comedy at the post office.

Every time I go to the Post Office something absurd happens. Last time a woman had a seizure and I called 911. I should write an entire blog about trips to the Post Office. There are three workers there: Joanne, Darius and this other guy at whose counter I never end up.

I am in the process of trying to procure an agent for the novel I spent the last year and a half writing. Some agents require e-mail submissions: a query letter pitching the story, a synopsis of the plot, a few chapters. It's all very simple by e-mail. About half of the agents, however, have remained in the old school and require hard copy submissions. I think I like this better, but it's complicated. In this case, you print and mail all of the elements, though it's a bit more tricky because they have to be precisely and perfectly printed with proper margins, spacing and pagination. I have recently acquired a printer (phew), but when it comes to sending out 50 pages of the book, I'd rather use a copy machine.

Today I went to the post office to mail out 4 query packages to various literary agents from California to New York City. The first two only required a query, synopsis and SASE, saying that they would let the writer know if they wanted to see more. Hmm. The other two required those first 50 pages. I printed one set and headed to the Post Office to make copies for the other query.

Joanne is a tall, formidable African American woman with these great big beautiful eyes and a laugh that carries down the hall, past the post office boxes, and out the front door. She makes fun of me each and every time I come, though it is she that wears purple nail polish and lip stick. I like her a lot. I had to purchase the envelopes for the large packet submissions, but didn't have cash for the very archaic copy machine (the kind that costs 15 cents a copy, only takes change or $1.00 bills, and allows you to lay one page on the screen at a time underneath of the folding top... can you picture it?) I paid to send a package to a friend and got $20 cash back, informing Joanne that I'd need ten $1 bills and one $10 bill. She gave me one of those "You've gotta be kidding me" looks.

"I don't have that kind of change! What do you take me for?"

"Joanne, look. I am trying to get a book published here. You've got to help me."

"You wrote a book?"

"Yes."

"Wow. Alright, here. Take five $1 bills. That's the best I can do."

Fine. One thing about Joanne--you can't be meek. You've got to be a bull dog.

Fifteen minutes later I get through 30 of the 50 pages and my dollars run out. Fantastic. I go back to Joanne, apologetically holding up the $5 bill.

"Please change this to ones for me."

"No!"

"Yes! Please, I need you to."

Dramatic roll of the eyes. "I'm not going to have ANY one dollar bills left, girl! What am I supposed to do."

I shrug with wide eyes.

Huge sigh. She gives me the ones. I finish the job, return to Joanne to check out and ship the parcels.

"You need a signature on these?"

"Nope."

"You sure?" She's concerned, knowing the value of my work.

"Yeah," I say. I'm too poor, I think.

"Alright. It's $5.97. Listen, you owe me for this."

"I know. Thanks," I reply.

"Bring me a smoothie or something. I'm parched. It's hot out."

"Mhmm."

I'll take her one, too. Later today.