Signs of Humanity No. 1 - Thank You UPS Store Guy
To the young man with the really long skater haircut at the UPS store, thank you!
It’s a Friday morning in late July, 2022. I pull up to the UPS store right when it opens at 8 am to use their copy machines. I’m working through mom’s probate and my list keeps getting longer, not shorter. This morning I have two stops to make before heading in to work: here, to make some copies, then the post office to mail them off. The UPS store also sends packages, but so far I’ve been using the post office for mailing and a change of process feels too disruptive. It’s a rare day that I can afford to come in late to work, and my supervisor knows what I’m up to, but I still feel the clock ticking and know the 35-minute commute isn’t always just 35 minutes. I’ve been working on this packet for weeks now and am desperate to get it in the mail on an actual business day. As if that’s really going to make a difference, but I feel like it matters.
Mom didn’t leave any final wishes and none of her affairs are “in order.” So, I’m working on getting legal status to establish her estate and be able to resolve her affairs. I could do nothing, I guess, but I’ve already decided that having it lingering indefinitely would be even more stressful, and no one else is going to do it.
The stress of it all is taking its toll on me. I haven’t really had a chance to properly grieve mom yet, and everything is exacerbated by mounting conflict between my siblings. I’m entangled, and my younger sister is increasingly directing her venom at me. I haven’t been sleeping in any recognizable sense, I’m distracted at work and in my relationships. I keep skipping workouts and telling myself each time that this is the last time. I want to believe that if I act with urgency to get everything in motion I’ll be able to relax, my siblings will settle down, I’ll have time to work out again, and I’ll be able to sleep. I’ve gotten a few grey hairs for the first time in my life. I basically feel like shit in all the ways possible. And I have no idea what the fuck I am doing.
Some of my well-to-do friends have kindly suggested that I get a lawyer; some even offered recommendations. I haven’t gotten a lawyer because I spoke with two and the lowest retainer between them was $3.5K just to start the process. I don’t have that kind of money and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing but debt in the estate, so here I am, figuring out how to do this on my own.
For over two months now, I spend hours most days doing research about probate processes, calling state offices trying to get through to an empathetic employee who will give me any useable nugget of direction, and waiting on hold with various companies trying to find out what they require to properly close and settle mom’s accounts.
In 2016, my older sister, Sarah, died by suicide. Mom became the personal representative of her estate; Sarah also had none of her affairs in order. Mom had lamented with me about what a headache it was getting all the paperwork done and playing detective to make sure all the loose ends were tied up. She emphasized how important it is that each of us get our affairs in order as a courtesy to whoever is left behind. I emphatically agreed and vowed to do so. I still haven’t.
I sorely regret not asking mom, if nothing else, “When the day comes, what would you like done with your remains?” A clear answer to that might have avoided, or at least lessened, the familial conflict that is now putting the last nail in the proverbial coffin of what is left of our nuclear family. Sarah’s dead. Mom’s dead. The family is dead. I’m on the brink of feeling sorry for myself, but I don’t have time for that. I have tasks to complete.
Today I’m mailing in the probate petition. This is a big step. I organized all the documents last night. I already got the affidavit of heirs notarized at the credit union yesterday because they do it for free. UPS has notaries too, but they charge for it and even without lawyer fees, all of this costs money and is already adding up. The money order for the initial processing fee is in the folder with everything else, already filled out. I have a plan and know what I need to do:
make 2 more sets of copies of the blank original probate forms that were sent to me by the Law Library (in case I make any more mistakes, which is likely considering how many I’ve already made just filling them out)
make a copy of the entire filled out petition packet for my records, including the money order
mail off the signed and completed petition packet, with tracking, at the post office
Easy peasy. I got this.
I sit in the car for just a moment double checking (again) that I have all the right documents in the right order, then head in. An older gentleman is being helped at the register by a female employee. A female customer is packing up her parcel at a high counter. Another employee greets me dryly, “Morning, can I help you?” He’s a tall young man dressed all in black. He looks up, but not quite at me. He’s not impolite, and also not overly enthusiastic. I can’t really blame him. I notice his haircut because it reminds me of the skater haircuts from the 90s, with a very short undercut, but not closely shaved underneath. He has an exceptionally long mane of almost black, dark brown hair growing just from the top, combed all to one side so the edge where his long hair meets the undercut makes a sort of part. He has beautiful, thick hair. I’m almost jealous. No, I am jealous.
