Princeton Boy At The Post Office

I've spent a lot of time at the post office recently. I mailed a book to a friend, express mailed something else, and today, I bought more of these cute superhero stamps. You know, stuff you do at the post office. Oh and you also stand in line forever and watch people, without making it seem like you're watching them.

One blond twenty-something man I saw , looking like a scion of privilege with his Princeton t-shirt, dark wash jeans and flip flops, really caught my eye today. Or rather my ear.

"Why isn't my f***king package here? Look at the f***ing package slip! It says right here to come pick it up here at the counter!"

The incredibly calm postal employee behind the counter spoke in a very low voice but it sounded like she was explaining that the package had been taken out on the mail truck again to be delivered at the address on the slip. To which, Cusser-Outer Princeton Boy replied, "Well there's NO ONE f***ing home, now is there? Because I'M RIGHT HERE! I want to see the manager RIGHT NOW!"

I guess he either a) watches too many Tarantino movies or b) missed all those stories of post office workers going postal.

The manager came and said they were trying to locate the package and asked Cusser-Outer Princeton Boy to wait a few minutes while they contacted the driver of the truck and got the package back. Princeton Boy sighed dramatically and then proceeded to whip out his cell phone and call up his friends to complain.

The first attempt to talk trash about the post-office went like this: "Yeah, dude, I'm at the f***ing post-office. This bi***h doesn't have my f***ing package! Oh, ok, you're busy. Ok. Yeah. Call me later. Bye."

He then muttered to himself, "A**hole!"

I'm still not sure if he was talking about himself or his busy friend.

Another number was quickly dialed. This friend was a more sympathetic ear, and, along with all the rest of us, got treated to the extended remix version of, "Yeah, dude, I'm at the f***ing post-office. This bi***h doesn't have my f***ing package!" Cusser-Outer Princeton Boy also felt the need to include the details of what he felt to be the incompetence demonstrated by the post office employee who'd tried to help him. "This stupid b***h said my package is out on a truck!"

And a few seconds later, this gem, "Yeah, I bet she didn't even graduate from high school."

I know she could hear him. He was only two or three yards away from her. After all, I could hear him and I was all the way on the other side of the room. I scanned the waiting line and the faces behind me looked nonchalantly bored, annoyed or else panicked over whether they'd correctly filled out the post office mailing and shipping labels. Nobody told this guy to watch his language or his manners, including yours truly.

As I got closer to the front of the line, I began to tune our insulting Princeton Boy out. Lost in my own thoughts, I started to wonder how it was that the postal employee and her manager both kept their cool. I wondered if they're used to that sort of behavior from customers and so it just rolls off of them. I started to wonder why they didn't have a security guard escort Princeton Boy off the premises with an admonition to get some class and better manners the next time he gets a $100,000 education.

I started to wonder if he would have been treated so well if he hadn't been a white guy with a Princeton t-shirt on.

When it was my turn to approach the counter, I ended up getting the same postal employee that had waited on Princeton Boy. She seemed relieved to hear that all I wanted was a sheet of superhero stamps. I asked her how her day was going and, without batting an eye, she said it was going just fine. She smiled heartily as she told me to have a nice day.

Princeton Boy still stood a few feet away, rambling on his cell phone about a property he was buying. I am clearly not so generous hearted as the postal employee. I wanted to kick him as I walked past him. I hope his package fell off the mail truck and got hit by a Hummer.