SUNDAYS AT THE POST-OFFICE

Sunday is the day I get everything done.

I work for an American promotional products manufacturer. My work hours have to coincide with the United states. Generally I begin work at 2 and finish my day at 11. And of course, my week is from Monday through Friday.

The Israeli week, however, starts on Sunday and ends on Thursday. The Sabbath being the weekend.

Although working a different schedule from everybody else, can be a bit annoying, the one huge advantage, is that on Sunday, everything is open, and I am free. So, I usually save all my errands for Sunday, and one by one, get everything done.

One reoccurring chore I have, is paying my bills, and strangely enough, this is done at the post- office, in Israel. Last week my gas bill came, so my wife and I walked down to the post-office to prepare to wait.

We got there at 10:30. We found what we were expecting. We opened the door to a room full of retired people, each holding two pieces of paper in their hands- their number they took from the dispenser, and the same green colored gas bill, we had come to pay.

Everyone seemed to know at least a few of the other people there. The chatter was very loud, boisterous, and friendly- a much different atmosphere then you would find in an American post-office, where everyone is just looking to get done, whatever it is they came for, and get out of there. I do live in a nice little suburban neighborhood.

We take our number, and sit down. We have 145, they are now at 97. I watch how quickly each person is able to go to the counter, pay their bill and leave. I guess that we will be there about an hour.

So what do I do? Nothing. I sit there and wait. I talk to my wife. I make a phone call. I wait.

What do the Israelis do? They leave. They figure, "I have my number. It will be about an hour. Why should I sit here? I will go food shopping, or go home and watch TV, and come back when it is my turn."

And you can Imagine what ensues.

It usually goes something like this. Number 103 finishes his business and leaves the window. The teller, presses the button, and the digital red counter indicating the number whose turn it currently is, beeps, and turn to 104. But nobody moves. So she presses it again, and it turns to 105. Again, nobody. 106. Nobody. 107. An old woman gets up, and slowly makes her way over to the window. She pays her bill. Beep. 108. Nobody. Beep. 109.

Now someone enters the room. They walk towards the counter. At the same time, someone else gets up from their seat, and also starts towards the counter. They recognise each other's intentions, and begin to move more quickly. Who will be first?

They arrive at the window simultaneously.

"What number do you have?", one asks the other.
"109. It is my turn", they say, pointing at the electronic counter.
"I am number 107, I am before you."

And a stupid argument begins. It always begins in Hebrew, and so I follow it, for the most part. But in my neighborhood, most of the older people speak Russian as a first language, and when people are emotional, they always revert back to their mother tongue.

This stinks for me, because one of my favorite things to do is watch a ridiculous Israeli argument. It is always so impassioned, and well reasoned. Everyone argues like they are in front of the Supreme court. It rarely gets nasty, although it is always heated. But the best part, is the end, after the silly petty issue is resolved, both parties, who have been verbally battling one another, say good bye as though they are good friends who have just shared a pleasant brunch. No hard feelings at all.

The whole thing is entertaining, and I got an hour to wait, so I wasn't pleased when someone turned my television, to the Russian channel. Luckily, my wife speaks Russian, and she did some good over dubbing work.

Then something a little out of the ordinary happened.

The woman from behind the counter, stopped processing people's gas bills, stood up from her seat, walked around, and out from behind her window, and stood, looking curiously, at something across the room.

"Le-Mi-Zeh?" (whose is that?), she asked, pointing to a pushcart, sitting in the corner. It was a simple nylon bag, attached to wheels. The kind everyone uses in the supermarket, to tote their groceries home.

At first, no one paid any attention. She thought a second, and then said again more loudly,"Whose is that?"

The chatter quieted. But no one answered.

"Is that yours?" she asked the woman standing closest to the cart.
"No", the woman said.

The teller poked her head out side, and asked if it belonged to anyone there. It didn't.

So what to do now?

Is anybody nervous? No, not really. It is pretty obvious what happened. One of the ever so considerate people, who didn't think they were obligated to actually wait in the building for their turn, left the cart behind.

I don't think there was a single person in the room who thought there was even the slightest chance that it was a bomb. But at the same time, everyone understood, that the teller would not just let the issue drop, until the matter was settled. Leaving behind a bag or package in Israel, is not just an inconvenience to you.

The teller went back behind the counter, to make a phone call. Everyone in the room, began to complain to one another. Two words were heard above the static, "Tipesh", (Hebrew for stupid), and "Durak" (Russian for fool).

What a pain. Although, it is worth noting that no one left. If people believed that this package might be dangerous, they would not have all kept their seats. There was simply a protocol to follow, in case of a stray object, and it was going to delay the all ready long wait. All we wanted to do was pay our gas bills.

After a couple of minutes, a man, who looked as though he was in a rush, became fed up. He was simply not going to wait for the people on the other end of the post-office teller's phone call, to fix the problem. He did the easiest thing. He walked over and the checked what was inside.

No one stopped him. Everyone was hoping someone would do just that. He looked. "Nothing", he said.

Good enough for us. We all got back to waiting.