The Riptide Ultra-Glide by Tim Dorsey Read Free Book Online Page A

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    â€œIs that when we were almost to the counter, and he suddenly put out his ‘Position Closed’ sign and went backstage?”
    â€œMust be where they keep the roses,” said Serge.
    â€œI thought your head was about to explode when he left,” said Coleman.
    â€œIt was,” said Serge. “It only fed my post office psychosis. Whenever I’m in one, and almost to the counter, I keep repeating to myself: ‘Please don’t put out the “Position Closed” sign; please don’t put out the “Position Closed” sign; dear God, don’t let him put out the sign; please, please, please, I’m almost to the counter! I made it! I finally made it! He didn’t put out the . . . Wait, what’s he reaching for? . . . Fuck!’ ”
    â€œYou did yell ‘fuck’ pretty loud back there.”
    â€œBut I quickly apologized to the crowd and pointed at the sign,” said Serge. “You could tell they had all been repeating the same thing.”
    Coleman fiddled with a lighter that was low on butane. “That was a brutal wait. There were only two people at the counter, but a whole bunch of guys in the back room. You could see them through the doorways. What were they all doing?”
    â€œStanding in groups just out of sight behind the doorway. Then, one by one, they send someone across to the other side so we think that actual activity is happening. But they’re just walking to stand in a circle painted on the floor until it’s time to be sent back the other way. Except for the one guy who’s assigned to come out of the back room every fifteen minutes and walk up to a ‘Position Closed’ sign, and all the customers joyously weep and praise Jesus, but he just opens a drawer for some scissors and goes back.”
    â€œHow do you know all this?” asked Coleman.
    â€œI don’t,” said Serge. “It’s too easy to make fun of the post office. And ironic, considering their deceptively amazing efficiency. For less than the price of a newspaper, I can stick a small square on an envelope, and two days later my letter is a thousand miles away being dusted for prints by the cops. It’s a modern miracle.”
    â€œBut then why does everyone make fun of the post office?” asked Coleman.
    â€œTo feel good about ourselves,” said Serge. “We used to brighten the day by shitting on ethnic and religious minorities. But that got ruined just because it turned out to be very, very wrong. So now the post office is one of the last prejudice sanctuaries left, like bad-mouthing airline food: Fire at will! . . . Except I genuinely like airline food because of the cool packaging, and it’s not the postal employees’ fault about the waiting lines. Management messes up staffing and sends a million people to one post office with no customers, and vice versa. The jokes are unfair and cruel.”
    â€œSo you’re going to stop telling them?”
    â€œNo, it’s fun,” said Serge. “Plus, there’s a lot of responsible things you need to do while waiting, like reading the sign that says it’s a federal crime to assault a postal employee. Okay, that’s always good to be reminded of. Then I check the FBI photos to make sure I’m not up there. Now I’m free to kick back and enjoy checking out the photos of who is up there. What a bunch of losers! Those creepy mug shots are one of my very first memories as a tiny kid. Killers, kidnappers, people who assault postal employees. I was only four, and still thought logically: These pictures are up here, so it must be a system that’s working. I mean, they’re not asking us to spot people in Seattle; all these guys obviously live in my neighborhood. And they wondered why I was a jumpy child.”
    Coleman pointed his joint at the windshield. “Where are we going now?”
    â€œTo find an ATM,” said