Why I Still Love the Post Office

My wife’s face contorts in anguish every time I tell her we need to swing by the post office on the way to or from work. She’s convinced it’s really not necessary. You could buy one of those scales, she suggests, and a postage meter and just have them pick it up. Sure going to the post office and waiting in line can sometimes be inconvenient and downright frustrating, but sometimes the things that matter can be that way. With all the reasons to not go to the post office - rate increases, concealed chemical weapons, the ease of using other shippers, and the horror of having to actually deal with other human beings - I still have my reasons for going there, and most of them are the romantic kind I’ve had for quite awhile.

When I was nineteen, I had just finished my first demo and was planning my takeover of the music business, and ultimately, the world. I had my photos, my bio, my lyrics, my tape and my songs ready to send out, but I needed one more important thing: the P.O. Box! Surely I couldn’t use my parents’ apartment’s address on my materials. That wouldn’t look professional enough. And besides, if all went as planned, I was going to be insanely famous the next week and couldn’t possibly have people knowing where I lived. It wouldn’t be safe. So I went to the North Hudson Branch of the Post Office on Central Ave. in Jersey City, NJ and got myself a P.O. Box.

The box was more than a place to receive mail. It was more like a lighthouse in a crowded sea that shined to provide all the record companies, fans, reporters and DJ’s a place to gravitate toward. It would call out to them on my behalf and bring them to me. My own mailbox at home wouldn’t be good for that, as its own signaling powers were busy guiding in bills and Sears Flyers.

So every day, then every other day, then maybe once a week (okay, I obviously didn’t get the overflowing response I hoped for) I would walk the ten-or-so blocks from my parent’s apartment to check my box for letters from fans, A&R reps who came across my music, or reporters wanting more info. Occasionally I’d get a bite in the box - some DJ had heard my music and wanted a copy, or a reporter would send a tear-sheet with a review -- but mostly, I’d get rejection letters, on nice record company stationary.

But that never got me down. Because you see, on many of those trips I was also mailing packages, and with every package, my lighthouse would get brighter and my hope bigger. As each package would leave my hands, having absorbed some of my hope, it would go into the hands of the postal clerk, who I’d like to believe also placed some hope in it. They had gotten used to me after awhile and knew what were in those packages. On more than one occasion, they’d remind me to remember them when I made it big.

And when the Jersey Journal had written a small feature about me, they had all seen it and congratulated me on the success.

Nowadays, it’s the Church Street Branch here in Nashville where I keep my box and the nice folks behind the counter there who take my packages, weigh them and send them on their way, with a little added hope and care placed along side the postage or Priority Mail sticker.

The postal system as we know it may change drastically in the years ahead. New technology may soon render its business model obsolete. And it may be true that a burgeoning music career can flourish without ever stepping foot in a Post Office. But there’s a tradition for me in the way it’s always been done, and a mystique and romance that I’m not quite ready to surrender. Luckily, there are still branches like the one on Church Street and its smiling clerks that allow me to continue this tradition and indulge in my fantasy. Besides, it was an acceptance letter in an envelope with the Charles Scribner’s logo that F. Scott Fitzgerald had clutched in his hands as he ran from the post office and through the streets, on his way to tell Zelda that she could now marry him. The publisher had found his post office. His ship had come in.

Copyright © 2002 Joe Pagetta