Window 8: No Services

Submitted by QTR’s Fringe Finance

This week I landed myself smack dab in the middle of a real-life example of just how piss-poor of a capital allocator the government is compared to the free, for-profit market.

Usually, when I want to mail something, I walk a block or two to either the UPS Store or the FedEx store. Both are pretty similar: fairly busy (especially around the holidays), offering print and copy services, and staffed with employees who—while not saints—are at least competent enough to get your package labeled, shipped, and tracked with as little fuss or bullshit as possible.

The price is slightly costly, but at least the service gets the job done.

Cut to this week, however, when I had to mail something to a PO Box. Turns out you can’t do that through UPS or FedEx, which meant I was grudgingly forced to venture into the local post office. Always crowded. Always understaffed. Always a line out the door.

Within minutes of going in, I was reminded exactly why I avoid the place.

Photos source: Reddit r/USPS

FedEx? Clean, semi-modern, organized, like a regular retail store.

The USPS? A time capsule of bureaucratic rot. Dirt and grime in the lobby. Walls littered with signs upon signs upon signs. Engraved plastic relics from the 1950s. Faded printouts from the Clinton era still announcing holiday hours. Handwritten scraps of paper with notes taped over other scraps of paper—“No food or drink,” “Passport photos in back.” Torn Post-it notes with instructions on them like “USE BLACK PEN” Scotch taped to marble counter tops. Broken door handles, cracked floors, dead pens chained to counters like banks used to have in the 1980s. Everywhere you look: disarray.

This post office, which looked like it hadn’t been meaningfully updated since Eisenhower was in office, had ten clerk windows. Each station had its own dusty sign like “Window 1: Passport Photos” or “Window 2: Stamps.” Out of all ten? Just one was open. A single bored man sitting under “Window 8: All Services.”

So I joined the 30-person line, clutching my documents, and told myself: just grin and bear it.

Thirty minutes later—thirty minutes of inching forward in a queue that wound like a sluggish snake across the cracked linoleum floor in a building that smelled like old Church Parish Hall mixed with 50s elementary school—I finally reached the counter. I pasted on a cheery, let’s-not-make-this-worse smile.

“Good morning! I’d like to overnight these documents, please.”

The clerk, a man who looked like he’d been welded to his chair sometime during the Reagan administration, didn’t even glance at the papers. With one stubby finger, he poke-shoved them back toward me like they were toxic waste.

“You need an Express Mail envelope.”

I blinked, certain I’d misheard. “Great—I’m here under the ‘All Services’ window. Can you grab on from back there?”

“No.” He pointed vaguely over my shoulder, his finger describing a lazy arc as if fighting gravity itself to point was too much effort. “They’re on that table.”

Ah, yes, that table. The one just beyond the waiting area where fifty new people—mothers with strollers, retirees gripping coupon-filled purses, a man juggling an armload of precariously taped packages, immigrants on line for money orders and Passport photos—had materialized since I’d joined the line.

“Perfect,” I said, my smile frozen in place. “I’ll just run over, grab one real quick, and bring it right back here.”

“No. You need to get back in line.”

For a moment, my brain stalled, unable to process the absurdity. I looked at him. Looked at the sad, empty counter behind him. Looked at the table that was, generously, fifteen steps away.

“That’s ridiculous. I just waited 30 minutes. Why don’t you have envelopes behind the counter? Why can’t I just grab one?”

“You’re holding up the line,” he droned, not lifting his eyes from the desk in front of him. His voice was flat, robotic, as if he’d said the phrase so often it was part of his biorhythmic muscle memory of breathing. Meanwhile, the people in line shifted and sighed, the collective grumble of the perpetually inconvenienced.

The irony nearly made me laugh—this conversation had already eaten more time than it would have taken me to sprint to the table, grab an envelope, and get back before he finished blinking. But fine. Whatever. I swallowed the indignation, trudged to the table, and yanked an envelope from the stack. Then I marched back to the end of the line. I can handle this. I’ve done airports and customs lines a million times. What’s another 30 minutes of my life circled the drain.

