The Investigation

  Wednesday morning in the office was quiet as a graveyard, so I was startled by a sudden knock on my back door.
        I've manned this place by myself for years, so surprise visits, although rare, are unnerving. I have my work shirts and sweaters hanging on a rack, pictures of my dog and nephews on my mini fridge, and adult coloring books, pens, and colored pencils often scattered atop the large rectangular table where I also eat my lunch. As much as I dislike the job, I relish having my own personal space to retreat to between customers. So unannounced visits feel like a home invasion, and my requests for a little notice have been ignored. 
        Management always shows up unannounced, but when Kim does, I know I'm in trouble. A plump pacific islander with abundant wavy black hair, Kim is my shop steward (union representative.) She asked Domingo to wait in the hall while she spoke with me. I asked what this was about, but she said she didn't know. She then showed me a sloppy photocopy of a few hundred dollar bills and a bunch of twenties, carefully spread out on a table next to a bank remittance bag. I noticed the round date stamp on it and realized that it was my turn-in from the night before. Looking closer, I spotted a small plastic stamp holding the bag open, and realized what it meant. I had apparently forgotten to seal it.  

        I had never done this before. For some reason, Term station had started sending me much bigger remittance bags. They had a slightly different sealing mechanism where you peeled the backing from the other side of the opening. Just sitting there, it looked exactly like it would have had it already been sealed.
        Kim asked me if I was positive that I had left the remittance bag open, and I said no. “Then tell him it was sealed to the best of your knowledge,” she advised. 
        As Kim and I spoke, Domingo grew characteristically impatient, knocking insistently on the back door, twice. “Just a minute!” I yelled. When we were done, I swung the door open, ready to angrily demand what his problem was. But he was gone. 
        Kim and I looked out the large window next to my desk. 
        “Oh my God; am I getting a ticket again?!" 
         I looked out the window. Domingo was standing next to her unmarked car in the "Postal Parking Only" spot, speaking to the parking enforcement officer with one hand waving around in explanation as the other nervously smoothed down the hair on back of his head. 
        "I told him on the way down here, if I get another ticket, the post office is paying for it.” Domingo was a Filipino man with a thick accent. I imagined the comical conversation they were having. 
       "I'm sorry sir, but you can't park here unless you're in an official postal vehicle." 
       "Yes sir, I know, but iss okay you see, because I am postal. See?" Pointing to his badge. He loved to repeat himself.
       The service bell interrupted my entertainment. I went up to help the customer. But when I came back, Kim, Domingo, and the car had all disappeared. What the Hell.

       At first I thought something urgent must have come up at Midtown. Richard used to vanish without explanation to "put out fires" that erupted there, as he liked to say. 
      But that was wishful thinking. They were just moving Kim’s car. 
       When they got back, I had just given a customer an envelope to stuff and address. I told them I'd have to help her again shortly but Domingo said, “Iss ok; this will only take a minute.” So I sat down as Domingo recited questions from a piece of paper on the table. “What is your title?”... “What are your duties?”... “What did you do at the end of the day, after closing, before clocking out on Tuesday, July 16^th, 2019?” 

        This is what the Postal Service does when you make a mistake and management wants to punish you for it. It's called an “investigative interview," but feels more like an X-Files-style interrogation. It was the second time I'd been subjected to one in the span of a few months, and I was fuming. It didn't matter that Domingo was an incompetent buffoon, or that it wasn't as big a deal as they were making it out to be. My heart raced, I began to sweat profusely, my mouth dried up and I couldn't think clearly. But I gave short answers, being careful not to admit to doing anything wrong. They both scribbled down my answers on pads of paper. 

        The woman with the package rang my service bell. “Be right there!” I shouted, almost involuntarily. It was hard to keep myself from popping out of that chair, and the knowledge that my line was building just amplified my anxiety. 
       “What is the requirement for sending out postal bank remittance bags, and what was the deposit amount?" 
       "Put the money with the remittance slip in the blue bag. Put that into the register bag; close and seal the register bag with a metal seal." I purposely left out sealing the blue bag, figuring that could make it harder to challenge any disciplinary action. I told him that I didn't remember the exact amount of the deposit, but that I could quickly find it if he wanted. 
      “The bank remittance bag was received unsealed, which places postal funds at risk. Why was it unsealed?” he asked robotically. He showed me the photo copy again. 
       "I can't tell what's going on from that picture. As far as I know, I did seal it." The customer rang the bell again.

        At the end of the interview, Domingo asked if I had anything else I wished to state. 
        “For the record,” I replied, “there are customers in line within ear shot of this entire discussion, which I'm sure is against postal regulations. Feel free to write that down.”

        This is a just one mild example of the lengths postal management will go to in order to punish, dehumanize and intimidate their employees. 
        There is good reason for the term "going postal."