Boot Camp Day 7: The Secret Language of Postal Workers

I had to go to the post office yesterday.

I’d finally gotten around to doing one of the most heinous tasks on the to-do list I call “Noxious But Necessary”: I had written a letter to the Houston Police Department’s red-light camera enforcement unit to explain why I should not be held responsible for running a red light that I didn’t run. I printed and signed the letter, made copies of the letter and original citation, enclosed the exculpatory photos of my actual car with its actual license plate, and packed everything neatly in a 6-1/2 x 9-1/2 envelope. (Everything looks more reasonable, law-abiding, and forthright in a 6-1/2 x 9-1/2 envelope, don’t you agree?)

Unfortunately, my sister, though not usually given to conspiracy theories, had planted a sinister thought in my head. She said, “You should send it certified, because otherwise they’ll claim they never got it.” I had been perfectly ready to trust the post office and the HPD to sort out this minor miscarriage of justice until she said that. Sigh. Now I was going to have to go to the post office. And not just to the harmless outer precincts where my P.O. box is, but to the service counter.

I usually try to cluster together all the different mailing-related tasks that accumulate over a year or two before I schedule a trip to the post office. My roommate had a CD that needed to go to his sister in Michigan, which at least brought me up to two birds to kill with this particular stone, so I sucked it up and headed to the Heights Finance Station post office. I retrieved the contents of my box on the way in to give me something to do in line. Among my bills and junk was a letter addressed to Rotten Mary’s Bikes. (No, Rotten Mary is not one of my pseudonyms.)*

The queue was manageable. It looked like about a 20-minute wait—nothing I couldn’t handle. After I glanced through my bills and junk mail, I amused myself by looking at the festive hairdos of the counter personnel and studying the array of mass-produced and handmade signs scattered around the service counter area. This one, copies of which were taped on four of the five glass display cases on the front of the counter, caught my eye:

               NO CELL
               PHONES
               USED IN
               LOBBY
 

My first thought was, “Hm. Interesting way to word that.” Then, since I had lots of time on my hands, I started contemplating the production values of the sign and the specific language choices that the writer of this sign had made. The sign was laser-printed on 8-1/2 x 11 yellow copier paper in about 120-point Times New Roman. The line breaks, punctuation, and capitalization scheme were as you see above.

I considered other ways to express the sentiment of this sign. Perhaps what the writer meant to say was, “The use of cell phones if prohibited in the lobby.” Unnecessarily stern, I think. Maybe “Cell phones are not to be used in the lobby.” Better, but still irritatingly passive. I would also like to get a sense that the writer has a rationale for this diktat, so perhaps I might have suggested, “As a courtesy to your fellow patrons, please refrain from using cell phones in the lobby.” Would postal employees use the word refrain? Would the average postal patron understand it? How about a plain and simple “Please don’t use your cell phone in the lobby”? Yeah, that might work.

I wondered what the choice of words said about the writer. “No cell phones used in lobby.” Is the writer saying, in essence, “In a perfect world, no cell phones are used in the lobby, and since the Supervisor asked me to make the sign, I will embed my utopian vision of the lobby in this sign”? Is it just me, or is there an Orwellian starkness to this simple statement that smacks a little of “Some animals are more equal than others”?

Maybe I was reading too much into it.

Before I’d had time to finish parsing all the nuances of this alarmingly content-rich edict, I found myself at the front of the line, and my reverie was interrupted by a forty-something African American woman in regulation blue synthetic slacks and a splashy orange-and-gold silk blouse who had appeared in the lobby from out of nowhere.

“What services do you need today?” she asked. It took me a moment to realize she was addressing me.

“I’m sorry?”

“What services do you need?” She pointed toward the wad of envelopes I was clutching.

“Oh, yes—I need to send this one certified, I think.” I shuffled the stack in search of the red-light letter.

“Are all of those going to be certified?”

“No, just this one. This other one is going regular first-class, and this one here was in my box, but it isn’t for me.”

“Isn’t or IS NOT?” she asked.

“It ISN’T for me,” I said by way of clarification. There wasn’t time for it to dawn on me that she had asked me a “no or no” question.

“Isn’t! What kind of English is that? ‘This one was in my box, but it IS NOT for me.’ You shouldn’t say isn’t.”

I imagine that my jaw dropped, but I’m not sure. I was at a loss for words for at least a few seconds.

“Buhhhh…buhhh…. But isn’t is a perfectly acceptable English contraction!” I retorted, with considerably less conviction than I might have liked.

“I’m sure your teacher taught you better than that. What would your teacher say?”

To which teacher was she referring? My early childhood education flashed before my eyes. I searched my memory in vain for a teacher who had had anything useful to say about the word isn’t. I floundered. I blushed. I said, “My teacher isn’t here!” (Where the hell did that come from?)

She was ready with a comeback, “Well, I’M here, and I’m the Supervisor!” It didn’t strike me until much later that she was slinging contractions right and left. I was frozen in my tracks. As she shoved a Certified Mail form into my hand, I stood there thinking, “I’ve just been lectured about my grammar by a civil servant. Good God, how will I ever live it down?” I had a fleeting thought about changing my name and starting life anew. At least I wouldn’t need to forward my mail.

Before I could think of a fresh way to re-enter the breach, she was gone, off to assist—or perhaps verbally abuse—the next patron.

“Next!” hollered a blue-polyester-clad woman with a fabulous coif. I tucked my tail between my legs and headed for the counter. While I was transacting my business, the Supervisor disappeared into the back office. I heard her say, “I’ll see you later” to one of her employees. I opened my mouth, but no words would come out.

*P.S.: I’ve changed my mind about revealing Rotten Mary’s identity.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick