mirror image: neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night . . .

Illegally parked cars with USPS placards line south side of Thirty-Sixth St. as other vehicles head toward tunnel (photo by twi-ny/mdr)

So I’m going out to pick up my lunch the other day and I see a row of parked cars on Thirty-Sixth St. between Second & Third Aves., one of the busiest streets in the city, since it leads directly into the Queens Midtown Tunnel.

A traffic cop is going down the row, car by car, writing tickets and sticking them under the windshield wiper. An older man in a baseball cap approaches her in the street and starts talking; I assume he is complaining, that one of the offending autos must be his. After a minute or two, he gets back on the sidewalk.

“She doesn’t like those cars,” I say, trying to find out what’s going on.

“And she shouldn’t,” he replies. “They’re all post office cars, and they shouldn’t be parking here.”

There’s three-hour metered parking for commercial vehicles only between 7:00 am and 3:00 pm Monday through Friday; a sign says “No Parking” where the cars had settled in.

Right across the street is the Murray Hill Annex, a large post office depot where a lot of the trucks are based. Even though I live next door, somehow we still don’t get our mail delivered till very late in the day.

The man, who has a bitter, gruff edge, continues. “They all put those placards in their window, as if it gives them permission to park anywhere. A lot of them don’t even work for the post office.”

“They just get them from friends and relatives,” I guess.

“Yup.” I’m not sure the man has looked at me once yet.

I walk up to one of the cars and see the white sign on the dashboard: “National Association of Letter Carriers. U.S. Post Office. New York Letter Carriers.” There’s also an image of New York State and a postal worker.

USPS signs don’t prevent cars from being ticketed (photo by twi-ny/mdr)

According to salary.com, the average base annual salary for mail carriers in New York City is $45,986. The open-air parking lot on the other side of my building, which was once rumored to be taken over by the post office, charges $29.57 per day (plus 18.375% parking tax). Those numbers don’t add up particularly well for USPS employees who drive to work.

“They should pay their fair share,” the man gripes.

“Well, the city can use the money,” I say. “Of course, they could always take the bus and not pay. I bet you and me are the last two people who pay for the bus.”

“Don’t get me started,” the man says, getting started. “Nobody pays anymore. They get on through the back door. It’s crazy.”

“The other day, the guy behind me just walked on through the front door and squeezed past me without paying,” I explained. “I said to the driver, ‘So only some of us have to pay?’” (You can read more about buses and me in this previous Substack.)

“The drivers do nothing,” he tells me.

“Actually, this one did; he called the man back and said something to him. I don’t know if he paid, but he stayed on the bus. And then there’s the Select Bus —”

You have to pay for Select Buses either at a machine at the bus stop before you board or with your phone or credit card at an electronic monitor at any of the three doors; you can’t use your MetroCard. It’s basically on an honor system.

The man cuts me off. “Damn Select Bus. Don’t take them. What a mess. I stick to the local.”

“I try to take the local too,” I agree, gesturing to the stop on the corner. “I don’t want the MTA to get rid of this stop.”

Local bus stop might not be pretty but it is necessary (photo by twi-ny/mdr)

The man steps into a puddle as he begins to cross the street. He’s still muttering something as he ambles on, but I can’t make it out.

I wish him well, but he isn’t listening anymore; he has moved on to his next obstacle.

As I head south to pick up my poke bowl, I realize something that gives me pause.

That man in the baseball cap is me, in about ten years. I was peering into a mirror from the future.

I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

I turn around to take another look at him, but he is gone. Maybe he was never there.

I got to my regular poke place and they’re out of what I had preordered and paid for on an app. I think about complaining, then consider the guy I had just met.

“You want something else?” the man behind the counter asks. “Maybe spicy chicken?”

I hesitate for a moment, then answer.

“Yes. That would be great.”