Postal hard-sell

Sorry about the delay. The blogger techno-gods were maintaining the system, and it took longer than they had expected. So, here goes for today:

Imagine the scene. You're in the check-out stand at Yoke's or Safeway. It's the cereal-day sale, and your line alone has 15 shopping carts pushed by 15 shoppers wearily waiting for their turn at the stand. The checker has just rung up the $200 worth of the groceries overflowing in your cart. You've filled out most of your check except for the total. Before you can do that, however, you hear the following:

"Now, did you need any drano today?"

"No," you respond with amazement.

"How about a package of Wood's smokies with cheese, could you use one of those?"

"No."

"Would you like to buy a sack of kitty litter?

"No, my cats have been constipated lately,” you quip, attempting to maintain a sense of humor in your disbelief of this situation.

By now, though, you're aware of disgusted glares behind you. You feel the full pot of impatience brewing, not only from within but also from the folks waiting.

"Do you need any coffee creamer?

"No."

"We've got a special on Western Family olives, are ya interested?"

By now, tempted to rage out, "Wouldya just shut up and tell me how much I owe, you manage to summon every ounce of patience in your being.

"NO," you bark.

Finally, the interrogation stops. She tells you that you owe $201.39, please. Wasting no time, you fill in the blanks, grab that receipt, and push that cart through the crowds, grumble as you escape out the door, and head to your car, thinking to yourself, "Why, when all those people are standing in line, do they do that?" You get into your car and make a note to yourself to avoid eating in the future so you won't have to go through that again.

Thank God the aforementioned check-out stand nightmare is but a figment of my quirky imagination. Not so with a trip to the local post office. The scene is all too true.

Yesterday, icy back roads made me go to the Sandpoint Post Office instead of the usual contract facilities where I prefer to send off my snail mail packages. Entering the post office, I came to an immediate halt inside the door. A lady was serving as the door person for the service room where two clerks were waiting on customers. The line was not moving.

I grunted out loud. Whoever came in behind me echoed my sentiments. Fortunately, I recognized a lady three people in front of me and struck up a conversation. The line inched forward. Finally, I assumed responsibility as door person for the lady immediately in front of me. She seemed relieved.

It turned out to be a good line at the post office yesterday because John Pucci and Lynn Coon came in after I'd relinquished my door duties. At least, for a change, I knew three people among the dozen-plus. I had plenty of time to catch up on what was going on up at Schweitzer, what Lynn's half dozen kids were doing, and how his mom Delphine was getting along back in Iowa. Lynn and I heckled John about the blasting we can hear up at Schweitzer when they're doing avalanche control, and Lynn heckled me about Bill probably just driving by and approving his logging job.

Finally, my turn at the counter came. I had one envelope with three stamps on it and another manilla envelope with no postage. I handed over the envelope with three stamps and asked if that was enough.

"Do you want confirmation . . . ?" the clerk asked.

"No." I said.

"Is there anything perishable . . .?"

"No."

By now, the line was again outside the door in the lobby. Someone else had door duties.

"But it's already got stamps on it," I thought to myself. "Why do they need to ask me?"

"Do you want this insured?"

"No," I said, fully aware that to say anything to these overworked clerks was fruitless. After all, they didn't make the rules, and the last thing they needed was a smart ass making the smart-ass comments I wanted so much to make. After all, I have done that before, and it got me nowhere. I don't blame these people because I'm sure that some well-paid administrator dreams up their rules. I'd love to speak with that person some day.

The clerk finally took the stamped envelope and then started on my manilla envelope.

"Do you want confirmation . . . ?"

"No."

"Is there anything perishable . . .?

"No."

"Do you need this insured?"

"No." By this time, my answers were beating him to the punch.

Too bad we can't just turn on a recording, but that's not gonna make that line go any faster. I wonder how many times a day those poor people hear negative stuff in the form of exasperated "no, no, no, no . . . ."

They say that dentists hate their jobs the most and have the highest suicide numbers. I really wonder about that. I truly feel for these people because "policy" dictates how they have to do their jobs, and I'm sure that any one of them would prefer not to do their jobs this way. The part I wonder about is that if it's customer service, why do the customers feel so frustrated with all the "service."

Whoever came up with this ridiculous policy needs to think more about the people the post office is serving and about the sanity of their clerks. Folks just want to get in there, send their mail and get out. Most people know what they want when they step up to the counter, just like grocery shoppers do when they appear at the check-out stand.. I knew what I wanted yesterday with that envelope with three stamps. I wanted to know if it had enough postage, period. Yet, I still needed to endure the questioning while people waited behind me.

I still can't see how all this ritualistic interrogation about each parcel or envelope of every person who steps to the counter makes the mail get where it needs to go any more efficiently, and I know as a customer, that I don't get places in Sandpoint any faster, thanks to the Sandpoint Post Office.

It would be nice if the power-that-be's would review their policies and let their dedicated clerks return to being humans rather than insisting on their robotic spitting out the obligatory litany of "Do you need's . . .?” while the customer line snakes out the door into the parking lot.

Somehow, regular human behavior and individualized service, as needed and requested, seems to work quite well at the contract facilities where I prefer to take my mail, and the job gets done, only more efficiently.

But I'll be the last one to tattle on these people. Somebody in administration might get ideas.