Something earth shattering happened outside the Post Office today; I tripped through the Twilight Zone.

Damned to a spot far from the building, I dragged my packages a few blocks. Since the purpose of my visit was orders, and orders ran strong, I didn’t mind a jaunt. The overloaded parking lot was a bigger concern.

Besides USPS, the only other ‘business’ at that corner is a convenience store, which has a stern anti-shopping policy ( a blog for next week, perhaps ), so the parking crunch could only be caused by postal customers. But, again, a rising tide lifts all boats – a little line time seemed a fair escrow payment on good sales.

Near the door where clerks pass mail bins out the building for loading, a USPS employee waited inside a mail truck. She watched me wrestle a nylon bag with long, green handles and white stitching. A printed label on one packages poked over the top of the bag.

She summoned me, less like a lord dispatches a servant, more like one schoolboy goads another into forbidden acts. “Those paid up?” she asked.

Absolutely, they were prepaid.
“I’ll take’em.” And she did, each package disappeared inside an official bin beside her.

Only at home did the weight of the events hit me. At least one USPS employee is nice, friendly, and helpful. Shocking in itself, but might there be a second? Now I must rest. Even but a moment in the Zone is exhausting.

BTW – The proper word count for the meter at the right is 69,349. There’s a bit of an issue right now; I can’t update that part of the database.

This post might land me in hell, but the quest for a laugh right here and now trumps the threat of sanctions waiting in the afterlife.

A recent post on Fark.com about unusual names for children teleported me right back to the old school days. The year – 19XX. Vague, I know. Let’s just say this happened after Pac-Man, before Rubik’s cube, in a grammar school somewhere around Middle America.

It was the day following parents-meet-the-teachers night. I stepped off the bus. A scrawny kid ran, stopped, and punched me in the stomach. Fortunately, his slight build and my shield of blubber limited the damage. The assault was a shock more than anything else. “You suck!� he said.

Once the dust settled, I asked him: why the hate? He explained. Our respective parents had a very unsettling introduction the night before; it had to do with names.

In anticipation of the visit, each child block printed their name on a card and placed it on their desk. This way parents could find the actual seat their child occupied by day. Very thrilling, right? Now, some kids – like me – realized that despite what others in school might have said my name was, now was not the time for the street version, or nicknames. Only a full zorch straight from the birth certificate transcription would do.

But, my assailants first name was Christopher. Everyone called him Chris, not Christopher. So, he recorded his first name as Chris.

As my mother searched, she came across his card before mine. His full name caught her attention immediately. In fact, she found it so amusing, she summoned for my father.

“Check this kid’s name out!â€? said Mom.
“Chris….Coe.â€? said Dad.
“Get it? Chris Coe…Crisco! The cooking oil….Crisco…bahahaha. How could they name their kid like that?â€?
My father laughed, too. He laughed at least twice a year.

A finger tapped at my mother’s shoulder. Behind them, a young couple, with matching pissed off expressions. “Hi,â€? said the woman. “We’re the Coes.â€?