Penny Postcards

Flirtatious: "You let me have your place in that STAMP line, and you just might get yourself a big old fat kiss."

Real Mood: Revolutionarily Rancorous

Prediction: Someone will go "Postal" this week.

In every class I teach, I preach: "Be observant. Know what's going on around you.  See what other people don't bother to see. Hear what other people don't bother to hear. That's what will make you a real journalist."

Well, nobody is perfect, are they?  We're paying the bills today and just happen to hear a little itty bitty blurb on TV that says something like,

 "oh yeah, don't forget stamps go up to 39 cents today." 

I don't know why, but I missed the whole thing. I missed the proposal. I missed the debate. I missed the final approval. I missed all the warnings. If we don't catch this little announcement our "checks in the mail" will be there for weeks. 

At first it reminds me of an incredibly red faced moment when I was working in radio.

 The great thing about news jobs ( even when you're just reading the hits ) is you walk around with this impressive bag of details to floor your friends.

This was a time in my life when I was proudly jogging at least two miles a day.  On weekends I would extend the distance to five miles.  So on this crisp Saturday morning I slip on my shorts and sweats, do a little stretching, and head out. 

It's early and there is no one on the parkway as I slowly extend my stride.  I come to a light at the Boulevard and run in place. Green shoots me across the street like a  rock from a sling shot.  I make a sharp left in front of the Museum. From there I take my little private route through some trees and bushes enroute to the bike path.

All of a sudden, just as I reach the bike path, the peaceful Saturday morning turns into what feels like a war zone.  Helicopters appear out of nowhere, photographers rush towards me at a full run.  I hear shouts of:

"Is that him?"

"There he is. Roll.  Get a shot of him."

"How'd he get so far in the lead?"

And then I hear thunderous footsteps coming up behind me. I think I'm being chased by a Bison herd.   As my pulse rate hits about 180,  I turn and look over my shoulder and nearly faint.

Somehow I have made my way into the lead of the Mile High Marathon.

Sorry Andy Warhol, my fame didn't even last a minute. I went from first to last in flash.  And happily.

But here's the punch line. I'm doing stories on the return of the Mile High Marathon for a week.  I'm saying it's really a big deal with some elite runners, big sponsors, blah, blah, blah. I know where it starts. I'm sharing with listeners the exact route so they can cheer on the athletes.  I know what time it starts. I know what the weather is going to be. Still, there I was. In the lead......

Okay, so I should have known all about the stamp price hike. But that's enough self flagellation. It's time to shift from humility to angst. I'm ticked. 

First of all the mail person is late delivering mail. That makes us late racing to the post office to satiate our debtors. Late means we are arriving at the post office at rush hour. Rush hour means there are no parking places.  Everyone is just in a long line waiting for a parking spot to open up.  Except the guy behind me.  I can go nowhere, but he is honking at me. Is it defined as road rage if you fantasize beheading someone in a parking lot?

Well, we get a spot and head in to what we think is going to be "easy street." We put some coins in the automated machine. We quickly learn the new machines won't dispense two cent stamps to make up the difference. 

"No problem sugar. I'll just put this twenty in there and we'll get all new 39 cent stamps and start over."

It took the "twenty" and then the light emiting diode informs me it can't change a twenty. That's when we look behind us and see the line from "hell."  Or is is the line to "hell."  No doubt they'd all tried the machine first too.

Only one clerk is assigned the duty of selling the two cent stamps. We are starting to get to know each other.  We are cracking "nasty sarcasm" postal jokes. We quickly develop fierce group scowls aimed at those even thinking about cutting in line.

So we suffer. We inch our way to the front of the line. We curse those who not only want stamps, but stay to ask questions.  We want our two cent stamps. Only one more person in front of us. Who is this man?  A second clerk? What is he saying?

"Anyone with correct change just come on up front."

I mean you are not even here, and you can feel the pain. Right?

Well we get our two cent stamps. And while we're here? 

"Let's get a roll of the new 39 cent stamps."

"Here you go!"

"Well wait a minute. These stamps don't say 39 cents on them. They don't say anything."

"They're just temporary sir."

"Temporary? How long have you known they were going to be thirty nine cents.?"

"NEXT!"  

I guess the silver lining is the experience motivates one to have a Margarita and pot roast at "The Blackeyed Pea." I feel a lot better now.

It's true. Postcards were a penny. Stamped letters?  Three pennies!

Peggy thinks I might have told the Marathon story recently. If so? Sorry. Checks in the mail.