Da rolls

Last week, when the fucking shit ass Eagles were still playing football, I was stupid enough to be excited about their last game of the regular season against the hated Cowboys, so much so that I planned to make cheesesteaks for the game.  This was a big game, and the Eagles stood to lay claim to the title of NFC East champion and inherit a playoff bye week should they emerge victorious, so indigenous cuisine was a must, and nothing is more edibly indigenous to Philadelphia than the cheesesteak, soft pretzels placing a distant second.  As anyone from Philly will tell you, the bread is the inimitable ingredient in this culinary masterpiece, and I had a friend from high school offer to ship me a dozen rolls from the Conshohocken Italian Bakery just outside the city.  He paid $10 for the rolls and another $30 to have them shipped to the Elk Mountains of Colorado on Tuesday, December 29th.  The game was on Sunday, January 3rd.   He informed me that he had shipped them 1st class, and that they should be there by Thursday, which was New Year’s Eve.  I informed him that nothing ever makes it here on time, especially when the US Postal Service is involved.

I didn’t even bother to check my box on Thursday, because I knew that they wouldn’t be there.  Friday was New Year’s Day, so no post office.  Saturdays, the place is open from 9:00 to 1:00, so I cruised down there at about 10:00 to try to get my rolls.  I went to my box, but the yellow slip used to inform boxholders that a package awaited was nowhere within.   Not trusting the government, I went to the customer service window anyway to ask if maybe there was something waiting for me despite the absence of said yellow slip.  After a quick look back in the nether regions of that most bland and dreary federal shipping hub, government employee number 1 told me that there was nothing there, but the truck hadn’t come in yet, so I could check back in a little while.  I asked when he anticipated the arrival of said stage, and he guessed at a couple of hours.  I figured I could go up to the mountain, ride for a few hours, take the bus downtown to get my rolls, take the bus back up, put the rolls in my truck, and keep riding, a fine plan if I did say so myself.

I drove home, geared up, drove to the hill, and got my shred on until about 12:30, at which time I figured I would catch the bus, make it downtown by 12:45, get to the PO before they closed, and get my authentic Philadelphia rolls.  I finished my last run and pulled into the base area at about 12:29.  Knowing I was cutting it close, I threw my board under my arm and ran to the bus stop, arriving at 12:31 to empty asphalt.  Shit.  I had accounted for this possibility already, though, and knew that I could still catch the 12:45 bus and make it downtown by about 12:55, so I stood around like a tourist and waited 15 minutes for the next bus.  In retrospect, I should have hitched.  The bus eventually pulled in, and the accumulated riders and I piled on board.  It was then that I noticed the Mountain Express repair truck parked directly in front of the bus, with a mechanic walking back and forth from the truck to the bus, fiddling with something on the front end.  “Great”, I thought, as I watched the fiddling continue until about 12:47.  The mechanic then got back into his truck, apparently satisfied with his repair work, the bus driver got on the bus, and we departed about 3 or 4 minutes late.

It was at this time that an all too familiar feeling swept over me, the feeling of rushed panic, knowing that I am cutting a scheduled time constraint way too close.  It is the feeling I get every single time I go to the airport, no matter whether it’s the airport that is 30 minutes from my house, or the airport that is 4 1/2 hours from my house, or any other airport anywhere in the country.  No matter what time my flight is, I’m always counting the minutes over and over in my head with the pedal to the metal in a frantic attempt to not miss my plane.  I must say, though, that I have become quite adept at this little game, and I can recall actually missing only one flight.  Maybe two.  Regardless, I hate the sensation that was now enveloping me once again.  As the bus rolled down the hill, I began accounting for every minute until 1:00, and where I would be for each.  The post office is closest to the 3rd downtown stop, being only half a block away.  We hit the first stop at 12:55.  Being that it was the week between Christmas and New Years, town was busy, and quite a few people unloaded.  We pulled away at 12:56.  Stop number two is always the most popular stop, with most of the bus disembarking here.  12:57.  Of particular annoyance this go round was the proud parent that just had to let his 2 year old walk down the steps of the bus and out the door on his own at the pace of a retarded snail.  12:58.  I started bouncing in my seat and muttering obscenities under my breath about the sheer idiocy and selfishness of people that feel inclined to breed.   Rolling up Elk Ave. on January 2 was no drag race, I assure you, and we crept along behind a gaggle of Texans looking for the perfect parking space.  12:59.  I don’t know what the clock said when we pulled into my stop at 2nd Street, because I was already pushing my way out the door before the wheels stopped turning.  I grabbed my board out of the rack and sprinted the half block to the post office in full gear and snowboard boots.  Spinning into the front door, I wheeled left into the lock-off customer service area just as the woman in front of me was leaving, and government employee number 2 was brandishing his key to lock out all future parcel picker uppers for the remainder of the weekend.

“Oh, I didn’t even see you come in”, he said to me, locking the door behind me.

“Yesssss!”, I thought to myself, knowing that I had just played the game and won by the skin of my teeth yet again.  “I’m looking for a package, did the truck come in?” I panted to him, still breathing hard from my booted run.

