I don't smoke. Anything. Never have. Probably never will. But, when I realized that the Smoker's shop in a nearby strip mall also offered U.S. Postal services, my interest was piqued.
As I opened the door, bells jingled. I braced myself for the ashy smell of cigaratte smoke, but my nostrils were thrilled to find the sweet tang of incense. Around me were glass cases filled with pipes, tobacco, and handmade bongs. Walls were coated with packages of cigarettes. Lighters of every color were lurking near the register. In the back of the store a nook had been created to serve as a humidor for cigars and the people that love them. The music was the soothing sounds of sitar and voices singing in a language I did not know.
He smiled from behind the counter and asked how he could help me. I could tell he was sincere. Probably in his late 60s, hailing from India--he told me this, but his thick accent and browned skin suggested it first. He took great pride in his store and enjoyed pointing out all of the postal services he can provide and stamps he had available.
I used to avoid mailing things.
Post office lines.
People that seem to hate their jobs.
People that seem to hate people.
Hoping that they will tape my box shut because we don't have packing tape at home.
Being charged for a whole roll of tape when I only needed a few inches of it.
He delights in weighing my packages. He giggles as he tapes up every angle of an awkwardly shaped box. He gladly pulls out blank paper and shares a Sharpie marker so I can write the address. He handles the items with care. He reiterates that he can do whatever the post office can do. I say he does it better.
I don't mind shipping things now.
He is why.
