Our post office puts the snooze in ?snail mail.? Although it has three bays, each equipped with a pull-down window of frosted glass, there is never more than one window open at a time. Unless, of course it is the winter holiday season when they lube up the rusty hinges of window #2 and shove her cranky-ass open. In fifteen years I?ve never seen the third window open. Never.

Not when a line stretches out the door.

Not mid-summer when tourists flood the post office for stamps and then decide to ask for directions and restaurant recommendations, just cause, you know, why not?

Not at lunch time.

This last one is the piece de resistance. Lunch time in these here parts is 12 ? 1. Twelve to One. New Englanders may be dull but lord if they aren?t predictable. It?s as if a supersonic Fred Flintstone whistle goes off at noon each weekday that only town residents can hear. The sidewalks that were empty moments before are suddenly peopled with carpenters, bankers, old people dressed in the most peculiar garb, hair dressers, retailers, and me. All of us collect our mail from our boxes in the P.O. so things tend to get quite busy in there on a regular, predictable basis.

Almost begs the question, why wouldn?t they open a second f*cking window at noon? That is, if I had an inquiring mind, which I don?t.

Today, I had no need of the window?just needed a pen. Unfortunately, the pen chained to the wooden bar by the window where you can dash off checks, or birthday cards, or a post secret was not working. I broke into the head of the line and asked Randy (yes, we all know each other by name)* for a pen.

When I returned his pen, I said to Randy, ?the pen over there doesn?t work.?

To which he replied, ?Yes, we?re going to get someone on that--should be fixed by next week.?

And he said that to me in utter seriousness-- which made my day. Or, so I thought.

Because after I parked my car and began walking toward the building where I work, I said hello in passing to a guy also walking out of the parking lot. A woman behind me, who I couldn?t see so there was no need for her to even say hello, because you know it was all just like, hey how ya? doing as we cross paths, calls out:

Woman (to me): Hey!

I stop. Turn. Smile politely.

Woman: How are you? *she puzzles a moment* Brenda?

Me: Sorry.

Woman: Sue?

Me: *shakes head*

Woman: Oh I?m so sorry?it?s Deborah, isn?t it?

Me: Nope. But you can call me Pretty.

She laughs and walks off with the guy and I hear her say to him, ?God, I swear I know her name.?

*To illustrate just how well we all know each other. When I moved up here from Cambridge, I lived on campus at a local boarding school and my mailing address was two towns away. I didn?t live here. I dated a guy here--very, very unobtrusively. Or so I thought, until one day a package was put into T?s box that had only my name on it and his zip code?it didn?t even have his address on it or any reference to him at all. It kind of freaked me out.

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