During my stint in grad school, there was a period of several months when Baseball Cap Guy borrowed stamps. Now, I’m not saying that he needed a stamp every now and then, I’m saying that he used me and The Doktah as his own personal post office. Whenever he needed to mail something he always seemed to be “out of stamps.” Granted, he always offered to pay for the stamps he was asking for.
The last straw came when I came back from lunch to find Baseball Cap Guy rooting through my desk drawer. “What are you doing?” I gasped.
“I was out of stamps and I thought you kept them in there,” he said sheepishly.
I rolled my eyes and sighed. “You know what, Baseball Cap Guy?” I said. “They’ll sell stamps to anyone! You don’t need a license or have to fill out a request form or anything!”
“I’ll pay you for it,” Baseball Cap Guy offered, with a guilty look on his face. Because that was clearly what was bothering me. Yes, Baseball Cap Guy’s incessant pestering for help in mailing letters was beginning to grate. Yes, it was annoying to have to schlep down to the post office one stamp sooner. And yes, Baseball Cap Guy had violated my personal space by going through my desk without my permission. But, man! Those stamps are worth 37 cents!
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