post office train station

first off, a kid in class today called me a fucking pussy. i kicked him out of class for something else and he was mad and muttered it as he walked past me. generally, i deal with evil language in the classroom. it is rare that kids say anything directly to me, but when they do it's usually "you're such a bitch". my response is generally "i'm well aware of that. do you have anything new to contribute to the class?"

after school i went to the post office to mail a package. i did not go to the post office in my neighborhood because i have considered whether i could get away with stabbing someone each time i've been inside the place. so i went to another one. three people in line. two people behind the bulletproof glass. evidently this is a stressful ratio for the postal folk. ten minutes later the little bell dings and the arrow lights up pointing left. i go left. the troll behind the glass snarls, "i''m closed!" i say, "but the bell and the arrow..." as i am saying this, the bell dings again and the light points left. i point at it. there is no other clerk on the left and she has to be pushing the button to signal the bell and light. she does not address this issue. "i'm closed!" she howls. i attempt, through three more bells and lights, to explain that her hideous self is sitting at a window that says "open" and the stupid bell and light keep saying she's open. the other clerk has been with the same person since i walked in. eventually, i walk out in disgust.

i turn a corner and see a woman teetering on ill-fitting high heeled boots. she's maybe 40 with a bag full of groceries and a horrible pleather coat. i walk behind her half a block before the faceplant. it sounds horrible. bananas, cucumbers, onions, papers everywhere. i help her up. she is physically fine but is nearly in tears. she thanks and thanks and thanks, says she fell a few weeks ago. once she's standing i help her get the food back in her bag. she only lives a block away. it isn't likely she'll make it home.

post office two. three clerks and fifteen people in line. the clerks are rowdy, yelling across the room to each other, cackling. one calls everyone baby. the old men like this more than anyone. this is my second favorite post office. although it is wild, i know i'll be out in ten minutes, even if the line is out the door. i am finally second from the windows when the woman in front of me sees a package on the table. she asks the woman at the window if it's hers. it isn't. we look. it is a small item in a padded envelope. small but fat. it has an address in very weak handwriting with no zip code. there is no return address. the envelope is poorly sealed. the woman in front of me is uncomfortable. i am a paranoid person so i am even more uncomfortable. i get tunnel vision. we come up with the same solution at the same time. we talk loudly about the unclaimed package sitting a foot from us at chest level. we wonder loudly what it could be and who might have left it. we live in a town where people are still slightly on edge. we don't think of ourselves as on edge, but this morning someone exploded a small bomb somewhere around times square and we felt uneasy coming to work on the trains. there is nothing really to be done about it, so we don't go all out. we don't panic. we just keep a reserve of unease and suspiciousness. finally, a clerk says, "some man stole a guy's wallet and now he's trying to mail it back to the guy. i ain't about to touch it". i mail my package and am out in ten minutes.

subway platform. it is about five pm on a southbound underground platform in brooklyn. there is a woman on my side of the platform who looks like a soccer mom with an unsuccessful bid to bring back the early eighties, at least in terms of fashion. she is heavy, but only through the hips. they are three times a wide as any other part of her. this does not help her look. she is muttering across the tracks angrily. her target is a man who makes me question miles davis' death. he doesn't look like the man. he is. right down to the suit. the hair. the shoes. her muttering intensifies and she screams "DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT IMMIGRATION?"

i get on the train, tired because i've been up since five am, mostly standing and talking. nobody screams. nobody shakes. nobody slaps a child in the face. there are no terrifying lectures about jesus, the trains or impending doom. no homeless people near death. nobody is whispering about bombs,guns, knives. the train is not even crowded. only a few of us are standing. i lean against the pole, rest my head on it. a man get up and gives me his seat.