One Hour Till Midnight at the Post office

by Thomas Beller


w 32nd st & 7th ave. ny, ny

Neighborhood: Chelsea

The pictures on this page are 360 panoramic images.

If you do not have Quicktime (and you’ll know if there are no pictures visible even after a minute), Download it here.

These are not static pictures. You can move them left and right, up and down.
To move the image:
Hold down mouse button and drag mouse in desired direction.

“Do you think everyone here is a procrastinator by nature, or just when it comes to taxes?”

“I think everyone in this city is a procrastinator, and that’s why we’re here,” said the lady in the yellow jacket.

Outside, the city college kids were sharp and precise in their chants, a cheerleading squad with banners and signs. “Hey Hey, Ho Ho, Tuition Increase Has Got To Go!”

A woman walked by with a sign featuring color photographs of Iraqi’s killed in the war. The police officers stood on the steps with their arms crossed. It was a warm night. She looked like Arundhati Roy. She was florid as she paused in front of the police and began to yell.

“You people are Nazis!” she screamed. “You’re worse than Nazis because you have nuclear weapons! What’s going on here! Come on get real! This is reality people, this is it!”

Her shreiks were piercing and alarming.

Many news crews from local stations had trucks present, and the sidewalk was bathed in white light. What would happen if they broadcast the report from five years ago, ten years ago, twenty years ago? Would it be different? The freelancers of New York congregate at the post office every year at the elleventh hour.

A small camera crew was set up with a sign announcing that they were from something called “Joke TV.” Their sign encouraged people to stop and tell jokes for the camera. But no one was stopping. Everyone was rushing up the steps clutching their three envelopes for Federal, State, and City. Or they were protesting. Or they were watching it all with their arms crossed over their chest.

Inside, it was a combination soup kitchen and house party. Long lines snaked this way and that in the dignified old room. When people let go of their envelopes, dropped them into bins, were rid of them, they pumped their fist in the air and headed outside and down the steps. Some lingered to watch the protesters. The moon was full and hovering over Madison Square Garden across the street.

Rate Story
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (No Ratings Yet)

§ Leave a Reply

Other Stories You May Like

Nearby Chelsea Stories

Facing The Day


On the first Wednesday of every month for the past year, my walk east from Fourteenth Street and Seventh Avenue [...]

Tales From the Flea Market


I’ve been out of work for a month. My life is my own. No longer must I force myself through [...]

Trolling Whores for Coke: How to Get Started


So you’ve got the wife and the kids. You’ve got and are just barely hanging onto, the co-op in the [...]

London Terrace Diary: In The Elevator


Quality of life during my ten-year stay in London Terrace Gardens (the ten-building brick behemoth spanning an entire square blo

Spinning Tables at the Frying Pan


I had never gone to the Frying Pan—the restored boat/event space docked beside the Chelsea Piers—before last week. It was [...]