I went to the post office the other day. I guess I'd forgotten the fondness I have for the drones... I mean public servants who slave there day after day, but sometimes things just have to get somewhere else.
I walked in, went to the Priority Mail stand where ... usually ... you can find a couple different sizes of envelopes and a few different sizes of boxes in which to put your items. Envelopes? Only the smallest size. Boxes? What stinking boxes?
I turned to the counter, got the attention of one of the two people manning the 7 station counter and asked, “Where can I find a shoe box sized box?”
After a pause of about thirty seconds where he looked at me as if having difficulty with my question, the guy says, “Oh, we don't keep them out there, they're back here. Give me just a minute.”
So back to the counter where I finally found a label, and a ball-chain pen that didn't work. So I went to the Express mail side and found a finicky ball-chain pen. So I got smart and pulled the Sharpie out of my pocket. I filled out the mail label, turned and watched the guy finish with the customer he was “helping.”
Two and a half minutes later, he looks at me, says, “Oh,” and reaches below his counter to pull out... yep, a shoe box Priority Mailer. “Here you go.”
So I fill it up, put my label on it, and get back in line.
Finally, about six minutes later, I got up to the counter. I encountered a woman. Hoping she'd be
more ... intelligent? ... I handed her my box, and requested a sheet of stamps. Everything was going swimmingly until it came time to pay.
I don't know about you, but I never sign my credit cards, or my debit cards. I feel that if I were to sign it, it just gives the thief who steals it from me a template to copy when it comes time to sign for his purchases. - Hmm, and a little swoop there, and a curlicue here, detach there, cross that T dot that I, looks good. - “Okay, go ahead, compare the signatures!” I use a Sharpie, and write in big letters across the signature bar, SEE ID!
So I hand the girl my AmEx and my MN Drivers License. She starts to swipe it, sees the signature box, and says to me, “We don't accept these unless they're signed.”
Oh boy.
“Okay, so what do you want to do to rectify this?” I asked in the politest tone I could muster.
“Well, you can sign it now!” miss peppy informed me.
“In front of you?”
“Well, yes, of course!”
“So you can compare the signature on the back of it to the signature I will put on the receipt?”
“Yep!”
“Do you not see the inherent lack of safety in that request?”
“...”
“I don't sign credit cards, because that just gives the thief who steals it from me a template to
copy when it comes time to sign for his purchases. Instead, I show my photo ID which is a much better form of identification than a signature on a card without a picture. Do you ask for identification along with the signature on the back of the card?”
“No, because when you sign it it becomes a form of identification!”
“No... credit cards are a secondary form.”
“Well, if you don't sign it, a thief could take it across the street and use it in the pump card reader at the gas station!”
“What?!”
“Or they could use it on-line!”
“And having a signature on the back of the card will stop that from happening?”
“Yes, of course!”
I was getting ... upset. No, incredulous. “Where does it say that you can't accept it without a signature?”
She points at a sign to the side of the counter. Vague, nebulous post-office-governmental-speak. “And, Visa has requested that we not accept cards that aren't signed,” she says pointing at another sign, this one from Visa. “And,” she continues, “it says on the back of the card, not valid unless signed.”
I flip my AmEx over and show her. “Nope, not there. Besides, this isn't a Visa.”
“Doesn't matter,” she chippers at me. “Gotta sign it or you can go across the street and take out money from the ATM or you could write a check.”
So... “Okay, so if I write you a check, you're going to ask for ID, right?”
“Yes! A drivers license.”
“Which isn't a good enough substitution for a signature on the back of a piece of plastic with my name on it?”
“Nope!”
At this point, I'm getting frustrated. So I pull out a pencil from my pocket, and sign the back of my card. Now, I don't know if you've ever seen the back of an American Express, but the signature line is less than a quarter of an inch high and fully 5/6 of it is covered in an embossed re-etch of the card number from the front. On my card, in the remaining space, I have written in bold Sharpie – you guessed it – SEE ID! So my penciled in signature is ... completely unintelligible.
She looks at it, swipes it and says, “Now that wasn't hard, was it?”
I signed the receipt, took my stamps, my receipt, my keys, turned my AmEx over and erased the “signature,” and walked out – muttering under my breath like a madman – thinking to myself, no wonder they call it going postal.
