Driven by both a New Year’s resolve to lose some weight and a gorgeous day, I was on my way to the Post Office. I had done some video work for a client and needed to get it in the mail asap.
As I trudged along, my warmth-induced reverie was gradually intruded upon by the “thump, thump” of an car stereo system. This is not an uncommon experience in my lower middle-class neighborhood but it was unusual that the sound wasn’t moving. Just “thump, thump, thump”. I rounded the corner to the Post Office and I saw a down-on-its-luck Lexus. Engine running, “thumping” seeping through the rolled up windows.

The car was reasonably clean but was distinguished by a huge, frayed-at-the-edges decal. The decal covered the rear window from top to bottom, a rear window noted for its generous proportions.
“Don’t tread on me!” screamed to all who would venture to read. Alongside this blast from the American past was a smaller declaration: “My guns keep you free!” Well, I knew it was something that kept me free.
So this was it!

As I got close to the car, the driver’s side door suddenly swung open and a young man in his early thirties leaped out. He was thin, with a hawkish face and shaved head, cold and mean. I was reminded of Gary Larson's old cartoon "How nature tells us to stay away" Leaving the driver’s door open, he raced to the other side of the car, swung open the door and disappeared into the car. “Probably keeping someone free over there” I supposed, amusing myself, and I went into the post office.

Finding a mailer that would accommodate the DVD holding my precious work, I looked about for a pen. It is one of the great failings of my personality is that I never have a pen when I need one.

The small table the Post Office provides to accommodate my failings was fully occupied.

A middle-aged Chinese couple had assumed ownership of the table. It was full of papers, small boxes, envelopes large and small, all being argued over with an intensity seldom seen. The sing–song of Cantonese filled the small foyer of the Post Office as intent was questioned, positions stated and abandoned, relatives quoted, past transgressions dredged up. It was really quite marvelous but since the only pens made available to customers were firmly in the grip of the combatants, I had to look elsewhere.

Spying a non-combatant pen on the counter, I raced to fill in my TO: and FROM: addresses.

Making a half-turn, I was beat to the solitary clerk by “Don’t tread on me”. He apparently had gathered all his packages and was presenting them to the clerk for inspection. There were two largish boxes, two smallish boxes, several large envelopes and a couple of grapefruit-sized round packages. Musing that they were possibly hand grenades being sent to friends, I stepped back.

He mumbled something to the Post Office clerk. “Mmfph” I think. The clerk seemed to understand; it appeared to be a usual transaction. She moved the packages to another counter and looked at me.

“Don’t tread on me” turned smartly on his toes, a veteran of boot camp or ballet school, probably the former. It was then I noticed the large 9mm automatic pistol on his hip, in one of those quick-draw holsters.  Now, I am familiar with weapons, weapons of all types are no strangers to Montana natives. But I always find it disconcerting to see some nitwit carrying an automatic pistol in a serene setting (well, almost serene since Mr. and Mrs. Canton had upped the volume). I mean honestly, does he expect an attack by a roving band of terrorists in the Eastlake Post Office?

By this time, “Don’t tread on me” was striding purposefully to the door. Soon the “thump, thump” started up and faded in the distance as I concluded my rather pedestrian mailing of a DVD.

As I left the Post Office, the battle of the two Chinas continued unabated. The closing door quieted the Battle Royal and, flooded by sunshine, I relished the prospect of a nice walk home.