DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

Five years ago, before moving out here into the boondocks, I went into the local Post Office to rent a Box. The postal clerk was the most engaging, friendly, honest and helpful person I’d met in weeks — of course, I’d been dealing almost exclusively with bankers, brokers, and real estate agents at the time, so perhaps this isn’t saying much. This guy made an impression, though.

Soon we moved here, and I ended up going to the post office every couple of days to pick up my mail, which for lack of available PO Boxes was being forwarded to “general delivery.” I suppose that option exists at every post office, but I don’t suppose clerks in big-city post offices recognize their customers and greet them by name, saying “Let me get your mail.” I felt like the theme song from Cheers. This became my “life in a small town” story (replaced over time with other warm-and-fuzzy small-town experiences like neighbors sharing produce and meeting reclusive local celebrities and the inevitable septic-tank pumping).

Years passed. I stopped going to the post office as often, because that would entail putting on shoes. But I noticed something that made me uncomfortable about my favorite postal clerk — I could swear I remembered his name, but the tag on his shirt said something else. Was he borrowing a shirt that day? It was unsettling, but again, I didn’t go to the post office too frequently any more, so I never built up enough data to be certain.

Another year or two passed. I’d given up on addressing the clerk, for fear of getting his name wrong. And he didn’t seem to recognize me any more, either. Until last week… when he saw me come in, pushed away the little sign at his station reading “closed”, and called out a hearty greeting. “Is it Matthew or Michael?” he asked me, which made me laugh because often my parents (who have sons named Matthew and Michael) ask me the same thing. But here’s the impressive part — from the dregs of neglected synapses I managed to recover the clerk’s original name, the one he’d introduced himself to me as, and the mysterious shirt-name from years later, and asked him the same question back. I was extremely impressed with myself. It turns out that both the names I remembered were correct; the clerk had changed his name in the year after I moved here. And, he got new shirts.

Anyway, it was “nice to be seen,” as a friend used to say.