Posted by
Rogue Historian on Thursday, April 19, 2007 3:18:25 AM
Late last night, as I waited in an interminable line to mail off an Extension to File, I witnessed a poignant convergence.
I exited the ramp toward one of only two Post Offices slated to remain open past midnight. I thought I was being clever. This particular office was more remote than the alternative. Within less than a mile, I realized my mistake. I ran into a solid wall. By this time, it was about 11:30 and the only thing keeping me in line was the radio. Dennis Miller was talking about the night a suspicious coed had led him through sleet, hail and driving rain to the gravesite of Mark Twain. The context was the WVA shooting. Miller was doing a remarkable job weaving humor and commentary into a narrative honoring the dead. He's got a gift. Oh, and he gave me leave to enjoy the Boss's music. Miller said that despite his differences with Springsteen, he considers Bruce "one hell of a human being." Good enough for me. Anyway.
I'm sitting in my car, listening to DM when a guy gets out of his car somewhere behind me and starts running. A ten or twelve foot chain link fence encloses the Post Office and I am still easily a mile from the drop off. So I see this older gentleman running up the sidewalk beside me and I'm thinking "hey! He's running faster than I'm driving. Not a bad idea." And then I realize that running with him would rob me of Dennis Miller's sparkling conversation, so I defer. I also briefly consider rolling down my passenger window and asking the Marathon Man to do a fellow tax payer a favor. Then I think better of it. Suddenly, the grey haired fox runs by a bus bench and stops. He's leaning heavily on the bench. His chest is heaving up and down. I think, "This guy is gonna die!" Of course, I consider offering the poor guy a ride. But before I can make this meaningless offer, he's off again. And then it hits me, It's true what they say about death and taxes. What they don't tell you is that taxes can kill you. About fifteen minutes later, the old jogger is nearly crawling the opposite direction, back to his car.
By this time, I realize I have virtually no hope of getting to the drop-off before midnight. I consider doing a u-turn out of the line and heading home. I really don't care if I have to pay a penalty for not filing, I just happened to be up late last night with nothing better to do. But Dennis pulls me back in. Sitting in a stop and go line waiting to beg the state for mercy has become just an excuse to listen to Mr. Miller. I consider calling in to the show. But I have nothing to add. I just want to tell Dennis that taxes can actually kill you. A little off-topic, so I probably wouldn't make it on anyway. Finally, at about 12:05 I reach the drop off. There is a very congenial woman taking envelopes from outstretched hands. When I get to her, I thank her for accepting my plea. She smiles and says "you are welcome." I think, "She is the nicest postal worker I've ever met." And I have never, ever known a post office to stay open even a second later than necessary.
And then it occurs to me, "Is this a coincidence?" The one and only time the post office acts like a legitimate business is on tax day. Hmmm.