I tell him I need to make some copies. “Do you need any assistance?” he asks, reaching for the copier passkey a bit more slowly than I prefer. I force a smile. “No, thank you,” I say, a bit shortly. I’m not proud as I hear it coming out of my mouth. I’m not mad at him, I’m just mad at the whole fucking world and he happens to be in it. I get the sense he doesn’t really want to help me make copies, and frankly, I don’t really need the help. It’s a win-win. We’re just going through the motions. He hands me the passkey, I’m purposeful not to snatch it away. It’ll be easier and faster if I do it myself anyway, I tell myself as I head to the copier. I’ve used many copy machines in my day and use them routinely at work. It’s not rocket science. I considered just making the copies at work, but that could be considered stealing. Plus, if I wait to make them at work, there’s no way I’ll be able to get this mailed out today.
I get busy and my first set of copies come out blank. Oops. I accidentally placed the stack of papers face down instead of face up. There is a little icon right there on the auto-feed tray, I even saw it, and still put them in wrong. Typical. I hit the button with the red “X” on it to cancel the copies. The thick stack of blank petition documents keeps feeding through the auto-feed tray. I don’t dare pull the stack away because I don’t want to risk causing a jam that might damage one of the originals. I hit the cancel button, again, and again, until finally the machine whirs to a stop. I reassemble my stack of originals and place them carefully back in the tray, face up this time. I take a deep breath. I feel my hands are shaking. I’m too keenly aware of the blood coursing through my veins. I’ve just had too much coffee, I tell myself, though I know I’m only halfway through my first cup which is currently cooling off in the cup holder in my car. I try again. Everything is fine.
The pages start coming out, but they are printing in the wrong orientation and half cut off. What the ever loving fuck? I pound the red “X” again, this time with two fingers. I wait for the whir sound that lets me know the machine is stopping. I collect the stack again. I double check the settings. I have a brilliant idea, just try the first page until I know I’ve got it right, then I’ll do the whole thing. I check the settings again, give it a try. Nope. I try again. Still wrong. I decide it must be some glitch with the feeder tray so I resolve to copy everything one page at a time on the glass plate. I carefully place page one, perfectly aligned with the alignment markings. Still wrong. I try different output settings, tinker with percentage ratios, and try placing the original on every corner of the class at different ninety-degree angles. Tears have started to drip down my face. They’re slow tears, escapees, I’m doing my best to keep my composure. Not here, not now. I keep my head down, hoping no one notices. I wipe my face with my forearm in a gesture I hope looks like I’m brushing my hair back from my eyes. No matter what I do my copies keep coming out wrong. Every. Single. Time. I’m sure I’m doing it right, it’s just not working. I can’t keep myself from crying. I can’t bring mom back. I can’t do her probate. I can’t fix my family. And I can’t even make some fucking copies. I check my watch through blurred vision. It’s 8:18. I thought I’d already be on the way to work by now.
The young man walks over to check on me. I pull my lips together tightly, trying to force another smile.
“What are we working on here?” he asks lightly.
“I just need two copies of all of this,” I say in an audibly shaky voice. I point at the first page of the blank original sitting defiantly on the glass, then sweep my hand over the rest of the stack and the other pile of filled out forms, “and a copy of this.”
“I can help you,” he says. His tone and his presence are gentle, calm, somehow affirming. He seems wholly unaffected, in the best possible way, by my bloodshot eyes, my splotchy, wet face.
“It just keeps coming out wrong…” I point at the bad copies which I’ve been stacking on an adjacent counter.
“That can happen,” he says casually, and starts pressing buttons on the copier. I watch curiously to see what I’ve been doing wrong this whole time. It doesn’t seem like he’s even changing the settings, just looking at them. He puts the whole stack of blanks confidently in the feeder tray, face up, and they print out as intended. The printer sounds happy. Is that even possible?
In just a couple of minutes, the whole task is complete. He rings me up, doesn’t charge me for all my bad copies (sorry, trees), and says, “I hope you have a nice day.” It feels like he means it.
I take my copies and go on to the post office, then to work.
*****
I don’t know what that young man may have thought about the lady crying at the copy machine that day, if anything. It’s possible that his only intention was to just do his job, but the way he went about it that morning was a salve for my stress and my soul. I wonder if that’s a regular occurrence at the UPS store, something they cover in employee training. “Please open to page 64. In chapter 7 we’ll cover dealing with broken-hearted and other emotionally distraught customers who can’t find their way around a copy machine.” Whether he was trained for it or not, I appreciate his capacity to treat me with respect and professionalism in spite of my obvious emotional dysregulation. He gifted me grace through his gesture of letting me save face while I tried to act “normal” though I clearly wasn’t. His actions gave me a feeling of human dignity and acceptance that I really needed, and for that I am grateful.
I still see him sometimes when I have errands at the UPS store. One day I think I’ll eventually tell him, “thank you,” in person and let him know how he impacted me that day, but for now I’m thanking him here.
Thanks to Malar, Lily, Promise, and Ved for the feedback, and especially Malar for the second detailed look. I’m grateful to the UPS employee, and for the writing community from Write of Passage cohort 13 that is still nudging me along!