The Chorizo Chronicles*

It was more than ten years ago that Dr. SJ’s parents moved from New York to North Carolina, or “North Cacalacca” as her father called it. He wasn’t really on board with the move, and found the accents of his new neighbors somewhat odd. Among the many reasons he struggled with his new digs was that he was one of those guys who really loved New York. And one of the things he loved, and missed, was this shop in Queens that made chorizo. He could live without edible bagels, but what he really missed was that chorizo.

For Christmas, Dr. SJ decided to send her father a big bundle of chorizos. She made the trek to Queens and came home with a huge bag. After taking a few out for us, we packed the rest up in ice, inside this really cool bag designed to keep things cold. This went into a United States Postal Service Priority Mail box, together with a tin of holiday cookies Dr. SJ made from a recipe handed down by her grandmother to her, and her alone. Everyone else loved them, but nobody else made them.

We decided to ship the box down to NC by USPS priority mail because it was two-day delivery, and the chorizos would be fine for two days, iced and packed as they were. It wasn’t cheap, but she loves her father, though not enough for overnight delivery. Still, two days would be fine.

Dr. SJ took the box to the post office in the town next door rather than our own post office because she was heading that way. She dropped it at the desk, and the clerk tossed it into the bin. Mission accomplished, right? Not so fast.

That was about 8:00 a.m. on Monday, December 14th. That evening, she decided to check the tracking number to make sure it was well on its way. Dr. SJ can be a bit suspicious when it comes to chorizo. And the tracking showed the label I prepared for her the day before, but nothing else. It didn’t show receipt by the post office, no less movement toward its destination. Nothing. The next morning, still nothing.

As it happened, Dr. SJ had another package to send, this time to her sister. She went back to the same post office and there, at the counter, was the same clerk. Why, she asked, does the tracking not show you taking my package? The clerk replied that they were “slammed,” and didn’t have time to scan in every package. Stupid customer. But don’t worry, she informed Dr.
SJ. It will all be fine.

By bedtime that evening, there was still no more tracking information, no acceptance of the package, no acknowledgement that they ever laid eyes on it, no less hands. A few years ago, I sent a great antique WWII fighter airplane clock to a pal in the United Kingdom by priority mail. It showed tracking to JFK and then disappeared. The post office said they put it on a plane and shipped it to Royal Mail. Royal Mail said they never received it. Somebody had it, but nobody would admit it. And poof, it was gone.

I checked again when I awoke this morning, and was remarkably displeased with what the tracking number told me.  It stated that it was now “accepted at the USPS origin facility,” except it was a different post office rather than the one where Dr. SJ dropped it off. And it was dated December 15th, the day after it was handed over the counter to the clerk who was too busy to do her job of scanning it in.

And it now showed an anticipated delivery date of Friday, December 18th, three days, rather than two as the website, and label, stated, but five day after the date it was dropped off. By 9:00 p.m. on Friday.

By the time it arrives, it will be quite ripe. What it will not be is fit for human consumption. Upon seeing the tracking, which wasn’t remotely true, I contacted USPS to find out what could be done. The “customer care” wait time was more than an hour, so I opted for the call back. After two hours and 37 minutes, the call came. I answered. No response. Finally, “this is the call you requested, but we do not hear anyone answers. We’ll call again later,” and disconnected.

When the call finally came again, a mere 27 minutes later, I spoke to a human on the line. The woman was very sympathetic, but explained that there wasn’t a thing she could do other than apologize. She reiterated how busy they were, but sighed and told me she knew that was no excuse. Even though the shipping times were technically aspirational, as reflected by the small print, there was no explanation for this other than somebody just didn’t bother to get it on the truck. It shouldn’t happen this way, she admitted, but it does. She wished me well. I wished her well. She apologized again and we said good-bye.

Whether it gets there by Friday or not isn’t really a big deal anymore. Whatever gets there, whenever it gets there, won’t be edible. They don’t call food “perishable” for nothing. But Dr. SJ is very sad that her father won’t be able to have chorizo for Christmas. He so loves his chorizo, and she so loves her dad. And when she’s sad, I’m sad. And also angry.

Merry Christmas, postal workers who failed my darling wife. I don’t know if you’ll get what you want for Christmas, but I hope you get what you deserve.

*A personal story, because I can.