It’s a game I play. Several of the postal workers in this post office seem incredibly entitled. They are doing you a favor by waiting on you. They take pleasure in lengthening the line of impatient customers by taking their time, going on unannounced breaks, and refusing to call another worker to the front when they get busy. They will spend minutes enjoying pictures of the grandkids of the customer in front of you, while you groan inwardly with frustration.
The object of the game is to make them smile, something they would rather not do. I must set aside my irritation and concentrate on the worker, not as a functionary, but as a real person. What does she dream about at night? What does he love to do on the weekends? Does she have a family? Wherein lies his carefully hidden humanity? I know it’s in there.
So I refuse to get upset. I smile. I probe. I search for a comment that will hook him or her into a short and just barely affectionate conversation. Sometimes it works, and I get that smile. In the end, we are all looking for the same thing
