General Delivery

I had five large boxes delivered “general delivery” to the city of New York. This is a very precarious way to send nearly every item you own. Basically, you pack your life in over-sized boxes, seal them with tape and bring them to your local post office where you write your name and the city of your new residence. Imagine. Look around you and imagine packing up everything: your photo albums, clothes, board games, trinkets – and put them in a box with your name and city and hope they get there. Here was what on the front of my five boxes:
Erin Gilbert
c/o General Delivery
New York, NY 10022
This seemed a little fishy to me, but I trusted the United States Post Office and sent them away. For $230, I hurtled my possessions into the great abyss.
The day after their expected arrival, I went to the post office at 10022. “General delivery?!” The Asian (and aging) man said incredulously when I asked for my packages. “There no such thing!”
I insisted that not only had I talked to someone from the official USPS headquarters over the phone, but I had also discussed at length this process at the Seattle post office with a real live person. “They must be old timah or some-tin,” he said, ironically. “There no such thing.” He gave me a couple numbers to call and sent me on my way.
At this point I was thinking that this great idea of general delivery was an urban myth and that my packages would likely be sent back to Seattle where I would have to start this process anew. I was defeated. I wouldn’t have plates to eat off of or clothes to work in and I would have to spend more of my dwindling budget buying replacement items for those in these precious boxes.
The next day, I called the numbers he gave and was told that in fact, there was such thing as general delivery, but I had gone to the wrong post office. You see, no matter what zip code you put on the box, all general delivery packages are sent to the 10011 post office – what appears to be the largest building in Manhattan. Feeling like all may not be lost, this afternoon my mother and I took the subway down to 30th street and walked into the mammoth post office. The great steps leading up to the front door on Eighth Street were something out of a black and white movie. This building was so impressive and stoic it evoked the type of confidence only the United States government can provide. As I ascended each step, I felt certain they would have my boxes.
We were in the customer service line of the ostentatious lobby when a helpful worker asked if we had any questions. “We’re looking for general delivery,” I told him. He looked at me a little sideways and said, “general delivery? That entrance is on ninth.”
Mama and I descended the stairs and walked around the corner to the other side of the building. The walk was only a block, but it felt like we were going through purgatory…to the other side. When we got to ninth, the street was lined with police cars, scaffolding covered the sidewalks, and to our left a tiny door marked “General Delivery.”
The room was no bigger than a large elevator and the line snaked around its parameter. It felt like we were lining up for prison. There was graffiti on the walls, painted a light nauseating blue, and the air was a mixture of urine, mildew, and desperation. General Delivery is the postal service for the homeless. This is the New York you never see unless absolutely forced to. As I was waiting, my already pasty white skin felt translucent against the other faces in line. A man came around when we were almost half-way through, distributing leaflets. They had a screen shot from a computer and a sketch of a man. Under the pictures, he had hand-written “Wanted for Rap. If Found, Please Call Charles at 555-555-5555.” He made an announcement to the room, “this man has raped and he’ll do it again. If anyone’s seen him, please call the number.” His voice was gravelly, but projected enough to fill the room. On the way out, one of the women in front of us pulled him aside and whispered something in his ear.
The homeless seem to function within their own community with its own systems and processes. The pamphlet didn’t direct people to the police, it directed them to phone “Charles” and he would take it from there. From where they pick up their mail to how they handle law enforcement, those without an address operate on another level – just out of sight from most New Yorkers.
As I got to the front of the line I was thrilled to see my boxes stacked neatly to the side, completely out of place. I handed my ID over to the clerk and declared with delight: “Those are my boxes!” Despite all odds, my possessions had ended back up with me. I was thrilled.
The clerk brought them over one at a time. I would take a box from the room to the curb, where my mother was trying desperately to hail a cab (not easy on that particular street). As I waited for my third box, the man behind me with kind eyes asked, “are you new to the area?” I told him I had just moved from Seattle. “What’s in the boxes,” he asked, and without waiting for me to respond said, “clothes and stuff?” I nodded, but the weight in which he asked the question stopped me at once. Here I was, parading five 40lb + boxes of “stuff” in front of people who had nothing. I felt simultaneously frivolous and blessed. As we drove off in the cab I thought of how lucky I was on so many levels. Not only did my packages miraculously show up, I was lucky enough to have the packages to send in the first place. I also felt lucky to experience General Delivery. Unlike many New Yorkers, I hope the homeless don’t stay out of my sight. After that experience, they certainly won’t stay out of my mind.