Well, Still, Pretty Good Year

A Peek at 1989

I’ve been working on a novel for a long time. [Insert Obi-Wan voice] A long time. It’s tentatively titled 1989 and tells the story of a horrific murder and its fallout (I’m being vague here because 1) I still don’t know how to sell the story or elevator-pitch it, and 2) it’s a really insane premise).

One of the things sprinkled throughout the book are small pieces meant to convey how culturally impactful the said murder was, and in this regard, the novel becomes an alternate history story in the process. These pieces have been incredibly fun to write, despite the amount of research involved to make sure all the pieces fit together.

Here’s an example:

Yeah, it’s a little dark.

Anyway, I just wanted to share a bit of what I’ve been working on.

The Post Office Story (Part 1)

I used to live in a different neighborhood in Wroclaw which notoriously had one of the worst post offices in the city.

In the event that you don’t know the ins and outs of post offices in Poland, they’re more than just a place to get and send mail. You can also do your banking there, pay your bills, buy insurance, and even do some shopping. If there is only one window open (which is normally the case), you could find yourself waiting for hours as people deposit money into their accounts, manage their retirement, and buy pickles.

These days, with modernized delivery services and parcel lockers at every corner, the deeply unsettling, Kafkaesque post office experience is mostly a thing of the past, so the chances of me going to one - let alone getting arrested in one - is, thankfully, low.

But sixteen years ago, that was not the case. I had ordered a package and I got a notice in the mail to pick it up. I waited until I had a day off and went to the post office in the early afternoon. There was a line and only one window open, of course, but I had an iPod full of audiobooks and patience to spare.

By the time I managed to get to the front of the line, I had been waiting for almost an hour. I remember looking at my watch and being surprised that I still had the whole day ahead of me. I was younger then and had been in Poland for four years, so I was still full of American optimism and know-how.

When the window finally opened, I removed my headphones and stepped forward just as a woman from the back of the line flew past me and took the window.

Usually, I’d let something like this go, as I’m not the confrontational type. But there was something about this moment that felt different like the fate of the entire planet depended on me finally standing up for myself. So, with the righteousness of an Ameri-Karen, I approached the woman and said, “Excuse me, but I have been waiting for an hour and it was my turn.”

The woman, seemingly surprised, said, “OK, I’m sorry.”

This is when I realized that she was pregnant.

Another thing you need to know about Poland is that pregnant women can do anything in this country, like cut to the front of any line, drive drunk, and murder. A lot of this has to do with Poland’s conflicting approach to its own matriarchy, but more importantly, it’s an unspoken trade-off to the country’s draconian abortion laws - you must carry your baby to term even if it kills you. In exchange, you get nine months of the Purge.

With my headphones on during the wait, I had missed an entire conversation with someone behind me insisting that this woman go first. In hindsight, I should have just let her have the window. But then again, I’m an American, and if there’s one thing we don’t tolerate outside of immigration and basic healthcare for all, is injustice.

She let me go and I thanked her. I gave my ID to the postal worker through a half-circle opening at the bottom of a glass barrier that separated the magical world of the postal service and reality.

And this is when I felt the giant hands grab my shoulders. I’ll find out later that this behemoth of a man was, in fact, the man who suggested that the woman go to the front of the line in the first place. For the purposes of this story, I will refer to him as Polish Lou Ferrigno, and he was not happy with me.

What happened next was incredibly fast. This towering chunk of pure protein was shouting, his eyes wide, his face red, his neck bursting with veins, and he was physically trying to lift me off the ground. I tried to find something to hold onto to keep from losing my balance and my hand found that half-circle opening. I gripped the glass just as he pulled me away, and that’s when the glass barrier shattered into a thousand pieces, like a waterfall of diamonds.

I could immediately hear the doors of the post office locking. People were making phone calls. I could tell that even Polish Lou Ferrigno had realized that it had all escalated a little too quickly.

We were told the police were on the way. There were about twenty of us trapped in the waiting room. Everyone stood on one side and I stood alone on the other. They found a chair for the pregnant woman and were making sure she was all right - it was a big production: Did that scary foreigner hurt you?

I could hear Polish Lou Ferrigno trying to explain himself, and everyone nodded in agreement.

I knew that this was not going to end well for me.

The police arrived fifteen minutes later. The two officers ignored me completely. They spoke with the people in the waiting room and the postal workers. Every once in a while, the people talking to the officers would look at me and shake their heads. I noted that Polish Lou Ferrigno never said a word to the police.

After a long discussion, the police let everyone go, including Polish Lou Ferrigno. And then they walked over to me and escorted me outside.

I was put into the back of the police van and this is when things got really weird.

We good?

I know, I know, it’s rude to end a story like that. I had published a different version of this before but since my audience has doubled since then, I figured I’d publish it again for new readers and, most importantly, for me to finally write the concluding chapter.

Anyway, autumn has arrived and that means it’s time to contemplate your own mortality while consuming pumpkin-spiced products. Whatever works for you.

Thanks for reading! See you next week.