The Postman Doesn't Speak English

Several days ago my U.S. mail stopped showing up. It was things I was expecting on certain days—like my NetFlix movie rental DVDs and a leather check cover I'd ordered—that I was missing. Then nothing. Several days last week I received no mail at all. One day there was one of those USPS change-of-address packets in my mailbox, which left me dumbfounded. (If I'd moved away, what good would it do to have a COA kit in my mailbox where I didn't live anymore?)

I contacted NetFlix after spending a frustrating amount of time trying to locate their well-hidden customer service email address on their Web site to let them know that I wasn't getting my movies and, worse, I wasn't even getting the movies they were sending me to replace the movies I wasn't getting. They assured me that this was unusual and that I should use an alternate address. They suggested I rent a P.O. box.

OK, so the solution is to pay $150/year to rent a P.O. box, plus the usual $19/month for my NetFlix membership. On top of that, I'd then have to drive to the post office every time I wanted to pick up a movie. At that point, it's costing me nearly 40 bucks a month and a lot of extra trips to the overcrowded post office just to rent movies. Talk about missing the whole point of ordering movies online and getting them delivered to you.

Something was terribly wrong, and I needed to get to the bottom of it. The problem with the USPS is that they don't advertise the phone numbers for their post office locations; you have to call an 800-number and speak to Deloris in North Dakota if you want to complain. So I tried a couple other routes first. I went online to usps.gov and located a complaint form. I wrote a letter on the form describing exactly which NetFlix shipments I was missing from which dates, etc. Even my mom had a letter returned to her three times as "undeliverable." I submitted the form and was informed that I'd receive a response within 48 hours. I finally did get a response via email two days later, stating they received my complaint and that I'd hear from someone within 48 hours. Geez.

So the online form is useless.

By Saturday I was quite concerned because no mail was arriving at all and I was worried that NetFlix was going to charge me for the four lost movies (which is now six movies, as of today). Monday when I came home from work, I had an empty mailbox again. It was a couple minutes before 5pm, so I called the 800-number and got Deloris (or whatever her name was). I explained everything to her. To my dismay, the postal service doesn't consider mail "missing" until it has been delayed by at least two weeks. Aaargh. That doesn't do me any good, except for the check cover that was now over three weeks late. Anyway, Deloris wrote it all down and said someone would contact me within 48 hours. (It's now been 51 hours with no word back.)

I also wrote a letter addressed to "postmaster general" at my zip code and shipped that off as well. So between email, US mail, and the phone, the postal service was going to get my message. Loud and clear.

Last night on a yellow index card I wrote a note to my mail carrier describing in detail which items (I knew of) were missing from my mail. I folded the card like a little tent, wrote "IMPORTANT MESSAGE TO MAIL CARRIER" using a red Sharpie on both sides, and left it in my skinny community mailbox.

This morning I was on the middle floor of my town home doing my usual morning routine and eyeing the snow that had blanketed the cars illegally parked in front of my home. I checked my work email while drinking my coffee and let my boss know I was going to come in an hour later than usual—after the rush-hour crazies were off the icy roads. Unbeknownst to me, the entire time I was doing those chores this morning, water was spewing through a hole in the drywall in my downstairs bathroom, flooding my entire first floor and garage. It had gotten down to about 4 degrees last night and a pipe had burst. (But that's another story.)

Thanks to the water damage in my home, I ended up stuck at home cleaning up, moving furniture, working part-time on my regular job, and waiting for the carpet-suckers (that would be the guys with the suction machines that extract water from inside your home) all day. Of course, I was given a two-hour window for the appointment: 1:00 to 3:00PM. And, not unlike the ever-elusive Cable Guy, they showed up at 5:23PM, (and only one of the two spoke English).

Hence, I was home when my mail carrier arrived around 2:00.

The mail carrier came up my driveway looking like a Chinese eskimo in his parka with the faux fur-trimmed hood framing his face. He immediately started spewing broken English at me. From what I surmised, he didn't understand that I still live here. Hence, he had taken it upon himself to make the decision to stop delivering mail to me.

The communication barrier was a difficult obstacle, but I managed to learn from him what had happened: You see, I don't like being on mailing lists. To get rid of junk mail, at least for stuff I don't want that's first class mail, I send it back. Thus, once in a while I'll take a piece of unwanted mail and mark it as "Refused. Return to sender. Please remove from mailing list. Thx." Having to pay the return postage usually deters marketing companies from sending me more junk mail. Anyway, I'd done this with an item from a realtor a couple weeks ago and had put the envelope in the outgoing slot of our community mailboxes.

According to my non-English-speaking mail carrier, "You put forwar' mail an' no live here no more." I was like, "No I didn't." He was spitting, "Yes! You move! You tell me you move!" I was like, "No I didn't." He was really upset. "You say no Steve here and forwar' Steven mail." I was like, "Nope, I don't know any Steve."

"Well who live here?" he asked, pointing to my house while standing in my driveway.

"I do."

"And you Sue-san?"

"Yes, I'm Susan."

"And you still live here?"

"Yes, and I still want my mail."

"So why you put "return to sen'er" on mail an' tell me you move?"

"I never did that. I put 'return to sender; refused; please remove me from your mailing list,' and you took that to mean I moved."

"But, but, but. . . you, you, you. . . .!"

The conversation went on like this for several minutes. I asked him what he did with all my NetFlix movies and the letter from my mom that she's sent three times now. "I sen' back! Return to sen'er."

I said, "So you took it upon yourself to stop delivering my mail because you thought I'd moved even though I never filed a forwarding address and was still putting mail in the outgoing box?"

"Yes. I put forward package and you no say not'ting to me." So, according to him, it was all my fault.

I put my face in my hands and just shook my head. I did this about three times during the entire conversation. By then, coatless, I was freezing. I asked him to please deliver all my mail and never return it to sender unless I tell him to.

We ended it with him assuring me that he'd give all future mail addressed to me to my boss. I was like "My boss? What do you mean my boss?" He said, "You want mail to go to boss." I looked at him like he was from another planet.

I swear, it took me five minutes to figure out he was trying to say he'd put my mail in my box.

I'd really like to see some of the questions they put on the postal exam.

I told my dad about it on the phone afterward and together we just can't figure out how my Chinese-speaking mail carrier passed the postal exam and managed to become employed with the U.S. government. I guess anyone can work for the federal government. Even those who can't read English are given the ultimate responsibility of delivering mail to the address that is printed on the envelope. . . in English.

So that answers that mystery. Now all my NetFlix movies will arrive but I won't be able to watch them because my TV stand (complete with all my A/V components) is now completely unplugged and residing in my downstairs bathroom, which earlier today was under 2" of water for about three hours.

I am frequently very unsure as to how I can go on in this insane world. In fact, every morning when the alarm goes off I wonder what's in store for me next and why even get out of bed?