Going postal

This afternoon I went to the post office to mail a package to my daughter.  There was the usual Saturday long line and only one postal worker behind the counter.  It was a tense crowd.  For example:  A woman came in and announced that she was after me in line and then disappeared.  (I think she went to address her package but this remains shrouded in mystery) Fifteen minutes later she emerged and took her place behind me in line, much to the consternation of the woman who had been behind me.  A terse discussion ensued prompting the disappearing woman to say, “You can go ahead of me if you must.”  Talk about passive aggression!

Soon thereafter several people could no longer contain their impatience and began shouting out, “Why is there only one worker?!”  One gentleman went the anti-govt route: “What do you expect from the government?!” Still another: “Your tax dollars at work!” Then there were the peaceniks “Come on, they’re doing the best they can! What do you expect on a Saturday?!”

I just sat back, smiled, and took it all in. At last, I thought, a broo-hah-hah without me in the center.

So you want to be in show business?

Last night’s gig is a good example of life in the trenches as a musician.  Every six months or so my trio plays at a restaurant on Long Island that has jazz.  The place has great acoustics, serves us a nice meal, and is generally offer a pleasant experience.  The problem is that getting there involves a 40 mile drive into the teeth of Friday rush hour traffic. 

I had a double on the Island yesterday; a lunchtime gig with a singer in the afternoon saw to it that I didn’t have to deal with the traffic.   The bass player and drummer, however,  rode together and experienced the usual Expressway slog and arrived 15 minutes before gig time.  There isn’t much parking on the street but for years we have parked in an adjacent post office lot with no problems. 

You can probably already tell where this is going, but on the first break we discovered that there was a padlocked gate on the post office lot.  The drummer’s car had been locked in!  Fortunately I had parked on the street otherwise we all would have had to sleep in our cars. 

Needless to say this put a damper on the rest of the evening.  The poor drummer had to deal with the stress of not knowing whether or not his car would still be there  the following day.  If the car was indeed towed there would almost certainly be an accompanying ticket.  It doesn’t take a math major to factor in our paltry salary versus a steep towing fine and ticket.  As usual, the jazz economics are bleak.

After the gig  — a  good one,  all things considered — I gave the bass player and drummer rides home to Manhattan and Brooklyn respectively, before returning to my apartment in Queens.  I managed to get four hours of sleep before picking the drummer up and driving back to the Long Island post office.   The good news is twofold:  First of all, and most important, we were able to retrieve the drummer’s car with no more trouble than a stern talking to from the post office manager.  Finally:  We now have conclusive evidence that it is possible to drive 40 miles into Long Island in 40 minutes.  As long as you leave at 7:30AM.  
 
   Now I have to drive two hours upstate.  Why did I have to go into show business?