Going Postal

The Jackson Post Office needs to invest in little signs for the LeFleur’s Bluff location that say, “Warning: Front Desk Has Been Lobotimized.”

I walk in with a Global Priority Mail package. First off, international mail, by definition, is a pain. If the package weighs over a pound, you are forced to bring it inside and deal with the staff. And there’s the rub: the staff is clueless about international mail and how to handle it.

Knowing this — international mail is always a problem — I come prepared. My shipment is enclosed in a USPS Global Priority Mail large envelope. This envelope is closed and sealed using only its own adhesive strip — no tape. The postage to Sweden is pre-printed and metered. All I really need is for the gentleman behind the counter to stamp my package with the round, red rubber stamp.

(Why? Because the round, red rubber stamp proves you brought the package inside — as you must, when an international package weighs over one pound.)

“Hello,” I say. “All I need is the round, red rubber stamp, and this international package will be good to go.”

The man behind the counter frowns and turns my package over and over in his hands. “This is a large Global Priority Mail envelope,” he says.

I glance at the large, white letters on the front and back of the envelope — the ones that say Large Global Priority Mail Envelope. I nod. “Yep.”

He tosses it back to me. “Large Global Priority Mail envelopes must be self-sealed. You can’t use tape and get this rate.”

I tap the package. “No tape.”

The man checks the package again. He shows it to the woman sitting next to him. She peers over her little glasses and says, “That’s right. You can’t use tape to seal a large Global Priority Mail envelope. It has to be self-sealed.”

“It is self-sealed,” I say. “I didn’t use tape. It just needs the little round, red stamp.”

They both inspect the package. No tape.

The man tosses it back to me. “Gonna have to have customs forms.”

I produce them, sign them, and hand them over. The clerk frowns at the form, then frowns at me. He taps keys on his terminal. He rips something off the printer, sticks it to my package, and says, “That’ll be nine dollars.”

“But it’s metered postage,” I say. “I’ve already paid. See? The label says ‘$9.00 Postage Paid.’ All it needs is the round, red stamp.”

“Dang it!” The clerk picks at his freshly-printed postage, tears it, swears, and tosses it to one side. “Then that’s it. You’re outta here.”

I want to shake him by the lapels, but I suppress the urge. “Actually, I need the round, red stamp.”

“No,” the clerk says. “You don’t.”

“I do,” I say. “If this doesn’t get the round, red stamp, the package comes back to me.”

He browses the selection of rubber stamps beside his work station. He lifts one. “This one?”

“That’s the one.”

He stamps the package. “It doesn’t need it,” he says again.

I’m reconciled to the fact that the USPS is going to create a labyrinth of regulations and exceptions … it would be nice, though, if they would familiarize their own employees with them.