The One That Almost Got Away

The move to New York, along with the encouragement from an incredibly supportive wife, has provided me with an opportunity to take some time off from work and hopefully discover a new career, maybe even re-invent myself. After 19 months of the same me, finding a job has begun to take on a heightened sense of urgency. So when my phone rang this past Monday morning as I was waiting for my number to be called (just like a deli counter of old, or the same if you live in New York) in the Chinatown hardware store where I was trying to locate the rare hard to locate item in Manhattan, I hoped that the 212 area code might be someone ringing me for an interview. After all, I had recently submitted resumes for two similar positions with a coveted (by myself anyway) New York City agency. My intuition proved to be spot on. Score. Interview set for Friday afternoon.

The interview itself provided nothing noteworthy. Did I ace it? Likely not. Did I blow any chance of landing the job? Likely not. I would give myself a respectable 7/10. Afterwards I leisurely made my way uptown amongst the sights, sounds and people Manhattan has to offer on a Friday evening at rush hour. In some ways it felt as if I had a job. We spent Friday night enjoying the rain while we dined on takeout burritos and tamales. We watched a recommendable movie, "We Need To Talk About Kevin". I told Shea I needed to pick up thank you cards Saturday morning.

Late morning I picked up those thank you cards and set about penning a note to thank my interviewer. My well crafted, hand written note was going to set me apart from the other applicants. I knew this. I wrote a draft copy. So what if I wasted a card, the prose, the spacing, it had to be perfect. It almost was, my spacing was off a little as I underestimated the available room and my words expanded in size as I neared the bottom of the card. An easy fix for the final copy. I dropped the thank you card in my building’s outgoing mail bin knowing the job was mine. I smiled.

Several hours later Shea casually says to me “you misspelled experience on your thank you card”. What? How could she know this? The card was already busy out doing ITS job, securing ME a job! The draft copy was still on the desk. Was there a chance I misspelled experience on the draft copy but not the final copy? No. The panic surged through my veins as I scurried out the apartment to hopefully retrieve the now cancerous thank you card. No luck. I retreated back to our apartment, defeated. The rage inside me was building. I blurted to Shea “there is nothing I can do now, but worry about it.” Or was there? I collected myself as best I could. This was not going to be my undoing. I returned downstairs and asked our doorman what time the postman arrived today. “2:30” he said. It was now 3:45. He also noted that it wasn’t our regular postman. A lady serviced our building today. I hesitantly shared my ordeal. He told me I might be able to catch her as she works down the street. After all, there are quite a few stops between Third Avenue and First Avenue. I quickly headed out the building and down the street towards First Avenue and the East River. I scanned both sidewalks, looking for the familiar powder blue postman’s shirt. Once again, no luck. I decided to head to the post office a couple of blocks away. I arrive to see a postal worker standing outside the entry, waiting to lock the door. I told her my predicament. “We’re closing” she said. The NERVE of this one! Then almost as an afterthought she said “the mail carriers don’t come here anyway, they go to the one on 85th street.” I pondered my plight and decided to give it one last shot. And off I went to the 85th Street Post Office.

It was no surprise to find the doors locked. It was a surprise to see a postman returning from his route, entering the loading area to the right of the main entrance. This could happen. I found another postman, his duties for the day complete, waiting for his ride home. I approached him and again explained my predicament. He said the only chance I had was if my postman hadn’t returned from their route and I could catch them before they dump their mail. He asked for my address. I gave it to him. He said “let me make a phone call.” I overheard the exchange “Hey, I need a favor, who picked up John’s route today? Ms. Harry. Ok, thanks pal.” This was starting to make sense. He turned to me and said “you’re looking for Ms. Harry, and she’s definitely not in yet.” This really could happen. He gave me her description and I waited. I paced the sidewalk in front of the post office like a nervous junkie waiting on his tardy dealer. A steady stream of postmen began returning from their routes. None resembling my Ms. Harry. Then finally a group of three potential Ms. Harries arrived. “Excuse me, are either of you Ms. Harry?” With surprised looks on their faces they all said no. This happened two more times. A total of five lady postmen had been asked the same question “Are you Ms. Harry?” I paced more. My watch read 4:55. I had been in front of this post office for 50 minutes.

Ms. Harry also had a surprised look on her face when I said “Excuse me, are you Ms. Harry?” When she replied “Yes” and saw the obvious elation on my face, she looked even more surprised. I quickly told her my story. She reached inside her cart and pulled out a small stack of mail, her collections for the day. As the first letter on the stack slid away and the thank you card appeared I felt a joy that is hard to describe. Although my journey to save my reputation and any hopes of landing the job lasted only 90 minutes, it felt like hours. I was exhausted yet revived. My faith in humanity and happy endings restored.