Let me start this by clearly stating that I appreciate all of the hard-working delivery folks. Thank you–especially in this time of need when many people cannot (or should not) be out shopping! I went to the post office today to pick up a package. This is a grueling affair on a normal day in the Bronx, NYC. Today, it is in the 80’s, humid as a jungle between rain showers and in the middle of a pandemic. 

Let me show you an example of social distance in the regular world: 

I_ I _ I _ I _ I _. 

Then, there is social distancing in the Bronx:

LLLLL. 

In addition to the sweaty reality of standing in line inside the balmy, recycled air of a government office, a drunk schizophrenic stands leaning on the counter near the front of the line. He mumbles gibberish, carrying on a conversation with an unseen person. That would be absolutely fine, usually–this is the inner city and homelessness and mental health are historically abominable. The thing that makes me nervous is the guy has a sudden crescendo in his garbled speech, stands upright (albeit in a light sway from the empty 40 oz. he left at the door) and reaches down to his right belt loop to his knife holster. He pulls the knife out, fisted in a hand that bounces up and down in the air, threatening his unseen acquaintance. That invisible asshole must have said something mean. 

I am at the front of the line and stand still, watching for signs if he will come at us. The line of folks behind me flattens against the wall. Dumbasses–don’t make sudden movements in front of a mad dog! Knife-guy has crazy eyes behind his blade when he looks in our direction, but I realize that he may not really register any of us standing there. The post office workers raise a tired eye at him behind their thick plexiglass and carry on their business. I stay still and observe, deciding that, if he lunges, I am gonna drop to a crouch and either punch him in the nards or do a badass low roundhouse kick and take his feet out from under him then tie him up with my headphone wires. The first would be better as I am out of shape and would most likely pull my back out attempting a spin kick, land on my face and get stabbed in my spine. 

Crazy eyes put the knife away again, continuing his unintelligible conversation. Then, he wobbles toward the end of the line with 8 pairs of eyes crawling on his movement. He uses his hands to drum an arrhythmic beat on the wall as he heads to the back corner of the room behind the last person. He puts an elbow on the back wall and leans against it, palm against the side of his face, still muttering away. 

Meanwhile, I approach the register to retrieve the package that they refuse to deliver to my doorstep (the whole point of home delivery). I appreciate it that they don’t want my stuff to be stolen if left outside the apartment building, but I have consented for them to leave my packages at the door and accept the risk. I have told them this multiple times and they promise that the delivery guy won’t do it again. Mmm-hmm. I know for a fact that they don’t even ring the bell as I am waiting for the package at home ALL DAY. I got the alert that it was “delivered” but the doorbell never buzzes. Then, magically, a “missed delivery, come get your shit” sticky note somehow appears on the entrance door of the apartment. It is coffee and vitamins, for goodness sake, hardly the Hope Diamond. I should make a complaint again, but I hate doing that. If I do, I now have the proper fodder: Post office trips not only eat my time and soul, but apparently put me at risk of being stabbed.