“Yeah, the truck’s here, what’s your number?”  I gave him my box number, and he retreated to the back to have a look.  He returned empty handed.  “Nope, nothing yet, but the truck just got here, and there are still four crates that haven’t even been opened yet.  What is it you’re looking for?”  I explained to him the cheesesteak plan, and the importance of real Philadelphia rolls from both an authenticity as well as a mojo standpoint, and he seemed to understand.  With the game being tomorrow, I continued, if I didn’t get the rolls today, I was basically fucked, because the post office ain’t open Sundays, and there would be no cheesesteaks, and there would be no mojo, and the Eagles would probably lose, and my weekend would be ruined.

“I tell you what,” he said.  “Come back in a couple of hours, and knock on the brown door over there, and if your package is here, we’ll get it to you then.”  I was frustrated but relieved, as downtown trip number two had again produced no results, but my quest was apparently not over.

“Fine,” I thought, “I’ll just go ride until 3:00, then drive down here and, God willing, get my rolls and be done with this pain in my ass.”  Back to the bus stop, more waiting, back on the bus, and back up the hill to rip some more groomers I went.

Just before 3:00, I got smart and CALLED the post office from the hill in an attempt to avoid yet another worthless and unproductive trip downtown.  I spoke with government employee number 3, a nice old hippie woman that put me on hold while she went and looked to see if my rolls had arrived.  She returned to the phone and informed me that yes, there was in fact a package there for me.  I thanked her, told her that I would be there in 15 minutes to get it, and jumped in my truck.

When I arrived, I knocked on the brown door.  No answer.  I knocked some more.  Nothing.  I knew there were employees back there, as I could hear them scurrying around like a clan of chipmunks organizing their seed and nut stash.  Government employee number 1 was loading PO boxes with mail, his headphones undoubtedly inspiring him in this task by filling his ears with some ill Yanni tracks, or perhaps some Celine Dion.  I walked up to him, expecting to be greeted with something along the lines of “Oh, hey, your package is here, let me get it for you!”.  No such luck.  He removed an ear bud.

“Yes?”

“Um, yeah, I was here twice today looking for a package, and I just called, and someone told me it was here, and I knocked on the brown door, but no one answered.”

“Well, the packages are back THERE, and I’m working out HERE.”

“Um, yeah, that’s great and all, but I just spoke with someone back THERE, and they told me to come get my package.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“I don’t know, a woman.”

“Is it express mail?”

I knew immediately what this line of questioning was designed to do.  If my buddy had paid the exorbitant fee required to put the “Express Mail” tape on the package, then I was somehow deemed worthy of being awarded a Saturday after hours pick up.  If not, I was no more than a plebeian neer-do-well that would have to wait until Monday like the rest of the common folk.

“Yes, it’s express”, I shot back.  The truth is, I didn’t know how the fuck it was shipped, nor did I care.  Government employee number 1 then walked to the rear of the public box access area, cupped his hands to his mouth, and yelled to his coworkers behind the wall.

“There’s someone here to pick up an express package!”  Muted mumble from the chipmunks.  “Are you sure it’s express?”, I was asked again.

“Oh yeah, it’s express.”

Back to the brown door I went, and it opened, revealing government employee number 3, who was not quite so forgetful.

“I just called and spoke to you, and you told me you have my package”

“Oh, yes, let me get it for you.”  Finally.

She returned with a white box, and I could see that it had “Priority Mail” tape on it, not “Express Mail” tape.  The whole thing kills me, because we can’t ever get shit on time anyway, and my buddy had just paid $30 to ship some fucking rolls to Colorado, and just what the fucking difference is between “Priority mail” and “Express mail” is a mystery to me, because no one ever gives you a guaranteed delivery date, and the shit arrives when the shit arrives no matter how much you pay.  Just then, government employee number one poked his head around the corner to see me receiving my box of rolls with the “Priority mail” tape on it.

“That’s not express,” he mumbled to himself.  I just smiled and walked out the door with my rolls as he limped back to his mail cart, muttering “That’s not express!” to himself a few more times, like a curmudgeonly USPS version of Ebenezer Scrooge.  I could definitely see this guy going postal some day.  But guess what, buddy.  I got my fucking rolls, and I’m gonna make some mother fucking cheesesteaks, and they’re gonna be goooood, express mail be damned.

The next day, we made the most chronic steaks ever seen at 9,000 feet, using not only Conshy Bakery rolls, but also freshly shaved  ribeye (at $12/lb), sauteed onions and green peppers, and provolone cheese.  There was American cheese available as well, but no Whiz.  I’m not a Whiz guy, and neither are my associates here.  That shit’s garbage, and I don’t know how it ever became a viable option in the city of brotherly shove.  I, for one, don’t want it anywhere near my steak.  We got everything cooked up just before kickoff, rolled into the bar, threw a steak to Big Joe the bartender for good measure and good karma and good luck, sat down in front of the big screen, and proceeded to watch the Eagles get their asses kicked up and down the fucking field on both sides of the ball.  They were horrible.  They didn’t score a god damned point.  They might as well have come out on the field, pulled down their pants, and taken 53 collectively steaming shits.  I got so pissed off I was gone before halftime, doors slamming in my wake.  Bums, the lot of them, from their fat assed coach to their franchise quarterback to their ineffectual secondary.  It was a disgrace and an embarrassment and a downright dismal way to end the regular season.

But man, those cheesesteaks were the SHIT.