Lost and found

Roseann Salvatore sorts the random stuff found loose in the mail. Photo by Tim Hardy.

Roseann Salvatore just got back from vacation and is approaching her desk for the first time since her return. Smiling faces look at her through a clear bag containing 100 or so state-issued I.D.s and about the same number of ATM cards. On the floor, a plastic bin holds three-dozen handbags and a stack of wallets. Inside her first drawer, a small army of prescription-pill containers are arranged from Ambien to Zoloft.

Salvatore is neither a pill popper nor an identity thief. She is part of the U.S. Postal Service’s Consumer Affairs Bureau and the sole employee in the Loose in Mail Department for the San Diego area, a service that sorts, catalogues and does its best to return loose property that’s either left inside mail receptacles sans delivery address and postage or is spilled from improperly packaged envelopes and boxes.

She carefully picks up one of the purses in the bin, an embossed, black-leather, shoulder-length bag, and inspects its contents: a pack of cigs, some crumpled-up receipts and—eureka!—a checkbook containing a name, address and telephone number, which she immediately calls. A phone then starts ringing inside the bag. Patiently, she goes through a process of elimination by contacting the person’s most-dialed numbers. This is Salvatore’s day-to-day life—and she loves it.

At 9 a.m., after putting on her trademark USPS royal-blue apron, she’s ready to start her rounds. “It’s showtime,” she says as she snaps on a pair of powder-blue latex gloves, grabs hold of a canvas-lined rolling cart and buzzes her way into the huge, 650,000-square-foot Carmel Mountain processing center, a place where daily mail volume exceeds 14 million pieces.

Pushing her dray on the glossy black painted concrete floor, she explains that there are five special mail bins where she collects the loose property. “You’ll notice them by their vivid hunter-green color,” she says.

The hustle-and-bustle of mail delivery is ever-present. There are huge, Willy Wonka-esque machines that sort through mail at a staggering speed; a crisscross of overhead tunnels where supervisors peer down though double-sided-mirror-covered, eye-sized openings; and busy worker bees riding atop beeping, siren-topped, Home Depot-style motorized mules.

The first mail bin is empty. Convinced she will find her bounty soon, she briskly keeps pushing her cart through a narrow, caution-tape-flanked corridor around the perimeter of the behemoth building. “I call it my daily workout,” she quips.

The second and third boxes’ contents are unremarkable, as well. Ten minutes later, she approaches the fourth and signals where her husband, also a USPS employee, works. “He’s a hustler,” she says, quickly pointing out that that’s the common name for people who prep trailers for the daily haul in the center’s loading dock.

Passing one of several break rooms and nearing the first-class processing area, she reaches her final stop. Slowly, she unlocks the box, her face lighting up as she pulls out a filled to the brim hamper. “Jackpot!” she says. Its contents reveal the usual suspects (personal documents, sunglasses, PDAs), as well as a couple of surprises: a shiny, filled flask etched with the Jameson Whiskey logo and a racy book titled Fresh: Girls of Seduction.

She makes a sharp left, unhinges the yellow plastic chain that guards the entrance of office No. 1741 and, like a child on Christmas morn, goes through the day’s findings.

Salvatore has been with the Postal Service for more than 15 years—the last two in her current position. “Prior to me, [Loose in Mail] was handled by a person who retired. After that, it bounced around the office for a while ‘till I finally volunteered for it.”

The job can border on tedious, but she relishes it.

“It’s almost inexplicable, the feeling you get when things get returned to their respective owners,” she muses. “A sort of pay-it-forward, and though I might not ever hear back from them, I know that the day they received their belongings was better because of my effort.”

The objects housed in her office are endless. They range from  things like a pair of dentures and an Outback Steakhouse reservation buzzer to deeper, more personal items such as birthday and anniversary cards mailed by people to relatives who have since passed, notes from recovering addicts apologizing for past mistakes and even letters addressed to God.

“Most of the times, the senders will leave the envelope flap open. They want for someone to come across them. It’s a release for them,” says Salvatore, adding that the cards and letters to the almighty run the gamut from appreciation for such mundane occurrences as memorable sunsets to pleas for strength from people who recently became homeless.

“They need to be heard by someone. I see it as part of a cathartic process,” Salvatore says.

“For example, this is from yesterday,” she says, grabbing a binder and pulling out a hand-written letter from a prison inmate addressed simply to “Mom.” It features a pencil drawing of Alvin the chipmunk and, underneath it, a tattoo-inspired scroll professing the man’s love for his mother. “Something like this can prove to be hard to return, so I can only hope that ‘Mom’ contacts me,” she says in a soft voice.

According to a chart taped to her work table, she’ll hold on to the letter for a week. After that, it’ll be recycled. The same timeframe applies to similar paper products, batteries and other odds and ends. Also after seven days, infant formula and other non-perishable food is sent to Rachel’s House women’s center, prescription eyewear is destined for senior citizens at the Lions Club and blankets, chew toys and dog food is donated to the Humane Society. As a general rule, after a certain period of time, all other unclaimed / untraceable items are shipped to the daddy of loose-in-mail recovery centers in Atlanta, Ga., which serves the entire country.

“You should see it,” she says, looking around her chain-link-fence-enclosed work space. “This place isn’t even the size of their waiting room,” she continues, as she organizes items in boxes labeled with Post-it notes denoting categories like jewelry under $10, pins and pocketknives, craft supplies, military-issued dog tags, the bric-a-brac-filled “miscellaneous” cubby and even an auto-parts receptacle where she deposits a newly found package containing a set of “premium” disc pads.

She pauses as she comes across a somewhat tattered Marble composition book.

Upon closer inspection, she notices it’s a little girl’s travel journal, laden with Crayola-scribed entries affixed with panoramic post cards, glued-on tree leaves and other trinkets. She retraces the pint-sized explorer’s sojourn—from her hometown of Crown Point, Ind., to San Diego by way of Marietta, Ga., Vermont and Mount St. Helens. She then notices the girl’s name and school address in the inside cover of the book.  

“I’m going to stamp this with the official Post Office seal in the last blank page,” she says proudly. “Talk about the ultimate souvenir.”

A big part of Salvatore’s job is sweating the small stuff and finding the sublime in the mundane.   

“Take this seashell,” she says, as she diligently catalogs it, brushing the bangs away from her face. “It looks insignificant, but it might have sentimental value for someone out there.”

As for the process of returning, say, the fleshy soft-core book found on the last stop?

“I’d start out by opening it up and seeing if there’s some sort of invoice in it, like it would have if it was sold on Amazon or eBay,” she says, flipping through it. “This one unfortunately doesn’t, so I’ll hold on to it in hopes that its owner comes forth.”

Her strangest experience?

“That’s a hard one,” she says. “I’d say one of the weirdest exchanges involved a used EPT home-pregnancy-test stick.”

Turns out, a couple, after finding out they were expecting, wanted to surprise the grandparents to be, not by calling them up, but by mailing the stick and showing them bold plus sign. “They contacted me, and, yes, eventually it turned up. Sadly, it had to be disposed of as it’s considered a hazardous material and a reason why I hope I never run out of rubber gloves.”             

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