This piece of mine is in McQueen's Quinterly oday. Strangely fitting for these corona virus times, when we are told to "shelter in place" here in the San Francisco Bay Area. Hope everyone is staying well out there.
So it’s the millennium (or not depending on how you count your
years) and I’m in the Post Office waiting to get shot or at least held
hostage by some raving maniac with Y2K wired in his brain, compelling
him to—
just do it!—and my packages are all over two pounds so I
hafta go up to the window and there’s that crazy red light
2000-countdown thing with only hours to go, the seconds flying by like
dying brain cells, reminding me and everybody else just how old we
really are, and not getting a second younger. Then, I realize everyone
in the place has that edgy kinda look, like they’re all wondering how
they ended up in the Post Office on New Year’s Eve with forgotten
Christmas gifts tucked under their arms or catalog packages to be
returned, and if ever there was a possibility something really bad would
happen, this is the time, this is the place.
It’s in-out, don’t look back. The guy in the Santa hat is
grabbing his change like there’s no tomorrow, just grateful to slide out
the door with his life. Moms and kids too, how can you bring kids to
the end of the world? Clerks all talking at warp speed, let’s get this
place cleared before the crazies show up. Everyone’s focused on the
millennium clock, just beating out the last hours to the tune of their
own hearts. No I don’t want insurance, no it’s not a bomb, no I haven’t
taken anything from strangers. No candy, no drugs, no nothin’. Just
returning some stuff to the catalog store like everyone else. Just
trying to get out with my mind intact. One more day, one more
millennium.
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