The Art of Anger Management
By Joe King

"Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret." 
-- Ambrose Bierce

"Does your mail contain any explosives, drugs or Anthrax?" I'm speechless. Dumbfounded even. I'm attempting to mail a comic book to a collector friend of mine up in Canada from a little hole-in-the-wall -- and I mean "hole in the wall" mail window at the sole-surviving Rexall pharmacy known to man, (woman and beast included.)

The last time I was so thoroughly taken aback was in the mid-eighties. After an almost 10-year tenure (wow -- is that why that call it that?) on my first real job after high school, I was asked in an interview to provide proof of my citizenship and that I had a legal right to work in the good old US of A. WHATHEFU--!

Talk about your racial profiling. What world did I wake up in? Or did I fall down one of those rabbit warrens that look suspiciously like the pot holes on my street. Yes, it seemed that this "learned-to-read-with-Captain Kangaroo, drank-my-milk-with-Sheriff John, Boy Scouting-with-Dr. Werner von Braun, four-year letterman, Red-Cross-supporting, blood-bank-donating, Girl Scout-cookie-hoarding, self-employed father-of-two was being accused of being un-American dammit.

OK, so the whole fake Social Security card thing down on Alverado St. wasn't such a smart idea in hindsight. But the numbers were real -- and those hard working folks have to eat too right? Do you have any idea how may times the Hall Of Records has moved your birth certificate since Eisenhauer left the White House? If you ever need a certified copy, you're gonna meet a LOT of nice folks in East L.A. -- as they refer you to the last place they saw your file. BTW -- I wonder if they have a right to work in the US... 

I finally found my tongue, "No. Nothing like that. It's just a well-padded comic book for a friend in Canada."
My ears heard, "Oh I AM sorry -- we don't accept foreign mail."
"But it's not "foreign" mail! I'm an American, see? I have proof!" (my Social Security card -- I don't leave home without it -- these days.)
"It's not about you," she finally smiles, "it's about your mail. It's the destination that counts." Silly American. Thought it was all about me.

So I'm waiting outside a little Fed-Ex booth while the man-in-blue inside completes the ticket that will take my plunder of pen-and-ink to the Great White North.
It's the only drive-through service window between Santa Monica and the wild-blue-yonder. The man asks me, "Does your shipment contain any dangerous goods, blood, urine, or other infection substances?"

Copyright 2002. Joe King. All Rights Reserved.