I admit to being sort of (which is man-speak for completely, or utterly) ignorant to the ways of the post office. I would rather grocery shop than go to the post office and for those of you who have read my previous diatribe on men and grocery shopping, that will give you a pretty good idea of where on the great spectrum of chores going to the post office lies for me.
I had to go to the post office yesterday to ship off the controller for my HVAC in the car for repair. Imagine my surprise when it was on my porch today, looking just like it did when it left my hand (along with $11.20 of my money) one day hence.
This blog post is not about the post office, or about me being an idiot. Essentially, this is all expository and so if you want to get to the point you can read the essence down lower. For those of you who have time for more than the Cliff's notes, carry on.
Yesterday, I apparently exercised my inner idiot by placing the to and from labels in an odd arrangement. This was met with kindness by the post office lady who moved the labels around and assured me all would be well.
Well... you already know the punchline to that joke. Today, I expected a fight and instead another very nice person set me all up and we resent the package with nothing more than a 5 minute investment in my time. No money changed hands. I even got an apology, for something that my wife tells me was my fault to begin with. Maybe the post office isn't so bad after all!
Except you know if I am writing about it, there is something that went awry or jumped down my body cavity and died there.
And that would be the old man, shirt and hair flying almost comically in the stiff warm breeze who made a bee-line for me as I parked. I knew what was coming. I had been engaged. there was no turning back. I tensed and puckered waiting for the bum's rush as it were.
A little background before we continue. I hate being panhandled. It puts me in the unfair position of having, at least on the face of it, no compassion for my fellow man. And that is just not true. A goodly amount of our household income is devoted to buying groceries for the food bank, donating money to same, and providing fully prepared and rounded out meals to those less fortunate through a program at our church.
But you can't explain all that to the disenfranchised man whose circle of influence is conveniently located between two liquor stores.
Here he was approaching me, moving against the wind with remarkable alacrity all things considered.
"Hey, buddy, you got a couple bucks you can spare?"
A couple bucks! What happened to spare change? This guy wasn't exactly working the most prominent and well-to-do corner in the world. I mean, this is a neighborhood where certain sex acts probably only cost a couple spare bucks.
"I got nothing for you, sorry," I said as I blew past him with my box blocking between us in my weak hand in case I had to swing with my strong one.
He had the audacity to make some sort of comment, but luckily for us both, it was lost on the wind and he turned around dejected and headed back for the corner.
It really is sad that anyone in the wealthiest nation on our planet lives like that. But in Grand Rapids we have places for people to go. They can get help. Our church offers day labor at regular intervals where people can make some cash for four hours of work. The only thing not offered are drugs and alcohol. Nobody needs to be on a corner begging in this town. You choose to be on the corner begging for money; and my compassion ends at that line.
And I still feel terrible; for not knowing how to act, for not holding the man to my bosom and praying to the spirit of Mother Theresa to wash over me and to cure this man of his ills. But that isn't me. Instead I am made to suffer in my WASPy guilt for hours after the fact.
Which makes it even worse as I go back and re-read my rant. I have made this all about how bad it was for me when I got in my new car and drove back the quiet streets of my nice neighborhood and reentered my house and resumed my life.
He is still out there on the corner. Looking for something that once he finds it, won't do anything to help him be better tomorrow.
This is the world we live in. I am going to do my part. From this day forward, I am making a proclamation. Never again will I go the the post office. That ought to do it.
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