The PO Box Around the Corner

Is there anything more romantic than a PO Box? Lots of things, actually. But for the sake of this blog post, we’re going to stick with the idea that PO Boxes are incredibly romantic. And fun. And essential. That’s right, I said essential. Especially if you’re a writer. 

Why? 

Good question. Here’s the answer.

Every writer today is encouraged to have a newsletter. And every newsletter is required to have a physical address attached to it. Something to do with anti-spam laws. Don’t worry about it. What you should be worrying about is whether you want to use your home address so every wacko who signs up for your newsletter can know where you live.

Honestly, when you first start off, it probably doesn’t matter too much since most of the wackos who sign up for your newsletter already know where you live. You’re likely related to 90% of them. 

But later, down the road, it might be a smart idea to get a PO Box and keep your home address private. At least that’s the official explanation for why I recently obtained a PO Box. 

The unofficial explanation? Years ago I watched The Shop Around the Corner, a movie in which the two main characters write anonymous letters to each other through use of PO Boxes, and ever since then I’ve wanted a PO Box of my own. You know, in case Jimmy Stewart decides to write me a letter. 

So a few weeks ago, full of excitement and anticipation, I set off for downtown Springfield with my application and appropriate forms of identification in hand, ready to claim my glorious PO Box. Were there closer PO boxes at more convenient locations? Yes. But they were also more expensive. And since I figured the likelihood of anybody sending letters to this PO Box (especially Jimmy Stewart) was next to nil, why not save a little money and reserve the one downtown.

Great decision, right? Right. Except for one little hiccup. 

I couldn’t find the blasted post office.

My directions led me to a parking lot downtown. A parking lot not intended for public use based on the parking permits hanging from each vehicle’s rearview mirror. The only entrance I could find to the large building next to the parking lot had a sign on the door reading Employees Only. 

This obviously was not the home of my beloved PO Box.

I circled the block. I circled the block again. My phone kept insisting this was the correct building. I kept insisting it wasn’t. The only doors I could find marked Public Entrance were locked. So I circled again. And again.

Tired of circling, I decided there was only one thing to do. And I didn’t want to do it. Going through doors marked Employees Only when I’m not an employee is not my idea of a good time. What if I got arrested? What if I got dirty looks? The kind that say, “Can’t you read, lady? Employees only!”

I hate dirty looks. And though I’ve never been arrested, I’m sure I’d hate that too. But what’s a girl to do when a PO Box is on the line? Give up? Never.

So with a deep breath, I opened the doors and stepped inside. And what’s the first thing I see? A security guard. 

“I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” I say, speaking as fast as I can before he has time to arrest me, “but I’m looking for the post office because I reserved a PO Box, and I hope it’s okay I parked in that parking lot.” I hold up my application paper to prove I’m not a criminal. 

He nods and stands. “You’re in the right place. There’s a post office in the basement. People rent PO Boxes here because it’s cheaper, but you probably would’ve been better off paying more for a better location.”

Considering how long it took me to find the place, I can’t argue. But at least I’m here now. My PO Box is only one floor away.

“Thing is,” the security guard continues, “you’re going to have to go through security every time you come down here.” 

I glance at the metal detector. I guess that’s a little bit of a nuisance, but it’s not as if I’m packing  heat. I think I can handle walking through a metal detector.

By this time another security guard rounds the corner. “What’s going on?”

“She reserved a PO Box. I was going to walk her downstairs.”

“I’ll do it,” the other security guard pipes up. I’m starting to get the feeling this is the most excitement these guards have seen all year. “But you should know this isn’t a great place to have a PO Box. You’re going to have to go through security every time you come down here.”

I’m curious now what all this security entails. A background check? A polygraph test?

He motions for me to follow him to the elevators. I point to the metal detector. “Don’t I need to go through this?”

“Nah.” The first guard waves a dismissive hand. “You’re with us. You’re fine.”

So that apparently is what security entails in this building. A very rigorous process indeed.

The second guard escorts me down to the basement, shaking his head woefully throughout the entire elevator ride about my decision to choose a PO Box at this location. “Yep, you would have been better off paying a little more for a different spot.”

I can’t argue with him. This whole endeavor has certainly taken much longer than I ever anticipated. But I’ve made it to this point. I’m not turning back now. Give me my stinking PO Box!

He leads me to a small room that is not like any post office I’ve encountered before. But there’s a counter with a window, and soon enough a man steps up to the other side of it, holding packages and envelopes and all sorts of post officey type things. Finally, things are looking hopeful. 

Until I see the pained expression on this man’s face when I show him my PO Box application paper. He sighs and stares at me like I’ve completely ruined his day. And I get the sneaking suspicion he’s about to ruin mine. Especially when he starts off by saying, “Look, lady—”

I think we all know any time a sentence starts with “Look, lady,” it usually doesn’t end well for the lady. 

“—online it’s confusing. They make it sound like this is a great place for a PO Box, but trust me, you don’t want a PO Box here. My hours are limited. This is an annoying place to get to. And worst of all. . .”

Don’t you dare even say it.

“. . . every time you come here, you’ll have to go through security.”

He said it. I have to clamp my lips together to keep from pointing out the fact that go through security means walk around a metal detector. I try to explain to him that I don’t expect to come down here very often. If ever. I really don’t mind having a PO Box at the dumbest location in the world.

But he won’t be swayed. I have to find a PO Box at a different location. Which I do end up doing. And I’m sure in the long run I’ll be glad. Especially since on my way out of the building, the last thing I hear is a woman asking the security guards how often people show up looking for the post office.

“Every day,” the guards tell her mournfully.

“But don’t they know they have to go through security?”