9:15 AM, May 2, Downtown Berkeley Post Office
I was in line to buy a stamped envelope. The first of the month had come and gone, and I needed to mail my rent.
Including the clerk, I was one of three people total at the post office. After about five minutes, four other people came in. They each pulled a number from the ticket dispenser beside the clerk and then formed a line behind me. The clerk finished helping the woman ahead of me, and then it was my turn.
“Number 98!”
“Good morning, I’d like one stamped envelope, please,” I said.
“Are you number 98?”
“I am not a number,” I joked.
“Where is your number?”
I paused. “You saw I was waiting in line.”
“I can’t help you without a number, so you can take one and get back in line.”
“For one stamped envelope? You really didn’t see me standing here?”
“You need a number to be served. Maybe you’ll remember that for next time.”
The guy behind me piped up. “He was here before any of the rest of us.”
The clerk frowned. “This time, I’ll help you, but you can’t just stand in line without a number. One stamped envelope?”
As children, some people dream of being astronauts and then grow up to become actuaries. Others dream of being God and grow up to be postal clerks.
