The woman at the Ravenswood post office is livid. She wants her stuck-together stamps replaced, dammit, and the clerk behind the counter won’t cooperate.
She knows her money’s still good. The bureaucracy at the U.S. Treasury is less convoluted than that at the U.S. Postal Service. Any bank would replace the damaged bills with freshly minted ones as long as she had an account there. But the permanently stuck together stamps strike fear in her soul.
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“Yes they are!” she almost shouts.
The supervisor is explaining something to the first customer in line, but she doesn’t understand. The supervisor explains again. The customer doesn’t understand again. The second guy is fidgeting. “C’mon already! Jesus,” he mutters. When the first customer finally gets sent away with four forms to fill out, the fidgeting guy is told he’s been standing in the wrong line. He won’t go. He wants to argue. “I’ve always stood here to do this!” he says.
The form is similar in complexity to the 1040A, and the woman isn’t sure she can answer every question. But she’s come this far, and she’s not leaving without those stamps.
Just as the woman is about to grab back her stamps and leave the post office screaming, the supervisor appears.
