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Max walked up to the local post office to mail off a used college textbook someone named Luke Prego ordered on Amazon.com. But before he could make it through the automatic doors, a hard-faced, black woman of about 40 years asked if he had ten dollars. He shook his head.
One look into her eyes and Max was scared. Although he could see well over her head, she looked like she could hold her own; like she might beat the change out of the 50 and 20 dollar bill he carried in his wallet if he rejected her request.
Max made a quick examination of the woman as she spoke about needing money to tide her over for the week: The left side of her head was gelled, while the hair on the right side slightly stuck out. She had a busted lip, looked as though she just awoke from slumber and smelled of heavy cigarette smoke.
“I’ve got to make change.” Max wish he hadn’t said anything, because after he walked in the building, the woman hollered, “All right! I’ll be waiting outside!”
“Shoot,” he murmured to himself. {I hope I didn’t hear right}. Italics.
Usually, the line inside the local post office in Reyman City, Leighwood is nearly outside the door around noon, five days a week, but Max was amazed to see that it was much shorter. The book he was to sell, “The Broadview Anthology of British Literature: Volume 1: The Medieval Period,” was a flimsy book of light red and yellow and black. Its pages were slightly dirty and upturned and the cover had minor scratches. Max would’ve sold it online for $25, but decided to be extra generous and sell it much cheaper for $15 because of the condition it was in and because he was a college student himself who needed money to buy supplies for the next semester. Had Amazon not detracted a nice sum from his earnings for profit, $4.14 to be exact, he would’ve received the entire $15, but was happy regardless that he was getting “some” commission.
As the men and women behind the counter occasionally said “Next,” Max scanned the various boxes and envelopes that were placed neatly on racks and propped against walls. He looked to see which was big enough for his book to fit inside. He also – although he didn’t want anyone to know it – scanned for the specific Express products that he used for mailing, such as Express Mail (not the Small, Medium or Large Flat Rate boxes, or the Flat Rate Mailing envelope, for he did not know where to sign and what was supposed to go in them), Priority and First Class.
To his disappointment, initially, he didn’t see any of the products he used for mailing. But to act as though he knew what he was looking for and to conceal his desperation, he searched casually, trying to find the boxes and envelopes that were familiar to him, instead of things that seemed alien.
Why were there so many boxes and envelopes? he questioned mentally.
Meanwhile, one of the men behind the counter was on a roll.
“Next,” he said. An elderly woman was waited on and then a young woman. The line was moving. Before long, only five people were in front of him.
Max walked around to the side of one rack that held Priority Mail of all kinds: Priority Mail Legal Size Envelope, Priority Mail APO/FPO Envelope, Priority Mail Address label, Priority Flat Rate Envelope.
{Which is which?} Italics. He was frustrated. {Is this it?} Max hated to drive all the way to the Post Office for nothing. Or rather to find out that there were cardboards of Express Mail everywhere, but not the ones he were used to using. Suppose he asked the woman with the child behind him, “Excuse me. I have a book that I’m trying to mail off. I don’t really know which piece of Express Mail to use. I mean, I’ve done this before, but, I was wondering, do you know which envelope or box I should use for my textbook?” “Thank you.”
Suppose the woman replied mortifyingly and loud for everyone to hear: You mean to tell me you don’t know how to mail a book. How old are you?
Or suppose the woman did help him. Well, it didn’t matter anyway. Max quickly concluded that he wouldn’t have had any nerves left to ask the second question, which would’ve been “Do I sign my name, address, City and zip here?”
Suppose was the word for the hour and the time, which was 12:22. Max decided to look around again. {There’s gotta be something else, besides all this other Express crap.} Italics. {Like the Bubble Mailer kind.}
Nearby there was a counter, where a long container of approximately four slots held slips of paper of all kinds for mailing, including Receipt for Certified Mail, Return Receipt, Signature Confirmation Form and Domestic Insurance Receipt.
{No, that’s not it.} Italics.
