Wretchedly Oblivious

Stopped by the post office this morning (it’s the wealthiest zip in an outer ring burb of a dying city).  There was a short line and I had a package notice.  Two clerks, one male, one female.  A blonde woman (5’6″, two teenagers in tow) was in front of the male clerk with a sheaf of papers.  I’ll amend that expensive blonde hair (it was the first thing I noticed) and she was wearing a green top with khaki shorts, with nice tanned legs.  This is an approximation of the conversation; it’s 9:30AM)

W. Hi, I need to speak with Rose, the postmaster about these passport applications

C.  Rose isn’t here.  She’s in our other building because she has to be there until the routes go out.

W. She’s supposed to be here.  She told me she’d be here.  I need to get these passport applications done.

C. She’s not here.

W. Well, I was told to deal only with her.  Can’t you get her here?

C. I’ll get you her phone number and you can call her.  (vanishes, returns with paper; gives it to woman)

W. Can you call her?  My daughter has my phone.   (one of the teenagers has wandered out to the front on the store) (why would anyone let their teenager walk away with the teenager’s phone and her own phone?)  There is no telephone in the clerk’s area.  It would also be a simple matter to ask the teenager to return with the phone.

C. You can call her and she’ll help you with this.

W. Can you call her?  I’m supposed to deal only with her.  I’m supposed to get a refund.  (Teenager still hasn’t returned).  She’s supposed to be here this morning.

By now she’s plainly put out with the clerk, as if he’s got something to do with her problem, and there’s no one else in the world.