When I finally returned to “Window 8: All Services”—I slid the precious envelope across the counter with the flourish of Indiana Jones finally recovering the Lost Ark.

“All right. Let’s do this.”

He looked at me, unmoved, the same flat affect as before. “You’ve got to write the address on it.”

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. “Don’t you print a label?” I asked carefully, as if explaining the concept of modernity to someone who’d just been thawed from an iceberg. “Like UPS or FedEx does at their stores.”

“We don’t do that here. You need to write it yourself.”

My patience was fraying like cheap twine. “Okay. No problem. Can I borrow your pen real quick?”

His eyes flicked to a Bic sitting inches from his hand, then back to me. He took at least 5 seconds to try and decide whether or not to give me a pen. He reluctantly put it on the counter, as if I was asking him to donate his sole remaining kidney. Then he said: “Sir, you’ll need to step out of line.”

That was the moment the absurdity stopped being darkly funny and turned into something else—an existential reminder of why government monopolies are allergic to common sense. I had played along. I’d smiled through gritted teeth, nodded at the nonsense, even humored the idea that a missing envelope might topple the fragile machinery of the Republic. But now this lobotomized automaton, this gray sentinel of mediocrity, was telling me to step aside again—because writing an address, a fourteen-second act involving pen and paper apparently threatened the structural integrity of the entire United States Postal Service.

Fine. Whatever. I slid down to an empty window — Window 5, to be exact — pulled out the envelope and scribbled the address with the fury of a thousand taxpayers. The next customer approached Window 8.

But before serving the man in front of him, the clerk suddenly swiveled in his chair, puffed out his chest, and barked across the room: “Sir, you have to stand in the back. You can’t stand there. The customers need privacy!”

I froze mid-scribble, pen dangling from my hand. I looked at him. I looked at where I was standing. I measured the sacred geometry of the tiled floor. Same distance. Same line of sight. Nothing had changed except his sudden urge to flex the microscopic authority that comes with a government paycheck.

That’s when I finally lost it: “What the fuck is the difference? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

And there it was—the classic bureaucrat trump card, played with relish. He leaned back, eyes glazed with the smug satisfaction of a man who knows the game is rigged.

“Sir, calm down or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Perfect. The final weapon of the apathetic state employee: antagonize the customer until they lose their cool, then brand them as the problem. It’s the judo move of bureaucracy—use your frustration against you, flip you to the ground, and declare victory without ever solving the actual issue. An hour and fifteen minutes at the fucking post office — and I had an envelope with a penned on address and no postage.

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I gave up. I left. Not because I was weak-willed, but because there comes a point where you realize you’ll never make it make sense. It was every relationship breakup I never understood, it was every stock market rally in the face of terrible macroeconomic news while I was short, it was every pass interference that shouldn’t have been called that went against my team and it was every time I did great work to have someone else take credit for it, all rolled in to one, grandoise, sometimes you just have to bend over because life can fucking suck and there’s nothing you can do about it moment.

I told myself I’d try again tomorrow at a different post office, as if maybe, just maybe, some hidden branch out there had been touched by the light of competence.

Before walking out, I turned and told him, loud enough for the rest of the line to hear: “Your sign says ‘All Services.’ Someone should take that down that sign and put up one that says ‘No Services.’” The people in line who understood English chuckled. A couple clapped.

Here’s the kicker: if this had been FedEx or UPS, the story would have ended differently. At a private business, service is oxygen—you screw up badly enough, you lose customers, you lose money, maybe you lose your job. If an employee stonewalled a paying customer like that, a manager would swoop in. Corporate would want answers. There’d be consequences. Accountability. Incentive to fix what’s broken.

But the post office? No consequences. No accountability. No incentive to change. The machine lumbers on, fueled by tax dollars, immune to your frustration. Your time doesn’t matter. Your money doesn’t matter. You don’t matter. The only thing that matters is the ritual, the rules, and the sacred choreography of inefficiency performed beneath fluorescent lights — that you’re paying for.

In the free market, you’re the customer. In government land, you’re the hostage.

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