Scene: U.S. Postal Service (USPS) Post Office, Carousel Center.
I walk to the counter and see three young people preparing a mass mailing, putting address labels or stamps (or both) on postcard mailers. It's not the counter where you make your purchases, but a counter where people fill out addresses, write bills, wrap packages, that sort of thing. This trio has hundreds of cards they're working on. I'm doing some paperwork of my own, listening. One young gal decries Syracuse. "I mean, why would anyone want to live here? There's nothing for artists." Not true, in my view, but I keep quiet. The three are working fast, but seem to be having a good time, openly chatting with each other. I get in line. (USPS lines are notoriously slow, and the USPS is dreadful when it comes to being customer-oriented. Lunchtime and a line of 533 people? Sorry. One staff person to serve you. Need one lovely stamp? Sorry. You must buy 20. Or use the machine, which provides no stamps.) My wife and daughter come in as I am waiting in line and bantering with The Trio, whose leader is blonde, attractive (of course). (Yes, The Laughorist Dawg's tail is wagging and his tongue is lolling; i.e., I'm shamelessly flirting.) "Hey, these folks will pay you to work for 'em," I joke so that my daughter hears and so does The Trio. They laugh but don't offer my young one the job. "Yeah, we've got to get these out before closing," Blonde Entrepreneurial Leader (BEL ) reveals. "What are selling, you entrepreneurs?" I chirpily inquire. BEL, sporting shiny eyeliner, replies, "Permanent makeup." I hardly know what that is, but later my wife and daughter give me the lowdown. "We've got to get all these out by closing." [Closing is 9 p.m., about 35 minutes away.] "Where'd you get your address list from? Did you buy it?" "They're my customers, all 850 of them," BEL says. Detecting a maybe-but-not-so-sure-of-it British accent, I cheekily, rudely, and teasingly add, "And where'd you get your fake British accent from?" while already regretting it and sensing the pie hurling toward my face. "It's Australian. I'm Australian, ya mongrel!" But she says it for effect, with a smile, and we all laugh. Heartily. Especially me. It was funny. She took no prisoners. I deserved it. It seemed everyone had a good time with it. (Except for the stoic, expressionless older woman across from me, whose face declared, like a billboard: "You mongrel cad!") Ah, The Laughorist strikes again. In public, this time. Now you can see why my profile photo is accurate after all. p.s. I love that movie, My Life as a Dog.
