I went to Postmaster Plus this morning to ship a defective camera back to Kodak—a routine errand, the kind you knock out between coffee and whatever comes next. I’ve been going there for years. The place is run by a family from Bombay, and over the last decade they’ve shipped more of my watches than I care to admit. It’s a familiar, efficient operation. Or at least, it usually is.
When I walked in, the rhythm was off.
At the counter stood a couple in their mid-sixties, locked in some elaborate transaction with M, the family patriarch, a man in his seventies who has the calm of someone who has seen everything and survived it. Behind the couple stood a woman clutching a stack of flattened cardboard, her face arranged in a quiet expression of despair. She looked at me as if to say, You’re seeing this too, right?
I was.
The woman at the counter—a redhead with severe bifocals and a face that seemed permanently braced against disappointment—had taken possession of M’s tape roller and was using it with the zeal of someone preparing artifacts for burial. Her husband hovered nearby, a classic Palm Springs Q-Tip: white hair under a baseball cap, mouth slightly open, limbs thin as dowels, torso betraying a fondness for buffets. He contributed nothing except presence.
“I’ve seen these packages break before,” the redhead announced, as she wrapped the parcels in what could only be described as a second skin of tape. Not a practical layer—no, this was ceremonial. A kind of adhesive exorcism. When the tape ran out, she didn’t pause, didn’t apologize. She demanded another roll with the urgency of a field commander low on ammunition.
The woman behind them caught my eye again. This time the look was unmistakable: We are both trapped here. I returned the glance with equal solemnity. Yes, we were sharing this moment. No, there was no escape.
Then came the breaking point. The cardboard woman asked M when his son W would return from break.
“Twenty minutes or so,” M replied.
She nodded, made a decision, and fled. A wise woman. She chose freedom.
I stayed.
The redhead, now fully committed to her role as High Priestess of Packaging Integrity, began lecturing the room about the fragility of parcels and the absolute necessity of excessive tape. She spoke as if we were all negligent amateurs, one poorly wrapped box away from societal collapse.
I opted out.
I pulled out my phone, photographed my Casio G-Shock GW-7900, and posted it to Instagram. If I was going to be held hostage, I might as well document something worthwhile.
Eventually—mercifully—the couple completed their transaction. Eighty dollars later, their packages were no longer parcels but laminated relics, ready to withstand not just shipping, but geological time. I stepped forward, paid for my own shipment, and shared a brief, knowing laugh with M about the spectacle we had just endured.
We thought it was over.
It wasn’t.
The door opened. The couple returned.
The redhead, unsatisfied with her previous efforts, declared that a third layer of tape was necessary for her “peace of mind.” At this point, the packages were less shipments and more mummies awaiting a sarcophagus.
I gave M a look—the kind of look that conveys sympathy, disbelief, and resignation all at once. He nodded, the stoic veteran of countless such encounters.
I left.
As I walked out, I knew two things. First, those packages would survive anything short of a volcanic eruption. Second, I had just acquired a story—one that would be waiting patiently for me to tell my wife the moment I got home.
Cinemorphosis 
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