I mentioned recently that I’m selling some books on Half.com. Just as an FYI, I’ve already sold 3 books (all paperback, one “good” condition and two “acceptable”) and netted roughly $9. That compares with the $26 I received from the miserly used bookstore for around 20 cherry-picked (read: excellent condition) books including five hardcovers. I’ll leave it to the reader to work out which way comes out better.
I had another one to deliver today at lunch so I swungded (new word, go with it… let’s see if we can start a “meme.” I’m so excited!) into the Post Office as I have many times before. I had the book all ready to go, wrapped as cheaply as possible — I’m reusing some pretty nice, multi-layer brown-paper stuff that the previous owner of my new house left for us to wrap stuff for moving — with the packing slip stuck between some pages. Again, I’ve done this before but not at this post office.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I need to send this book rate, please. No insurance, no delivery confirmation,” I reply. (Note: there’s very little margin on a $2.42 book sale.)
“We have to have book rate packages unsealed so we can verify the contents.”
Imagine blinks. My blinks. Several of them.
From the shape and feel of the form-fitting parcel one could imagine that I was shipping one of two things: a paperback book or a paperback book. Oddly, it was a paperback book.
“What are my options?”
“$3.89 for fourth-class, $3.95 for first-class.”
Imagine incredulous blinks. I pick up the book and start heading out the door. I’m frankly stunned. I regain some composure and turn around and ask “So I’m supposed to bring my book and packing materials here, bring them up to the desk unwrapped, have it verified that, ‘Yes, Victoria, it’s a book,’ then wrap them in your presence and pay in order to get the book rate?”
“Well, you can leave one end open so we can verify it.”
I little further thinking and “do you have packing tape here?”
“We sell these little strips [to imbecilic mouth-breathers like yourself] for 13 cents.”
So, I head off into the corner, slice through the tape so the wizened troll can peer into the end of my book looking for drugs, illicit funds, foot-long vibrators… whatever he suspects me of secreting in the pages of my used book. (Of course, this being The Real World, 13 people enter and form a line in the time it takes for him to inform me of this Draconian scheme.) He actually asked me if the packing slip — which he carefully ferreted out from the pages — was a letter.
“No, asshound, it’s secret instructions to my revolutionary brethren in Guatemala.”
I think next time I will bring in a sheaf of Post-It Notes and carefully, meticulously wrap the book in Post-Its one at a time, right at his desk. I want a line formed the likes of which haven’t been seen since N’Sync signed autographs at the Dubuque Super-Walmart. I’ll bring a camera.
It’s all in the post office. There’s this very cranky looking (but actually lovely) enormous older woman in the branch near my office. She’s a sweetheart in disguise. She couldn’t care any less about postal regulations than I do. I say, “it’s a book.” She says, “ggkjrrrrrr…” and takes my money.
I guess I should add that it wasn’t like they were asking anybody else in line to fork over their shoes at that moment. The guard just gave me a look like “I know it’s stupid, buddy… just don’t hassle me about it, please.”
I’d like to see someone wear clown shoes or a new pair of Reebok “Terrorist Cell” sneakers into the airport. (Slogan: “Win at any cost.”) When they’re handed to the security officer, the owner should just turn around and walk back in the direction they came from.
If I give them my shoes and leave the terminal, have I violated some obscure new law? (Not that I’d take the chance of being shot in the back.)
Your experience reminds me of one that I had last week at the Phoenix airport. I have a pair of casual dress shoes that I deliberately wear when “flying the friendly skies.” They’ve made it through numerous metal detectors and scanners without incident. I have a high confidence level that they contain no explosive materials.
As I approach the security checkpoint, the guard asks me to remove my shoes. I politely explain to him that they contain no metal and made it through previous scans. He then proceeds to inform me that “we now inspect shoes based on their size and shape.” No joke.
Apparently, the well-dressed terrorist is now shopping at the same place where I buy my bomb-shaped size 11 loafers.
‘Teh wife’ has informed me that this is SOP at most post offices now. Additionally, if you include anything that resembles a letter they won’t let you use the media rate. Go figure.
That would be the lovely Hillsborough Street location. These are the same people that delight in informing me that you may no longer send games out as media mail. I say bring back the Pony Express.
What the hell?! Which post office was it?