Granny J's Hand-Written Letters

    I hate mailing letters. If I had my way, those sluggish, superfluous, sleepy-eyed postal workers, wandering around behind the counters like rats in mazes, well they would all be out of a job. Every last one should be replaced by robots. At least robots don’t need smoke breaks, or time to make a run to McDonald’s, or health insurance when their tickers go bad from all the saturated fat they sucked down on their lunches. Times are tough, we all have the Internet and Blackberries and, hell, even fax machines to clutter up our office spaces. Who needs a rude, overweight woman in tight navy cargo pants to deal with?

  But I also have a grandmother, whom I love very much. Granny, however, doesn’t believe in the Internet, or Blackberries, or even goddamned fax machines. We've been writing each other for years, since I was old enough to hold a pencil. Years of going to that squat, brick building that I dispise. Hey, I’m a realist. I know she can’t last much longer. Until the day when the angels come to collect, I have to march down to the post office and slap down my hand-written letters to her, much as it pains me.

  Bet you know where this is going. I bet you’re sitting there smugly to yourself, thinking, “Gee, one day he’s going to walk into the post office to buy some stamps, and there aren’t going to be any people there. It’s going to be populated by robot workers, and he’s going to have the worst time of it.” Don’t look so proud of yourself.

  One day, I did walk into the post office to buy my stamps, and there were robots behind the counter in place of the usual slobbery rodents in scratchy blue uniforms. And I laughed. Gleefully. Hell, if I could’ve clicked my heels, I would have. Right there in front of those shiny metal robots, as they efficiently sorted letters, helped customers, managing to do so all without the benefit of health insurance or 401K’s. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to camp out there, watch as one of those loveable machines did the work of three people, no cigarette or lunch breaks; all artificial intelligence and clean-burning fuel.

    But I forced myself to leave, dragged myself back to my, by comparison, meagerly outfitted apartment. It was like I was living in the Dark Ages. I didn’t even have a flatscreen, and I certainly didn’t have a robot. I made a calendar event on my palm pilot, promising myself that I would spend more time at the post office. In fact, if I could, I would spend all my time there, mouth agape at the mechanical marvels.

  Just as I sat down to draft up a hand-written letter, the second one in less than a day, for my dear old granny, a message popped up on my computer.

         “Hello Dear,

                   It’s me. Just got email! I know how much you hate the post office. Now you never have to go back.



                                       Granny J.”