I am not usually huffy about lines. They are understandable, they are unavoidable, and they are supremely democratic. But my wait to express mail my POS phone back to the hellpit whence it came was an exception for several unimpeachable reasons:
1. I was only on the line because the self-service machine told me on step 9 of 10 that it could not perform its function. All line time was in excess of what ought to have been.
2. There is an unwritten code of conduct for DMVs, subways, and post offices, and it is predicated on the idea that nobody wants to be there and that if we all do our parts each of us can pretend we aren't. This requires that we do not take up more space than we need, we do not yap loudly on cellphones (especially when no one else in the room is talking at all) and we most emphatically do NOT sing along with any ambient music. ParTICularly a butchering of the wonderful "Got to Get You off My Mind". The woman in front of me on line was in flagrant violation of this code.
3. It was raining, and the gathering of wet people created an even more dank atmosphere than usual. This, while unpleasant, was not a problem. What WAS a problem, though, was that some bastard a few people ahead of me in line passed gas. Badly. And with the humidity in the room, the smell just hung there and we had no choice but to walk through and then stand in it. That is NOT right, it is NOT okay, and I damn near didn't make it anyway. When it hit, the man behind me in line had a look of such hurt and betrayal on his face that it bespoke not merely a nose but a soul in anguish. How could you, stranger on line? How could you?
When I finally left the post office (the whole thing took over an hour), it was with a feeling of great hatred. It had stopped raining, so I thought I would walk home and purge some angst. So there I was on the corner of Fulton St. beside a woman and her three girls, one in a stroller, when along comes some asshole booming down Fulton St. at at least 65 mph trying to beat a red light . . . and of course he swerves far right, goes through a massive puddle, and soaks us all before we can retreat.
To recap:
--Phoneless (still!)
--Shoddily customer serviced (trust me, that's how I wound up in the post office in the first place)
--Forced to walk through a fart-cloud
--Angry at learning too much about that chick's boyfriend's ex-girlfriend Shonda
--Covered in street water
NOT OKAY.