A few weeks ago we lost one of our PO box keys. (We didn’t even want a PO box, but the village post office won’t deliver to us even though we’re only three blocks away. But that’s another story.) We still had one key, so we made do with that for a while.
I spent Tuesday working from home, recovering from a bug. Wendi took the key so she could pick up the mail on the way to work, and she alerted me that there was a package slip. This led to a brief discussion about how getting the slip would be easier if we both had keys, which inevitably resulted in me agreeing to go get another key.
Crazy work things happened, but I managed to drive down to the post office. (Sick, remember?) I expected to have to show ID or at least know my name, but the clerk handed over a new key for just the box number and a small idiot fee.
As a longtime fan of crime fiction, my mind started to race with the implications. Could I have asked for just any PO box? How secure was mine? How incredibly easy it would be for a stalker to gain access to someone’s mail!
Then I remembered that it’s a small damn town, and I’m a large man who’s in all the time to pick up packages for that box.
Life can be so frustratingly easy sometimes.