Mr. Picture Frame


I was in line at the post office, the United States Postal Service. Not the UPS Store. Not a private mailing service. Not a full-service establishment with all the mailing supplies a heart could desire. The. United. States. Postal. Service.

The guy at the front of the line wanted to mail a very large framed photograph covered in glass. He didn’t have any bubble wrap. He didn’t even have a box.

The post office was not my usual post office. I had left my neighborhood to see a dentist in another part of town. I must have been in a rich neighborhood because there were a couple of postal service employees approaching the people standing in line and making sure they had any forms filled out correctly and directing them to the kiosk in the lobby if their needs could be met there.

When it was Mr. Picture Frame’s turn to approach the counter, he stayed in line and told the next available postal worker that he needed a box. And bubble wrap. She glared at him incredulously. The woman trying to help cutomers in line told the woman at the counter that another woman was looking for bubble wrap for him. The woman at the counter shrugged and called up the next customer ready to do business.

Then it was my turn. The woman working at the window I went to was probably in her mid 30s, Latina, and butch dykie cute. Her dark hair was cut short in back, but the front was longer and slicked back into a wavy, subdued pompadour. She had a tattoo behind her left ear, and her name was Andrea.

As Andrea was helping me, Mr. Picture Frame set his item (now encased in hot pink bubble wrap) on the counter on the other side of her and told her that he’d be right back. I guess he expected her to make sure no one stole it, or maybe he just wanted to insure it wasn’t discarded.

Andrea told him someone had left a bunch of bubble wrap and went to the corner to retrieve an armful for him. When she tried to give it to Mr. Picture Frame, he said he didn’t need it, that what he needed now was a box. He said, “She’s got something,” a couple of times, but I still have no idea to whom he was referring.

At that point, I broke my own rule of non-involvement and called over to Mr. Picture Frame, “You should use some of her bubble wrap too.” I didn’t say it out loud, but I wouldn’t trust the US Postal Service with a large piece of glass covered in only one layer of bubble wrap, especially bubble wrap with only little dinky bubbles.

As Mr. Picture Frame moved away from the counter (I have no idea where he was going), I whispered to Andrea, “Did he think he could just stick some stamps on it and slip it in the mail slot?”

She rolled her eyes at me and said, “You would not believe what I see here.”

About Blaize Sun

My name is Blaize Sun. Maybe that's the name my family gave me; maybe it's not. In any case, that's the name I'm using here and now. I've been a rubber tramp for nearly a decade.I like to see places I've never seen before, and I like to visit the places I love again and again. For most of my years on the road, my primary residence was my van. For almost half of the time I was a van dweller, I was going it alone. Now I have a little travel trailer parked in a small RV park in a small desert town. I also have a minivan to travel in. When it gets too hot for me in my desert, I get in my minivan and move up in elevation to find cooler temperatures or I house sit in town in a place with air conditioning I was a work camper in a remote National Forest recreation area on a mountain for four seasons. I was a camp host and parking lot attendant for two seasons and wrote a book about my experiences called Confessions of a Work Camper: Tales from the Woods. During the last two seasons as a work camper on that mountain, I was a clerk in a campground store. I'm also a house and pet sitter, and I pick up odd jobs when I can. I'm primarily a writer, but I also create beautiful little collages; hand make hemp jewelry and warm, colorful winter hats; and use my creative and artistic skills to decorate my life and brighten the lives of others. My goal (for my writing and my life) is to be real. I don't like fake, and I don't want to share fake. I want to share my authentic thoughts and feelings. I want to give others space and permission to share their authentic selves. Sometimes I think the best way to support others is to leave them alone and allow them to be. I am more than just a rubber tramp artist. I'm fat. I'm funny. I'm flawed. I try to be kind. I'm often grouchy. I am awed by the stars in the dark desert night. I hope my writing moves people. If my writing makes someone laugh or cry or feel angry or happy or troubled or comforted, I have done my job. If my writing makes someone think and question and try a little harder, I've done my job. If my writing opens a door for someone, changes a life, I have done my job well. I hope you enjoy my blog posts, my word and pictures, the work I've done to express myself in a way others will understand. I hope you appreciate the time and energy I put into each post. I hope you will click the like button each time you like what you have read. I hope you will share posts with the people in your life. I hope you'll leave a comment and share your authentic self with me and this blog's other readers. Thank you for reading.  A writer without readers is very sad indeed.

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