Rain-soaked Customs Forms

When my boss huffed and puffed the package over to my trunk, I should have known that I was in trouble.  But I was too pre-occupied with getting the other two packages into the backseat.  It looked like it was going to rain, and I worried about skidding my way out of these back roads.

Upon my arrival at the post office, I take the medium package, just over thirty pounds, inside the doors.  I come here a few times a week, and they know me.  I'm not worried about the $1,000 merchandise inside until I see a massive line of people.  Since I didn't know there were going to be three packages waiting at my boss's house, I'd only filled out one address label and one customs form.  Now that I was inside, I filled out two more of each for about ten minutes.  I popped them all between my lips and grabbed the package to try to bring it all in at once from the car.  I thought that was the most annoying thing that could happen to me that day.

Pouring rain.  POURING rain.  The customs forms are a thin, sixfold-triplicate, so they were ruined immediately.  I struggle to unlock my car with the package in my arms.  My cell hits the wet ground.  I throw the package inside the car and open the trunk.  I yank on the package with all my slippery might, and it doesn't budge.  My fingers keep snapping away from the wet edges.  I notice a handle on the side of the box letting water pour onto the $1,000 equipment inside. 

Note:  I will later discover this package is SIXTY-THREE pounds.

The soaking package drops to the ground, and I barely pick it up and shimmy it between my car and the one next to me, a Lexus with the owner watching me from the driver's seat.  I drag the box over the curb, trying not to think about the other two in the car.  I can barely move the heavy box.

I run back inside, slipping and sliding on my flip-flops, everyone waiting under the overhang for someone to pick them up staring at the tall blonde.  I ask for a cart inside, and I am given a rickety shopping cart with a weary, stained canvas inside.  I bring it back out into the rain.  My hair is flat against my cheeks, and I look like I've jumped into a pool.  I can't move the package.  I literally cannot pick it up off the ground more than two inches, and the six MEN standing under the overhand just watch.  I think about hurting them with sharp objects.  Finally, a man getting out of his car sees my pathetic self, and he sets it inside the cart.  It barely fits.

I roll the cart back inside and fill out two more customs forms for a few minutes.  Water is pouring from my face and hair onto the counter.  I set the cart near the employee door by the counter, and the postman takes it inside, behind the counter.  

"Oh, no, that's--"

"It's fine, it's fine."

"No, but it's--"  It's already inside.  "I still have another package to get."

"That's okay."

"But that one isn't ready to send!"  He's already tossed it in the to-go pile.  It has no address, no insurance, and no hope of surviving travel with soaked cardboard.

"Oh." He is annoyed.  I tried to tell him!  He tells me to get the other packages.

I run back out and grab the other packages, totally about forty pounds.  Since the address I'm sending the packages to is in Iraq and not exactly public knowledge, I've tucked the second-round of completed customs forms in my jeans.  That was a bad idea, and they're wet, too.

After struggling with the other two packages, grabbing my cell, stuffing the blank check into my shirt, and manually locking my stupid door, I sprint for the door.  A woman sighs with annoyance when I bump into her just inside.  I think about screaming the following:

"What?!  WHAT?!  Am I'm inconveniencing you, ma'am?  Are you worried I'll drip on you?"

I do not, however.

I stand in line, dripping, grimacing at my flip-flops squeaking an echo with each move I make.  The people in line have been watching me through this whole fiasco, and I surprise myself with how embarrassed I am. 

When I get to the counter, I cannot get the large package onto the counter.  Next to me in line is French Man, sending a huge bucket of packages and letters of various sizes.  Imagine the worst imitation of a French accent you're heard, and that's what this guy sounded like.  He would talk with his son in French, and he was saying charming thing to the woman on the other side of the counter.  

As I braced my weight against the counter to lift the package, he says "Oh oh, allow me to help you, mizz!  Chriz, help me help this beautiful lady!"  He is so ridiculous and outlandish, and I start laughing along with the joy he has streaming off of him like rainwater.

"Thank you," I say, exhausted.

"Oui oui!"

I smile and help the postman wipe the packages with papertowels, happy.