Mexican Postal System
*The following short story is a work of fiction. The characters, organisations, brands, and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. This material does not reflect the author's opinions. It may depict highly unsuitable topics and language for sensitive demographics and should not be read by minors.
I ordered a vinyl record online for my brother’s birthday. But I didn’t use Amazon because I wanted an exclusive edition. It is the new album by the avant-garde rock band The Residents, which is entitled Doctor Dark. Three weeks—before Gael’s party—turned out to be not enough time for the shipping. Thus I decided to email Psychofon Records and ask for a shipping update. They replied with the following.
Hello Roberto,
This is what I find on the package tracking.. We send it 2 weeks ago but somtimes takes about 3 weeks… Do not worries… It comes from a long way… Just wait a few day more
Cheers from Germany!
-M. Woofenstein
Germany to Mexico
15:03 - March 26 - In transit from Oficina Operativa Mexpost, CDMX.
13:32 - April 01 - In transit from Centro Mexpost San Nicolás de los Garza, NL.
April the first had been a full week ago. And I am only three days away from Gael’s birthday! How can the package just be sitting there for too long? San Nicolás is not that far away from my house. I googled the place and read the reviews.
Ubaldo Garcia Juarez: “The place is shit. My package lay there for a full month and they never even considered shipping it to my address.”
Monica Galindo Melo Chupa: “MY DELIVERY SAT THERE FOR WHOLE TWO MONTHS AND THEN THEY SHIPPED IT BACK TO THE SENDER! WHAT THE HECK! ZERO STARS.”
Me.pelas.toda.la.verga666: “The clerks were rude. Liars, they said my package had not arrived. They could not find it for hours.”
Oh, boy. I better go there. I plunge into my car and start the engine. There are no parking spots… Let alone a parking space! I park in front of a bunch of cars, in the left lane which now is the ‘parking for customers’. The only place available is inside the tunnel, I squeeze past the vehicles—hearing raging engines. I enter the place grimacing. The place is falling apart all right—like any building that provides government service. It is a big storage crammed with boxes on top of boxes on top of more boxes. I see three fat men chatting in a corner, and my eyes shift towards a single guy typing something into a computer, I approach him. “Hello, sir,” I say. He responds with dead silence, the sound of a typing keyboard floods the air. I don’t blame him, it is about forty degrees Celsius outside and the guy has but a noisy fan to survive.
“Tracking number?” He finally says—with a lack of humanity, like an android.
“It is 722-27439-284349DD,”
“Did your package arrive on April first?”
“Yes!”
“The name is Roberto Acevedo?”
“That’s me, yes.”
“OK. You see, your package is not here.”
“How do you mean it’s not here?”
“I see that your tracking reflects that is here, however, it was here and then it was shipped on the same day, April the first. Now it is retained in a post office near the airport, but it is not accessible to customers. Your only option is to wait.”
“I see,” I say, staring at the floor. I will congratulate Gael empty-handed. Great.
“I can give you my number, so you send me your tracking number and I will notice in case I see any movement.”
“That’s nice. Thank you very much.” The man had humanity after all, I added him to WhatsApp under the name ‘Gerardo Post Mex’. I realised he had a picture of Goku for his profile… Well, that explains a lot. The next morning. As I pour diet cereal on a bowl it strikes me to text the guy.
“Hi, Gerardo. This is my tracking number: 722-27439-284348DD”
He sees my message and instantly replies.
“Roberto, your package is now in Oficina de Correos de Santa Catarina.”
“What? What’s doing there?”
“Sometimes they end up in other offices.”
“Are they going to deliver it to my house?”
“If it fits in the mailman’s bag…”
“So, can I go there and pick it up?”
“Correct. Just bring your tracking number and an ID and you should be fine.”
“Thank you, sir.”
How lucky am I to find someone like Gerardo working in the postal office! He is nice. I drive there while listening ‘Doctor Dark’ by ‘The Residents’. I park outside the office that—to the surprise of no one—doesn’t have a parking space, but at least wasn’t in the middle of an Avenue beside a tunnel. I walk towards the door of what is seemingly an abandoned building. No, impossible! I tug the locked door and use my hands as binoculars while pressing my face against the crystal door. “Permanently closed.” Says a smiley, fat man— who rejoices in my misery.
“What do you mean? My package is there!” I replied. He signalled to me the sign on the door—it’s a stretch to call ‘sign’ a piece of paper with pencil writing attached to the door using duct tape.
Dear customers of Santa Catarina, as of January 2024 we have relocated our offices to Correos de Mexico in Monterrey, NL. Thank you!!!
What the fuck. What in the actual fuck. What the flying fuck of fucking fucks fucking each other. I unlock my phone—after a breathing exercise.
“Hi, Gerardo. The office no longer exists.”
I take a photo of the door’s ‘sign’.
