Flushing Avenue

Last weekend I went to the post office to pick up a package. I enjoy going to the post office. It reminds me of the island where home delivery isn’t part of life. A daily trip to the post office to clean out the junk mail in the PO Box and catch up on gossip with everyone you run into is a big part of the island’s social fabric. Without that trip to the post office widows would be isolated, new islanders would remain strangers, and everyone would forget how old their neighbor’s children are. Not to mention who’s cheating, who’s stealing, who’s dying, and the occassional who’s happy.

Going to the post office in Brooklyn to pick up a package is a particularly joyful experience because it beats the give and take grudge match one has to endure when trying to get a package out of UPS’s custody. Twice since moving to 250 I’ve sent nasty emails to the CEO of UPS complaining about their lack of service. Their system consists of sending my package by the house, leaving a post-it note on the door three days in a row to tell me I wasn’t home, and then an address in Queens where I can find my package.

After the first of these I did my research and learned that the Queens detention center is located far from any subway line and open from 9 to 5 Monday through Friday. Being that I work 9 to 6 Monday through Friday and rely on public transit I called UPS and asked them to relocate my package to a detention center in Manhattan that is open until 9pm and located up the street from my office. UPS informed me that this would be impossible. Odd coming from a company whose primary function is the transfer of objects from one location to another. Both of us unwilling to bend, I called the sender and asked them to recall the package and give me a credit. I’d buy that raincoat from a brick and mortar store, thank you.

The post office that I adore so much, is open on Saturdays and located in my zip code. And so, last weekend, I walked up Flushing Avenue to get my mail. On the way is a low income housing project. The yard is frequently full of the project’s less than functional residents, sitting on the wrought iron fencing, holding their brown paper wrapped bottles and shouting or laughing or both at one another. It’s possible to cut diagonally through the project’s lawn as a short cut to the post office. Being daylight I thought ‘what the hell?’ and entered the gate, trying not to draw attention to myself. The groundkeeping crew was at work and I figured if any trouble came my way they’d have quick access to the NYPD. Then I thought ‘Unless the crew is made up of criminals fulfilling their public service requirements’ followed by the thought ‘if that’s the case maybe I’ll see some celebrities.’

At the center of the project is a swimming pool. Who knew? Being that it was 100+ degrees that day the pool was logically closed.

I also witnessed an aged Chinese woman performing some sort of ancient (I guess) martial art with a child’s toy sword. She was graceful going through her motions, slowly slicing the air with the sword, delicately lunging and reaching. The courtyard had trees and paths and a small playground. Birds chirped. It was much more pleasant on the inside than on the street.

Coming out the other side, I crossed to the post office and waited in the long line with my neighbors, most cursing in one language or another at the slow pace, angrily eyeing the overly made up woman who was trying to flirt her way to the front of the line, critical of the obese postal worker who refused to search for more than one package at a time, and bonding with each other over the shared burden of having to wait.

I wondered if any of these people would become familiar to me. Would I live in the neighborhood long enough to know their faces, their names, their stories? Probably not, I don’t get that many packages. But, a week later, I’ve forgotten about the heat of that day and the worry of crossing the projects. Instead, I’m left with the memory of the post office.