My complaint is minor. Everyone's complaint is minor, and at least one Web site catalogs them: usps.pissedconsumer.com. Individually minor, but representing yet another thing America doesn't do well any more.
It's not merely that I had to wait in line for 30 minutes to buy 200 44-cent U.S. flag stamps. I'm sadly used to long lines and slow-motion clerks.
"The goal is a waiting time of five minutes or less," USPS spokesman Mark Saunders told me over the phone. My goal is a Pulitzer. We're both falling short.
I learned when I got home that one of the two rolls put in an envelope for me by the clerk turned out to be 28-cent polar-bear stamps. When I returned the next business day to exchange them I was told I had to speak to the manager, who would come right out. After 17 minutes of waiting (yes, I timed it) I learned that the manager wasn't actually there. I asked for a phone number so I could call to make an appointment, like with a doctor.
When I dialed the number the clerk gave me, it was a nonworking number. That's fitting, I guess. I got the right number, left a message for the supervisor, Lucille. No one called back.
So I went for a third time to the subterranean Penn Center post office under the Clothespin. I waited 13 minutes before being told that Lucille doesn't come in until noon. (She supervises three offices, Philadelphia Postmaster Joe Kinney later told me.)
However . . . one staffer - maybe noticing the smoke coming out of my ears - asked about my problem, I told her and she said I didn't need a supervisor to get a refund. It took a few more minutes and some paperwork, but I got my money, thanks to Ms. Moore, who provided the service that's part of USPS' name.
Are my experiences aberrations? I asked around for post-office stories. Getting them wasn't as hard as cracking walnuts.
I received complaints about long lines and surly clerks, which I expected. Then there was the unexpected. (I have changed some names.)
