Monday, September 1, 2014

Doorman Goes to the Post Office - Part II


I'm on the 2 train headed uptown to work listening to Marc Maron interview Lena Dunham for his WTF podcast. On the way to the subway station, I googled where the closest post office would be near my job (I found out later on that there's one, literally, right behind my apartment. I've been there for three years and had no idea). The closest one is a mere three blocks away from work. I can't tell you how many people, over the years, have asked me where the nearest post office is to location. My response is usually one of the two things:

1 - If they say "excuse me" or "Hello", I tell them that there's one on 9th ave and 51st street, give or take a few blocks. (Turns out I was only an avenue and a half off. Whoops.)

2 - If they don't take the half-a-breath to greet me, I tell them I don't know. This usually results in a snippy ,"how do you not know? You're supposed to be, like, the googlenet on the street with the hat on! You're supposed to know everything!!!" To which I'll just cross my eyes and make my double chin look more profound whilst sticking my tongue out. Then they get frustrated and walk away.

3 - If they, lord forbid, interrupt me mid-sentence, I send them in the opposite direction. So if I'm on 59th and 7th and the post office is on 52nd and 8th, they're being sent to 64th and 5th. Why? Because I'm a petty, bitter doorman and they obviously have much more important things to do that I'm insanely jealous about, according to them.

What was I talking about?

Oh yeah! So, I'm on the 2 train listening to Maron and Dunham (great interview, if you haven't heard it). My Wilfred marathon has all but decimated my chances of entering the post office and getting what I have to get done, but maybe I can shoot over there really quick and

What do I do? How do I get a box? OH MY GOD! Do I buy the box at the post office? Don't they overcharge like crazy? Those cock suckers. No wonder why snail mail dead. Everything is too god damn expensive to ship. I really hope that doesn't result in mail carriers being laid off. That would be terrible. I'm friendly with a lot of postal workers. Such nice people. Though all I ever get in the mail is junk advertisements and wedding invitations. And all of my friends are pretty much married at this point, so I won't have to worry about that anymore. I should find a wife. The novelty of the hook-up culture wears off once you hit your late-twenties-early-thirties.

I get off the train, contemplating why it's taken me this long to get married.

Have I just not found my mate? Why the hell don't I let anyone get close to me? Every time I find someone I like, who likes me back, I shut off and push them away. Then I find myself missing them after they've already moved on. Why am I such an idiot?!? But do you really want a wife, though? Or are you just saying that because you just heard Lena Dunham say something really profound and heartfelt about her partner?!? If she, like me, has no problem putting themselves out there to the public and can find someone, why can't I? What's wrong with me?!? 

I wonder why the fuck I'm acting like such an emotional sissy as I get off the 2 train to connect to the Q.

As I'm walking to make my transfer, I see a poster for Gotham, the origin story of the fictional city before Bruce Wayne became Batman. This fills me with an unconscionable amount of glee. Going to wash that little slip-up of sensitivity off with some man stuff. I turn off the Maron-Duhman interview in favor of Hans Zimmer's Dark Knight Rises score.

My rhythmic walking to the pounding percussions and Moroccan chanting that is the brilliant Dark Knight Rises score shaves about ten seconds off my walk over to the Q terminal, and I just barely make one before the sliding doors shut. Thank you, Hans Zimmer.

I sit down on the Q and open up the 2048 game on my phone. It's mercifully only two stops, which means I have less than three minutes to get frustrated with myself. I play, try a new sliding technique this time, and still not even come close to anything that resembles a respectable score. I think about deleting the app, but I can't resist the daily round of self-loathing that comes with not being able to fucking figure out 2048.

I get off at my stop and exit to the street. It's hot. Too hot. I don't want to work in this for the next eight hours. Maybe I should get some iced coffee.

At Dunkin Donuts on a massive line. One person working the counter and 15 people in the back making donuts. Twelve minutes later, it's my turn. I take out my handy-dandy DD Rewards app for them to scan and order my summertime usual - Medium decaf, french vanilla, a little milk and sugar. Less ice. I always ask for less ice because the mother fuckers pack it to the top like their stuffing bubble wrap into a pack-


It's now 2:42pm, too late to get to the post office and make it back in time for my 3pm shift.

I clock into work, sipping my now piss-warm iced coffee. I go to the ice machine and shovel in a big scoop of ice, making it a full, brand-new, watery beverage.

I step outside to my office, where I need to come up with a plan to send this fucking watch. Then I hear an all-too-familiar Israeli accent from behind me:

Morrie - "What's up, Doorman? Fucking garbage day. No fucking business!"

The jeweler next store!!! OF COURSE!!!

Morrie: The owner of our neighboring jewelry store, who curses like a sailer and smokes like a tug boat - who would fix any watch or piece of jewelry I give to him, free of charge, under the condition I move any guests who loiter in front of his window without the intention of buying anything and allow the high-rollers who shop in his store to park in the loading zone while they purchased gluttonous amounts of expensive jewelry for their trophy wives.

Why didn't I think to ask him sooner?!?

Doorman - "Morrie, I have this watch that I need to ship. Can you help me out?"

He stares at me, unsure if this were a trick questions, as he chews on his Marlboro Light.

Morrie - "So take it to the fucking post office."

Doorman - "No, I know. But do you have, like, a box or something? Maybe one you can loan me? Like a box for watches?"

Morrie - "You serious?"

I realize how dumb I sound. But I need to finance my web series, so I just fucking own it.

Doorman - "Yep, I've never sent a package in my life and I have no idea what I'm doing."

He looks at me for a few beats, then dryly laughs through the two-pack-a day cake of phlegm lodged in his throat.

Morrie - "So, let me get this straight - you sold the watch on eBay. You paid eBay the 10% fee. And now you're going to spend, what, another ten dollars on shipping the fucking thing?"

You know when you're already aware of how stupid you are, then someone fleshes out every. single. thing. you're feeling bad about? And every bullet point they bring up, just grinds at your teeth and puts a pit in your stomach? That's what happened there. I knew I was barely making a profit here, but chose not to think about it. Then he came in with the dagger:

Morrie - 'How much did you sell it for?"

I tell him. I won't put it on here, because it's awful. Make an educated guess, then subtract that by 50%. You'll probably have the answer.

Morrie - "Are you kidding?!? Why didn't you come to me?!? I would have given you the cash and used it for parts!"

Mother fucker. 

He takes the watch from me.

Morrie - "Here, I'll box it for you."

My eyes light up.

Doorman - "Great, so the postman will pick it up from here???"

Morrie - "Fuck no!"

Doorman - "Wait, so I still have to go to the post office?!?"

Morrie - "Of course!"

Son of a bitch. 

Stay tuned for the conclusion of Doorman Goes to the Post Office!!!

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