(Picture)
I jerk my head up—why God? Why did you make me Mexican?—and pull my wet T-shirt apart from my chest. I need a shower. I hop into the car. My phone chimes. It was a new email message.
Helo Roberto,
I received an update from the actuel tracking of your packge. Do not worries… Just wait 2 or 1 day more.
Cheers!
-M. Woofenstein
15:03 - March 26 - In transit from Oficina Operativa Mexpost, CDMX.
13:32 - April 01 - In transit from Centro Mexpost San Nicolás de los Garza, NL.
11:57 - April 10 - In transit from Oficina de Correos Santa Catarina, NL.
Great. Fucking useless. It has been over a fucking year and a half and the moron government cannot update the fact that Santa Catarina’s offices ceased to exist! It disappeared from this dimension! I google Correos de Mexico Monterrey. Ah! A forty-minute drive under a forty degrees Celsius sun. I can feel my arm burning as I rotate the wheel. Finally, the only postal offices with a place for parking. I see various doors. For some reason, they all had tape and COVID-related restriction signs. I enter the door with the handwritten sign of ‘Santa Catarina Mail’ without a face mask, hoping not to stumble upon a dead body. But frankly, I don’t know what would have been worse between a corpse or the ill-speaking lady who ‘received’ me. “No! I told you twenty-four! Not five!” She scolds an elderly man.
“I thought you said five…” He says with a rusty voice.
“No, Don Francisco. I said twenty-four!” She looks at me, chewing gum. “What?” She demands.
“Hi, I am looking for a package. I have my tracking number.” I stammer.
“Number?” She asks. I read the number from my WhatsApp conversation with the nice guy with Goku’s picture. “Did your package arrive this morning?”
Yes! Finally! At last, I was putting an end to this ‘Guess who?’ game of doom! “Yes, about two hours ago.”
“Oh, no…” She says, smiling—the poor bitch, just like the guy outside the Santa Catarina’s offices, people really enjoy to see others misery. “Do you see those sacks?”
“Yes?”
“Those are today’s arrivals… Your package is lost inside one of them. You will have to come back tomorrow. There is nothing we can do right now.”
A vein in my forehead throb with the necessary force to explode. “But it is right there!”
“But the sacks have not been opened yet.”
“Can I just help you search?”
“Absolutely not.” She turns her face to Don Francisco and continues the reprimand. “Jesus! Francisco, I told you twenty-five!”
“I swear I didn’t hear ya,”
“You are deaf! You are deaf, Francisco!”
I begin to walk away. But an impulse surges within me. I will not let the Mexican system walk over me. This is unfair! This lady can go fuck herself! “Ma’am?”
“What?” She says, more pissed than before.
“I think I’ll help you with those sacks.”
“No! You can’t!” She yells hysterically. I just walk to the room behind her. She chases me, but I don’t let her grab my arms. “Don Francisco, do something!” The old man shrugs and looks away.
“It will be on my hands in no time. Don’t you worry, miss!”
“I will call security.”
“Ha! Good luck with that, you cunt. I can see they heard your complaints about the hanging LED bar above your desk.” I parry sarcastically. She grunts and leaves, she calls someone, but I don’t mind. If the police department works with the same efficiency and dedication as the postal offices then I can stay in here until Gael’s birthday and nothing would happen. I find the package—because of its vinyl record dimensions. “Have a good day, bitch.” I slam the door behind me. She was standing with close arms, but I think I heard Don Francisco giggling. The engine roars and I drive away under a full-on dopamine rush. I return to my home safe and sound. I open the package. Wouldn’t it be funny if I had the wrong one? And had to return to the offices? Fortunately, it was the edition of ‘Doctor Dark’ limited to a hundred and fifty copies in the world. Gael is going to be so happy.
Gael’s birthday
A reminder on my phone announces with a subtle ring. During the evening, friends and family arrive at the house. As Gael cuts the cake slices someone rings the doorbell. “Roberto, someone’s looking for you?” Says Aunt Mouchette. This is how deliveries should be done—using Amazon. With a guy knocking on your door. Fuck the postal service. Logistic enterprises make our lives easier.
“Roberto Acevedo?”
“That’s me, sir,” I say, staring at the text on their uniform—at least it was not pencil-written—‘police’.
“Maria Samaniego has presented a lawsuit against you for mail fraud. You should get a lawyer before the trial. This is serious business.”
“What? I didn’t commit postal fraud! I just took my package.”
“Sir, don’t ask me. I am just following the system.”
“But the system is rotten! Can’t you see it? The system is a joke! We have the corpse of a functioning system! It is nothing but an illusion!”
“If you think this is a mistake,” he handed me the paper, “you can take this to the Consumer’s Defense Office or to the National Commission of Protection Offices. Just keep in mind that they have relocated their offices to San Nicolás. But if you bring this paper and your ID, you should be fine.” He advises. After I closed the door I felt like pointing a shotgun to my face and doing something that only Doctor Dark would be able to fix.
