My Brush with Fame, or Honey, You Never Had a Chance

I went to the post office today to mail some post cards and to buy some low denomination stamps, as we still have staps left over from out wedding three years ago. Rates have increased at least twice since then. There was only one person working at the counter, so I waited in line a long time, so long that a guy behind me and I joked about ringing chairs in the future. But the fun began when I left.

As I walked into the post office, someone was taking photos of the building. I walked in front of the camera before I noticed and hoped that they did not get me in a shot. When I came out, a young man said he was from the Hartford Courant and asked if he could interview me, because the state recently announced they might close this branch. I expressed sadness at the prospect of the branch closing, and the reporter replied that he was speaking the the right person.

I agreed to be interviewed, thinking this might be my opportunity to be on the cover of the Courant. Then he asked me, “So, do you come here often?”

I couldn’t let that go, even though I knew exactly what he meant, and I replied, “Whaddya hitting on me?” It took him a moment or two to register why I’d said that, and then he could not stop laughing.

Whe he finally composed himself, he asled me how many times a week I came there. “A week?” I queried, “a week?”

“Yeah, for business, personal needs…”

Here I was after just mailing postcards to my Creative Writing class with summer writing prompts and buying small denomination stamps because we still have stamps from three years ago. I said, “I come here once every three months or so.” I noticed he was not writing anything down on his notepad.

He quickly ended the interview with, “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” Thus my moment in the spotlight quickly passed over me.

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