Something that I simultaneously love and hate the most about being a rural mail carrier is that you're always alone.
This morning, I received a call from a customer who said he never received a package I had delivered yesterday. I checked the shelves, looked up his tracking number, and saw that the package was scanned at the time I was at his stop. I then told him I would look for his package today.
Now, 90% of my route is comprised of CBU (cluster box unit) banks. Was it possible I accidentally misread the address on his package for a similar one in a dyslexic moment? Yes. I never rule out that possibility. But I know I have dyslexia. It's something I've dealt with since I was a grade schooler, and it's why I carefully read each address.
Maybe a minute after I arrive at his stop, and halfway through the CBUs, a large black pickup truck pulls up directly behind my vehicle. Being a rural mail carrier, I rarely, if ever, see my customers face to face. But my instincts tell me that this is the guy I spoke with on the phone early this morning.
As a contracted rural mail carrier, I drive my own personal vehicle and don't wear a uniform. There is no way to tell from a distance that I'm a mail carrier, and there are no markings identifying my car as a mail vehicle. I look just like any of the other hundreds of cars on the highway.
This guy lives a mile and a half down the road from where his box is located. There is no other way to get to his house, no alternate routes out from his road. Yet, he pulled up right behind my vehicle from the highway. Almost as if he was driving around looking for me.
Having spent 7 years working retail, I immediately go into customer service mode and ask, "Hi, how may I help you?"
He stands a foot away from me and says, "I'm here to see about my package." Nothing wrong with that sentence itself, but there was just something sinister in his tone, and the way he held himself immediately made my skin crawl and put my nerves on edge.
I told him I wasn't done yet, and I hadn't gotten to his CBU yet. But he continues to stand there, unmoving, staring at me. He doesn't go back to his truck until a kind old lady pulls up in her little car. But he still refuses to get back in his truck. Instead, he pretends to be busy with something on his phone all while still watching my every move.
As I was working, I was checking every box and paying attention to those who lived on his street or had similar house numbers as his. None of them had checked their mail since before yesterday, and none of them had received any parcels.
After I finished with his CBU, I had to tell him. "Your package isn't here." But I get the feeling he already knew that. It was in the way he had spoken to me when he first got there.
"Well, what are you going to do about it then," he asks me, his arms crossed and staring down at my five foot, nothing AFAB self.
"Nothing at the moment," I tell him. "We can wait and see if one of your neighbors mistakenly received it and turns it in, or you can report it as missing." Now, I'm neuro-divergent, and my tone during this entire interaction has been flat, neutral, and matter-of-fact. It's my default tone when speaking.
But he starts getting agitated, "So, you're not gonna admit that you lost it?!"
No? Why would I? We don't know that it's lost, his neighbors haven't checked their mail, and at this point, I'm 75% sure he's lying so he can get a refund on whatever he purchased. The other 25% is he either lost it or another member of his household checked the mail before he did and just didn't tell him. But I don't speak those thoughts out loud.
He kept pressing for me to admit that I was the one who lost his package. He's following me as I walk around my vehicle and refusing to leave. All the while, the kind old lady is still in her car watching and listening to this all play out.
His behavior has long since crossed the line into harassment and I tell him this. "I have not!" He says, "I've been standing over here minding my own business. I just want to know what you plan to do about my package!"
So I tell him, "Nothing. You can call the postmaster. Now, go about your day."
He then calls me a fucking bitch, hops in his truck and slams the door, speeding off.
If it wasn't for the fact that that lady was there for all of it, I'm certain he would have tried to escalate things further.
