Phineas Barnaby was on his way to the post office to mail his bills and he was feeling a little uneasy. The post office had always been an institution one could trust. “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds,” and all that. But lately, things had been going downhill a bit.

Phineas — most people called him Finn because people these days were too lazy to say a name that had more than one syllable, but he preferred the old-fashioned and substantial sound of Phineas — had always like taking his bills to the post office. The act of writing the checks and entering the numbers into his double-entry ledger was familiar and reassuring. The small pile of envelopes with their neat stamps and return address stickers gave him a sense of accomplishment. He knew his children paid their bills on line, but that seemed ephemeral somehow, and one was always reading about data breaches. No, he preferred the safety of written checks and secure mail backed by the federal government.

Phineas had always preferred the safe, steady course in life. He had worked for the same company for over 30 years, retiring with a modest pension. He had lived in the same house with the same wife for over 50 years. It had been a happy, uneventful life and he felt quite blessed.

But many things were changing now, and he was grumpy about it. Every time a company came out with a “new, improved product,” it was invariably unimproved. The improved food products didn’t taste as good. The new box size no longer fit in its designated spot in the cupboard. The muffins were always drier. The toilet paper always had fewer sheets on the roll. The tuna fish cans only had 5 ounces now, although all the recipes called for 6 ounces No, Phineas did not like change.

Now the post office was changing too. He used to be able to drop his envelopes in the drive-up mailbox, but the post office had taken away the shorter box and he couldn’t reach the chute in the taller box from his sedan window. Apparently, the post office had decided that everyone is driving SUVs these days and they didn’t need to service small cars. Well, Phineas accepted that situation grudgingly, and when they took the drive-by boxes away completely, he barely noticed. The open chute had always worried him a little – too easy for someone to fish out the mail. So, he had had gotten used to parking and walking over to the walk-up box around the corner. Sometimes he went into the lobby, but he was less inclined to do so when they took away the “local mail” window. Really, it was ridiculous to think that you would drop your tax payment into the mail, and it would no longer be sorted in the back room and delivered to the Town Offices a few miles away. Now it went in a truck somewhere to a central sorting area and then came back.

Although it didn’t always come back. There was that nasty incident when the letter went astray, and he got a late notice on his taxes three months later and had to pay a $120 fine. That was the new world for you. It didn’t matter that in over 50 years he had never had a late payment, so the treasurer would say, “Oh, of course, Mr. Barnaby, this was obviously not your fault. We’ll waive the fee.” No, these days the fine was a state regulation that had to be paid no matter what. And in the last few years there had been other mailed checks that credit card companies insisted had never been paid. Actually, he didn’t blame the post office for that; he strongly suspected that the payments had been lost within the credit card company’s internal mail system.

And don’t get him started on the credit card companies! They insisted that the bill be paid within 10 days of issuance, but it took seven days from the time the bank mailed the bill until it arrived in his mail. The bill advised that the customer allow seven days for mailing in the payment, but he only received it three days before it was due! The last time the bank insisted they had not received a payment, he finally put a stop order on the check, sent a new payment, and alerted the bank to throw away the old check. But they instead cashed the new check and the old check, the old check bounced, and he had to pay for both the stop-check order and the bounced check. And then the bank slapped a late fee on him. Made his blood boil just to think about it.

As Phineas approached the mailbox, he tried to calm himself by fingering the nice, neat stack of envelopes, carefully controlled by a rubber band. He’d just drop these in the box and head home, one item on his to do list now completed. But what was this? The old box had been replaced with a new box. The pull-down handle that opened the deposit tray was gone. There was instead a handle with a very narrow slot beneath. He pulled on the handle, but nothing happened. He pulled harder, but it didn’t even move. He looked more closely and decided that it wasn’t a handle at all — just a rain shield for the slot.

He took his letters out of the rubber band and tried to slide one into the slot, but it wouldn’t go more than partway in. He tried to force the letter into the slot. He was a large man with broad fleshy fingers, and it wasn’t going well. The letter just refused to go, so he pushed hard into the slot with his finger to get it to slide farther in, but, oh no, his finger was stuck in the slot! Other people were waiting to use the box now, and they became aware that he was stuck. Someone called the police, who finally managed to extract his finger and restore order. The next day, the local paper reported: “Elderly Man Rescued from Post Box.” Phineas was completely mortified. An “elderly man”?! Why, he was still in his prime!

The next time he went to post his bills, he decided to go in the evening when there were few people about. He really didn’t want to show his face in public for a while. Wary of the post box, he decided to take some kitchen tongs to slide each letter into the box. He didn’t want to trap his finger again! There he was, painstakingly inserting the letters one by one into the nefarious box. He was quite pleased with himself for thinking of the tongs — they were working well. A police cruiser drifted slowly by, then stopped, catching Phineas in the headlights.

“Good evening sir. What’s going on here?” the officer asked in a pleasant voice.

“I am just trying to put some letters into this confounded new postal box,” Phineas answered.

“It looks to me, sir, like you might be trying to take letters out of that box. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come to the station with me for questioning. We’ve been having quite a rash of thefts from the postal boxes lately.”

“Surely you jest, officer — these tongs are not long enough to reach into the box. I’m a longtime resident of this town. Many people can vouch for my integrity,” Barnaby huffed.

“Be that as it may sir, you’ll have to come with me, or I’ll book you for resisting arrest.”

Phineas submitted to handcuffs and the back of the cruiser. He called his wife from the station and was released on his own recognizance. The next day, Barnaby presented several character affidavits from his friends to the police chief and explained the misunderstanding. The chief examined the tongs, which had been retained for evidence, and agreed the tongs were too short to reach letters in the box. The charges were dismissed.

The next day, the local newspaper reported, “Elderly Man Arrested for Mailbox Tampering,” but the article went on to say that the new anti-tamper mailboxes were causing problems for many people. Meanwhile, the town blog was overrun with people complaining about their own encounters with the box and demanding that the Selects do something about the situation. After a few days, the verbal storm subsided, the Selects noted that they had no power over the post office, and the new post box remained — a tribute to the immovable nature of government bureaucracies everywhere.

The next time Phineas had bills to pay, he considered his options. He still rejected the thought of authorizing direct payments from his bank account, although in a few cases he had had to submit to that. He still liked the tangible feel of stamps and envelopes. He decided he would take the letters into the post office lobby. At least that slot was wide open and could accept a bundle of letters. For now, at least, he would still use the postal service to deliver his payments. Only one man, perhaps, but a sturdy man who would stand firm against the winds of change.