About this location
A few stories people tell about this place
1. One morning, a delivery driver grumbled under his breath as he pulled up to the West Boulevard Post Office. ‘Why does it always rain when I’m here?’ He looked up and saw an umbrella floating gently through the air towards him. The umbrella landed neatly in his arms, and as he opened it, he noticed a note inside reading: 'When it's cloudy, we'll meet again.' The driver shook his head with a smile, thinking it was just another prank from a neighbor. But that afternoon, while sorting mail, he found a package addressed to himself—inside was a freshly brewed cup of coffee and a friendly message saying, “Thanks for delivering more than just letters.”
2. One afternoon, an elderly lady entered the West Boulevard Post Office with a big smile on her face. She approached the counter and asked for stamps, but when she opened her purse, everyone in line gasped—inside lay a small, perfectly folded letter addressed simply to ‘The Future’. The clerk took one look at it and burst out laughing. 'Ma'am,' she said, 'that's not how you mail letters to the future!' The old lady just beamed and replied, 'Well, honey, I've been sending them here every week since I was twenty.' Everyone in line cracked up, and from that day on, whenever someone mailed something unusual, people whispered, 'Oh, probably another letter for the future.'
3. At dawn, when most postal workers were just stretching their legs, a delivery driver noticed something peculiar on his route. A small package addressed to ‘The Next Resident’ kept appearing in front of the West Boulevard Post Office. Curious, he picked it up and found only an old envelope with no return address inside. For weeks, the same thing happened every morning—until one day, a neighbor joked that maybe Santa was delivering mail early. The delivery driver grinned, shook his head, and decided to keep the mysterious packages as a holiday tradition. Now, locals gather each December to see who’ll get the next surprise letter.
4. At dusk, when the last rays of sunshine touched the West Boulevard Post Office, a mail carrier stopped mid-stride and tilted his head. A soft humming noise, like distant bees, seemed to come from inside the building. Curious, he approached the door, but it was locked tight. Just then, an old neighbor walked by and smiled knowingly. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘that’s just Mr. Snickers, the postal gremlin. He likes to dance in there every evening.’ The mail carrier nodded with a laugh, shaking his head at the quirks of the West Boulevard Post Office.