Michael is fifty years old, and going bald, with long hair. He doesn't look like Michael Bolton, though: he's going for the aging hippie thing, with sweatpants, t-shirts, and a wild look. He's a poet and editor, and recently has edited the Penguin edition poetry books of Philip Whalen and Joanne Kyger.

So he tells me, "We're going to the post office, and then we're going to grab a bite to eat, and then we're going to visit Philip."

That's it. We were going to visit Philip Whalen.

So we went to the post office, to send the screenplay to Nantucket. There was a long line, and only one man working it. His name was Leo, he was enormous, and he was a poster boy for the disgruntled Post Office gang. Typically, people working shitty customer service jobs internalize a deep hatred for their customers; the United States Post Office is unique among all low-end jobs in that it somehow encourages its employees to hate their employer, rather than their customer. I don't know how they do it, but they do it with great style. As the line slowly moved, Leo was in a growing state of agitation, and when we finally reached him, Michael said,

"OK, I need this to reach New York tomorrow."

"Uh-huh," Leo replied.

"I mean, I've been sending it off for edits and you're not going to believe this, but it's been lost three times."

"Uh-huh."

"So I need to ship it with a guarantee that it will get to New York tomorrow."

"Well, every shipping company, be it us or UPS or FedEx, makes mistakes. But of all the shipping companies, we're the shittiest."

"Um, OK," said Michael.

"But I can ship it priority mail, and it should get there tomorrow."

"OK, thanks," said Michael. He and I looked at each other nervously as Leo prepared the paperwork.