Center City U.S. Post Office. Worst. Ever.

(This is a short tale about a Metro city editor who tried to get stamps and they almost cost him his...well...he almost got into a fight in the post office.)

A long line usually awaits anyone looking for a stamp at the infamous Post Office at Broad and Sansom, especially since they took out the automated stamp machines a couple years ago. You hate getting stuck behind the guy with three packages needing postage for shipping, nevermind 20 people with the same need.

And the workers don't seem to help the situation. They often seem to be working backwards ... or not at all.

But there's even worse fates for the unsuspecting schlub — me — than finding that long line. It surprisingly is when there's no line at all.

As I entered the front door today, there was NO ONE waiting. I thought, "They must be closed."

But as I went to the front and waited by the sign that reads, "Wait here until called," I found two female postal workers idling the last half hour of the work day by chatting it up. I pondered if I should walk up, but decided against it. Moments passed. Still, they ignored me.

A male postal worker was helping some guy in a separate kiosk on the other side of the service area. I thought, "It wouldn't be surprising if he's the only one actually helping customers." So I waited.

Out of the rear comes a middle-aged guy with a box of mail. He goes past the cordoned path signifying the line I'm "waiting in" and right to the kiosk the two women are "working at." She immediately starts to attend to this guy.

I walk up and say, "Oh, excuse me, if you're going to help someone, I was next." The finally responsive postal worker responds that "Actually, I didn't call either of you."

But this is when the possibility of throwing down incurs. This African American man dressed in a purple shirt and color-blended tie turns and begins a verbal barrage that I assume would silence most Center City guys in ties. "Oh, you don't know what's going on here!! I'm handing in mail! I come here everyday!"

Pause here for a second: This isn't a restaurant in the Italian Market or on Rittenhouse, where regular attendance and a big tip gets you a table by the window or a free bottle of vino every once in a while. It's the Post Office.

"I don't care what you have. I was in line first!" I say in return, amping up as the milliseconds pass.

"Wait, a minute. You don't talk to me like that! You ignorant motha-----! If you want, we can take this out side, you piece of s---! Who you think you are, b----!"

He obviously has done this before. The crude language was well suited for working up a fight and his teeth were crooked, street fight-crooked.

"Nah, I'm not interested. I just came here to get stamps and was in line!" I respond, still worked up but gearing down from a future in the near term that would involve scrapping with a rather scary-looking dude on the floor of a Post Office. The postal workers did nothing, which at this point I'm pretty sure they're paid for.

As I gave up and went back to the front of the line — still no one there — this guy didn't give up on the chance for a 4:30 Thursday afternoon rumble.

"This p---- b----. Get back in line! Can you believe how ignorant people are!?!" he asks the complaint postal worker, unaware of the notion that using the 'P' word in front of a woman isn't exactly unignorant.

As he finishes and walks past me, he finishes with a compliment to the postal worker and a final threat to me: "Have a good one, sweetie (nice touch, no wonder he gets special treatment). And (to me) if you still want to take this up to the next step, I'll be outside."

I'll note that he wasn't outside when I eventually did finish, but I'll also note that I let the two people behind me go ahead of me. My defense is that I let them go because I didn't want any help from the female postal worker at that point. I eventually got help from the male worker at the other side of the service area. But perhaps it was nice to give the guy a little time to walk away. The only thing worse than fighting on a Thursday afternoon inside a post office, is getting your butt kicked on Broad Street in the middle of rush hour. I'm not saying I would have lost a fight to this guy, but he just seemed like he'd been down that road a few more times than I have.

So, I am relaying this story because A. That post office and its workers suck. and B. It's my way of asking, what is the matter with people?

I'm not even sure I'm upset about the crazy dude. I mean, he's nuts. Not his fault. I'm more upset with the postal workers, who not only exude an air of content ineptitude but also seemed compliant to the notion of violence in their office. Even afterward, the female worker seemed more disturbed by my actions.

When I turned to the two people behind me who had witnessed the end of this guy's rant as the scene cooled, I said, "The funny part is there usually is a huge line here."

To which the worker added, "You don't understand, sir, he always comes in and drops off mail."

No, ma'am, you're wrong. I understand perfectly. You're worse than him and you give a bad name to the U.S. Postal Service, which these days may be the worst insult of the whole escapade.