Postal Hemoraging

Our Japanese honeymoon required it, so I applied for my passport today. I tried yesterday, but the homemade passport photos I brought weren't up to government standards. When I returned today, with photos of my smaller head, the line was long.

From yesterday's visit, I knew there was only one passport agent at the post office: Sunni. Sunni isn't Asian, as her name might suggest, so she probably doesn't want my baby. Think roadside diner, heavy make up, bleach blond, wicked wit, and short temper. Even when she was being nice, she was mean. I suppose that comes with working a government job and constantly dealing with cranky, service deprived customers.

Luckily, the passport situation is a lot better than it was this time last year. Compared to the solitary month I'll be waiting, the process once took over six months, ruining vacation plans across the country. Even though we decided our Honeymoon would take place in Tokyo four months ago, I have been planning on obtaining my passport for over a year. Why did it take me so long? I wanted a thinner, less puffy me in the passport photo. Instead of waiting for that magical transformation to svelte, I satisfied my need for visual perfection by digitally clearing blemishes on my passport photo.

If you've ever been to the post office, you know the service is light and show up expecting a wait. There is a reason the phrase "Going postal" exists, so treading lightly is an attractive precaution. Luckily I've been reading a lot, and had a book handy. Ten minutes in, my reading was interrupted by a vocally hot tempered patron. "Can somebody help me?" and "Why do all the clerks leave when they see a line form?" were shouted with guttural intensity, making me wish I had worn my kevlar vest today. Sunni didn't yell, but her responses were angry, deliberate, and it was obvious she didn't care about fueling his quick fuse temper. As his face turned different, brighter shades of red, another waiting customer calmed him down with expertise and confidence. Perhaps he was a hostage negotiator by profession. That or a postal worker planted to diffuse such situations.

"Rough day" I said smiling, as Sunni inspected my passport papers. Half of me wanted to be the good guy, and the other half wanted any schemes of passive retaliation directed toward something besides my passport application. Sunni smiled back, talked about how it was worse at eight-thirty when she was the only clerk on hand, and seemed generally pleased that the yelling had passed. Actually, she seemed un-phased by the yelling. Could it be so common place that she could shrug it off with such little effort and in so little time?

You give what you get is an old, vague phrase. Smiling at a stranger will warrant a similar response; Frowning while looking at your feet will conveys and produce a different one. When I have the clarity, I can avoid being affected by the legions of angry, spiteful, and temperamental masses. But I'm not immune.

When I wrote a check out for the wrong amount, Sunni angrily brought it to my attention. Then I was told my sloppy, retail affected signature would not cut it. I raised my right hand, listening to Sunni spout off her familiar government verse, swearing to the legitimacy of the submitted information and wondered if her anger, which showed obviously while on the clock, was apparent during her evenings off.