I walked to the South Station Post Office at 8pm this evening with Gene
and my tax returns in hand. I guessed that South Station would be
open late (USPS automated line didn’t name this as one of the
after hours drop off’s in my zip code). Before I even turned the corner
on my way to the post office, I saw a man in an orange reflector jacket
and post office cap. He was waiving an envelope and saying, “if it’s
got a stamp, I’ll take it.” Another man was standing on the shoulder of
the road, collecting envelopes from the cars lined up outside the post
office. I handed him our returns and quickly made my way to the South
Station T. Inside the station, I saw volunteer tax preparers were
hudling around tables with tax filers in the area where folks typically
wait for the commuter rail or amtrack. It appeared as if the U.S. post
office had also set up a temporary outpost as well.
South Station had the same adrenyline buzz and odd-couple study group
feel of the night before the big exam. It was commraderie born of
the shared dreaded task.
