My 5-star Yelp review of the Greenpoint post office
I used to date a beautiful Polish girl living in Greenpoint, and sleepovers at her place were always fun for two reasons. One was that she always kept on her nightstand a huge plastic bin of Fruity Pebbles with a print-out of an ASCII Count Chocula taped to the side (In Poland, Count Chocula is a generic cereal mascot and national hero). Two was that her apartment was three short blocks away from one of the hottest indie post offices in the city.
Thursday afternoon. We lounge in bed past noon, Fruity Pebble dust lining the sheets.
“Kim jesteś i co chcesz ze mną?” she asks in that incomprehensible Slavic gibberish (we communicated exclusively through hand gestures throughout our dalliance). I grab her waist and give a squeeze. She knows what’s up. Time to rage.
We chug a couple bottles of horse-strength Robotussin and grab our glowsticks. Perfect timing: I start peaking on DXM right as we walk through the door. The security guard gives us a nod from his stool. He knows I’m a VIP in the mail scene. Bouncers never hassle me, unless they want to have to explain to their superiors a scathing trip report on the r/postalzone subreddit or an indignant tweet to my 69,420 loyal followers on Twitter (@virgiltexas, look me up, stampheads).
I look over at my babe, and I can tell she’s peaking too. “Co ja zdobyć się na.” My eyeballs are popping at the gorgeous colors: blue uniforms and white envelopes, gray floors and gray ceilings. That Eagle flies off a priority mail envelope and soars into my brain where it lays eggs of sheer orgasmic pleasure. My girlfriend’s rocking out to the slammin’ Edith Piaf CD that’s pounding vibes into our mentals.
Playtime. I open my girl’s P.O. Box and pull out an assortment of pacifiers and Go-Gurts I had taken the liberty of mailing last week. We rock over to the shipping desk, where I bang out a 5000-word letter to my Icelandic pen pal Grottork. I suck my rhythmically flashing pacifier while hallucinating about the missing kids on the wall. Catthew Riley’s been missing since 1992. What would he look like today? A f**king brontosaurus, that’s what.
It’s closing time and we’re tumbling down our plateau. I ask my babe if she wants to hit up this underground 24-hour Approved Postal Provider in Astoria. “Wyjeżdżam was i wzywa władze.” English, please! She flips me off and walks out. Dumped again. But you know what they say: lucky at stamps, unlucky at love. I’m a cougar on the prowl in the city that never sleeps, where there’s a post office on every block that’s ready to accept my package.