for the great times. And I thought that was it.
Actually, there had been just one thing that made me sad about him. Sometimes when the delivery had been nothing substantial or I had been sure there couldn’t be any trouble, I had signed it as Elvis Presley. He’d never noticed.
Cut. Seven months later. I mean, a few weeks ago. I go to the post office in my new neighbourhood. This one is oh-soh-moh-dhern, issuing queue numbers and stuff. So I’m sitting there, waiting for my number to blink on the display, looking around the counters. Suddenly my gaze catches familiar features. I slide my eyes back there – could it be … Mr. M? Yes, it’s him! And what’s even better, the display tells me I’m his next customer.
“Hello, I’m obviously one of your Erinyes and won’t let you rest in peace – but what are you doing here?”
“Oh, hello,” he said, smiling at me as broadly as ever. “I asked myself if it really was you when I saw you sitting there. And me? Here? Well… They transferred me, for the two months until the dismissal notice becomes effective, that is. Then I’ll go behind a counter in a supermarket in our neighbourhood.”
“WHAT?” I whisper-shouted, absolutely incredulous. He had always been the embodiment of professional competence and customer satisfaction to me.
“You know, I didn’t wag my tail enough. I wasn’t too happy to get a new manager who was 30 years my junior and had even less education than me. So she got rid of me as fast as she could, transferring me for the rest of my contract so that we don’t meet at all.”
So my joy of meeting Mr. M went sour in about ten seconds. Obviously, this had been complicated. There sure had been a big conflict between her and him. Or perhaps they had been dumping all older employees to refresh their services, or whatever they’d call it. But I couldn’t get it. I didn’t get it. I still don’t get it. They were getting rid of the one and only post officer I’d ever found pleasant to meet, someone who had stood for all the positive qualities the postal service had wanted to offer but wasn’t really able to, being what it was, a petrified post-state-owned behemoth. If there was one single employee they should have kept, it was him!
His contract ran out at the end of August. My current post office is once again a modernized but dull place without him. But you know what? I’ll go to that supermarket some time. It’s not particularly close to my place but I want to meet him, exchange smiles, and possibly arrange a beer with him later. To thank him once again for all the years of fun, to reproach to him he’d never noticed the Presley autograph.
To tell him that for me, he’s not finished.
