backforthmenu The Post Office. I need postcard stamps. “Next,” is the command from the window, the tone one of complete and total disinterest. I walk up. “Hullo, I need a sheet of 20 centers.” The woman is somewhere between forty and sixty. Short. Asian. She doesn’t look at me as she pulls out a sheet of American flag stamps and starts ringing me up on a black computer. “Ah, I’m sorry, can I get two sheets of ten cent stamps instead? Or maybe you have something more interesting... like those?” I point to a sheet of stamps with repeating red portraits of Sitting Bull. “More interesting? It’s just a face.” 5/5/95 The Post Office, Next Day. I need to mail something. There is one nice counter worker. I like it when I get her because she has a warm smile. But lines today are long and there are three open windows. Odds are against the smile. “Next.” I win, It’s her. “Hi, how are you today?” “All right I guess, thanks. I need to send this Book Rate.” I push a packet across to her. “Forth Class, huh? Same as usual, a book?” she asks. “Yup.” A door opens somewhere behind her and a swift cool breeze enters, blowing various papers about, then rushes through the counter window, over my face and beyond. Feels good, it’s hot in here. The door closes suddenly, killing the pleasant sensation. In its place are squeaky footsteps somewhere out of my sight. My nice clerk frowns at the sound, noticing that I hear it too. “My supervisor’s shoes. I hate them.” 5/6/95