He widened his eyes and looked real hard in the same section he stood at for a few minutes, until his eyes came across Ready Post Bubble Mailer, something else he was “used to.”
{Finally.} Italics. {Thank God.}
Never was Max so relieved. Not just for finding the package, but for being spared the embarrassment of having to ask someone something he should already know at the age of 24.
He eased the book inside and sealed the package shut with the stickiness provided at the top. He then filled out his information and Luke Prego’s information on the outside. He was called up, waited on and out the door in a flash. Just then he remembered the woman with the hard face who said she would be “waiting outside” for him. After not seeing her right away, he thought she probably meant she was waiting for someone else, or she asked someone else for money already and just gave up waiting for him. But then, his hopes were low in an instant after spotting her walking behind an SUV in the parking lot. Apparently, she didn’t see him at first. She was looking off somewhere, into traffic it seemed like.
He thought about ducking and running, but decided to power walk, when she saw him.
“Hey, sir!” the woman yelled loudly.
{Aw, man.} Italics.
Max reluctantly walked over and smiled, hating to give money to some woman he just met. By now, the woman was holding a cigarette between two fingers, and for a moment, he wondered where she got the cigarette from. Like his mother said about people who beg, (or some people anyway), “If they can find money for cigarettes, then they can find money for food, or whatever.”
“Uh, how much did you need?” he couldn’t believe he was asking this, but yet he could. Both his parents said Max – because of his nice face and overly generous behavior – was an easy target for ANYONE asking for ANYTHING. All they had to do was feed him a couple of lines from a sob story and watch him eat it up and take it in. He knew he was weak and hated the fact that he didn’t quite know how to say no. All his life he’d been this way. Even in middle and high school.
If friends, associates and (of course) bullies asked for supplies or money, he’d give them well over the amount they’d asked for, while he was without. Of course, when he ran out of supplies and asked them for some, no one had any to give. And after all of these years, he hasn’t learned from his being burned in the past. Actually---he has, but has said intimidation overrides his logicality and common sense and prevents him from becoming bold and firm toward people “who ask for stuff.”
“Ten dollars.” The black woman said it in such a superior tone, like she was entitled to the money. She didn’t have any shame and for an instant, Max contemplated backing out and reneging. He certainly didn’t appreciate her tone or behavior, but found himself sticking his hand into his pocket without hesitation and giving her the change made from his purchase in the Post Office.
Max gave her eight dollars instead. She seized it.
“Thank you. God bless you” she said, as if suddenly in a hurry. “Have a blessed day.”
{Yeah.} Italics.
“God bless you too.”
He walked to his car, upset for falling victim to fear. He was incredulous. It was as if he would get beat up if he said no, for he didn’t know how to fight if the would-be rejection turned into a confrontation. He didn’t know who to trust. There are beggars in this world who have actually tried to better themselves by looking for work, but couldn’t find it. But how did he know the good beggar from the bad beggar? How could he separate honest persons from the liars? He hated being gullible. He hated not engaging in critical thinking before taking action. He hated feeling pressured into doing something he didn’t feel comfortable with doing. Yet, he did it. Because of fear. Intimidation controlled him. Steered him. Compelled him to do, when he didn’t want to.
Max reversed out of the parking lot and drove away, passing the woman walking along the sidewalk.
Suppose she was going to get a pack of cigarettes with that money? he thought. Suppose she would turn around as soon as he was out of sight and head to 7-11, across from the Post Office and buy a pack of Camels or Marlboros?
Well, it’s too late anyhow. He can’t make a detour and jump the woman for his eight bucks back. It’s too late. So, he decided, among the many things he would pray for that night, would definitely be overcoming intimidation and fear.
“I can’t continue being a sucker,” he reasoned, as he drove the thirty-something odd miles straight to campus for his afternoon class. “I’ve got to make a change.”
“Jesus please help me,” he sighed, making right turns and lefts. “Help me to discern and to just say no.”
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