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Spin the Wheel to the Strangest Mailbox in the Valley

Tucked away in a small alcove, hidden by ritzy buildings on a very famous street sits my business mailbox. I try to avoid it as much as possible because it is deceptively hard to access. But I am waiting for this south Floridian Chinese importer to send me samples so alas these days I must frequent the place.

The couple that runs the mailbox center is quite peculiar. She is an overly-energetic, fading-tattooed, feathered-hair (not in a punk way) gabber. He is a doughy, socially-inept eyesore. Last time I had to interact with him in order to pick up a package, I waited unassumingly behind the counter as he asked for my pickup slip. When I handed it to him, he freaked out, saying, “You can’t expect to cut in line in front of everyone else.” Everyone else apparently was a lady consumed by filling out a FedEx form. He was confused by the pickup slip although he was the one that filled it out. He’s also baffled that I am the mailbox lessee. I prefer her, although she freaks me out with her desire to chat about all the usual stuff that get sent to my mailbox.

The place smells strange, too, like hot, molding east-coast newsprint. But I keep renting this mailbox because it has a cool address and Pat Sajak is my neighbor.

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