I sold this dude some Lego stuff—a few leftover Duplo pieces, a baseplate, a storage case, one magazine, and a bunch of old flyers—on BrickLink a month ago. He paid me, his e-check cleared, and three days ago I went to the post office after hours to ship his stuff. I was expecting tons of Priority Mail boxes stacked in the bins next to the automated machine, but this particular time there was nothing. Sometimes you go and there’s piles of labels and stickers, a working pen, three or four different sizes of boxes, the whole range of envelopes … once or twice there’s even been the industrial tape gun. Not Sunday. Not one label, not one box. Empty shelves, empty bins. Even the tethered pen had been ripped off. There was no way I could mail the Lego.

What there was was tax forms, boxes of them, all over the place. So I went over to see if I could steal one of those boxes. But of course they’d all been disfigured, the top flaps ripped off. The only one left whole was too small to fit the storage case this guy had bought. I decided to write and tell him the post office didn’t have the supplies and I’d wait a day or two and mail his package then. For now, I figured, I’d mail the letters I had with me and go. But the slot to put letters was stuck. You couldn’t pull it open. I shrugged and went to the big package bin attached to the automated machine. That one was locked, which happens automatically when the bin is full. I ended up mailing my letters at the mailbox out in the parking lot, which is only emptied once a day. I was really kind of pissed.

To keep that from happening again, I ordered an industrial quantity of Priority Mail boxes on the website, to be shipped to me. It’s supposed to take two days, but as of today (Wednesday) they hadn’t arrived. So tonight I sucked it up and went back. You know how many boxes, envelopes, labels, stickers, tape guns, and pens had been replaced? None. Not one. Just an empty counter, empty shelves, empty bins—next to the sign saying FREE PRIORITY MAIL SUPPLIES.

But this time there was a new box full of estimated tax workbooks on the floor, and it had its flaps.

So I stole a box. I either stole a box from the post office, or I stole a box from the IRS. I stole a box from the American people.

You’ll be pleased to know I put all the workbooks neatly into the rack—except for the one I tore up and used as packing material—before packing up the guy’s Lego in my new box. The machine worked, the bin opened, and I was only momentarily delayed by having taped the page with the guy’s address into the box before I filled out the label. (I had, of course, brought my own tape.)

I’m just astounded. The automated service machine is a godsend. It’s a 24-hour post office, and it works like a charm—as long as the stuff is there. I’ve made hundreds and hundreds of dollars selling my Lego—I’ve made a considerable profit, with many things that were free going for a dollar or so, and many sets that were bought on clearance going for around sixty bucks—and a lot of that money came to me only because of the availability of a self-service machine at my post office. (Technically, it’s not “my” post office, it’s the Chantilly one, but the Centreville one doesn’t have the machine.) It’s never been so abandoned before. I feel almost betrayed.

ANYWAY.

When I got home just now, I had to drop off my rent check, so I parked behind my building and came home through the back door. At the bottom of my deck stairs I noticed the lights were on in the apartment under the apartment next to mine, and it was obviously unoccupied, mid-renovation, so I looked inside. Weird floorplan, but bigger windows than I have. Similar to the layout of the one-bedroom I lived in around the corner, but not quite. It was as I walked away that I noticed the back door of that apartment was wide open. It was tempting to go in and look around. It was tempting to go in and see if there was, oh, I don’t know, a new microwave for me in the kitchen. Hell, it’s cold tonight. It was tempting to go in and light a cozy fire (the one-bedrooms have fireplaces).

I left the door open. Hopefully someone will get in trouble.

Tomorrow they’re supposed to come in and replace my furnace filter. This is apparently done “biannually,” according to the note I got about it. I think, to them, that must mean “every two years,” because I just checked, and my furnace filter looks like I ironed a cat.

A cat who smoked.