The Strike’s End

Who cares? At this point, I can't even concern myself with the minutiae that comes with these things. The union, the city, the workers, the birds, the bees. Please. But it's finally over. I hear the trains will be back to normal sometime in the middle of the night. But like I said. Who cares? If this thing doesn't make transplants into true New Yorkers, I don't know what would. Of course, a simple glare at a stupid woman in line at the post office doesn't have that much of an effect. So I went a little further this time. When I arrived at the Soho post office this afternoon, there was a long line. Not cool. After looking around the joint, wishing I could find a shortcut of some sort, I settled in, pissed off, and began the long wait for my turn. And then I heard the voice. This fuckin' bitch in her mid-fifties (although I'd even put money on her being much older) with a badly chosen auburn for her hair color was on her circa 2001 Nokia cell phone. She was talking to Theresa from T-Mobile. Loudly. How did I know she was talking to her cell-phone provider? Because she kept moaning about some shit having been going on since Tuesday and she didn't want to have to spend her minutes and she called last Tuesday and the person she talked to promised to report the service interruptions and she should have no more problems but here she is standing in line at the post office having nothing but problems and pleading with Theresa to help her out. But Theresa put her on hold. Silence. It was golden. And then Theresa came back. And the auburn-hair-colored bitch in her mid-fifties who easily could have been in her mid-sixties starts over again. THERESA THIS CAN'T HAPPEN ANYMORE I KEEP SPENDING MY MINUTES ON THIS AND THEY TOLD ME ON TUESDAY THAT I WOULD GET A TROUBLE TICKET (or some shit like that) AND CAN YOU PLEASE MAKE SURE THIS GETS TAKEN CARE OF BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO HAVE THIS KIND OF TROUBLE ANYMORE BECAUSE IT'S BEEN GOING ON FOR DAYS AND .....I'm the only one in the world who has issues with cell phones and are therefore the only one who deserves to be treated as though I'm the only customer in the world..... People were looking. Sideways glances every so often in the hopes of getting her attention. Because maybe then she'd hang up the goddamn phone out of respect for the 1,700 people who were waiting to mail their parcels. Thirty minutes later and I had moved about ten feet. And she was still on the phone. I'd had it. We made eye contact thrice. And it wasn't normal eye contact. It was, "Get off the phone or I'm gonna whoop your ass," kinda eye contact. It didn't work. She turned back around and proceeded with Theresa. So I stepped out of line and took the phone out of her hand. I looked at her one last time before I placed it calmly on the floor. Then, with all my 200 pounds of might, slammed my right foot down on it as hard as I could. I then took her by her auburn-colored hair and yanked her head into the counter she was leaning against. Ok, no I didn't. But I wanted to. And I pictured it. I really did. And it felt fucking good to see her suffering in my head. She did finally get off the phone. Thirty minutes after I arrived. I'm sure Theresa and her co-workers had a good laugh. A few minutes later, she whipped out her relic of a phone and called Bob. Her whining continued. Been at the post office for an hour. Like none of us had been. We made more eye contact. She made it to the window. Done. Finally. I was one person away from my turn. And I heard her voice again. She just couldn't stay off the phone. And more significantly, she couldn't, seemingly wouldn't, get the fuck out of the post office. I was there simply to mail a letter. "Is there anything fragile in here that can be damaged in transit?" the post office clerk guy asked. I looked at him, heated still a little from the stupid woman, and said it would fly just fine. "At least you have a sense of humor about it all." "I have to, he said, or else I'd go...I'd go...." "Postal?" "Yeah." He laughed. I smiled. Then he took it back. Most likely in the event that he does go postal. The strike is over. Stress can return to its normal New York levels.