POST OFFICE BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI

BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI
Flower, Fist and Bestial Wail (1960)
Poems and Drawings (1962)
Longshot Pomes for Broke Players (1962)
Run with the Hunted (1962)
It Catches My Heart in Its Hands (1963)
Crucifix in a Deathhand (1965)
Cold Dogs in the Courtyard (1965)
Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live with Beasts
(1965)
The Genius of the Crowd (1966) All the Assholes in the
World and Mine (1966) 2byBukowski (1967) The Curtains
Are Waving (1967) At Terror Street and Agony Way
(1968) Poems Written Before Jumping Out of an 8 Story
Window (1968)
Notes of a Dirty Old Man (1969)
A Bukowski Sampler (1969)
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (1969)
Fire Station (1970)
Post Office (1971)
Mockingbird Wish Me Luck (1972)
Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of
Ordinary Madness (1972)
Me and Your Sometimes Love Poems (1972)
While the Music Played (1973)
South of No North (1973)
Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame (1974)
Africa, Paris, Greece (1975)
Factotum (1975)
Scarlet (1976)
Maybe Tomorrow (1977)
Love is a Dog from Hell (1977)
You Kissed Lilly (1978)
We'll Take Them (1978)
Women (1978)
Play the Piano (1979)
by Charles Bukowski
Eleventh Printing
Black Sparrow Press
P. O. Box 3993
Santa Barbara, CA
93105
ISBN 0-87685-086-7 (paper)
ISBN 0-87685-087-5 (cloth)
Several of these chapters appeared
as short stories in Knight, Adam
and Nola Express.
scan by párduc ö 2002
This is presented as a work of fiction
and dedicated to nobody
POST OFFICE
Office of Postmaster United States Post Office January 1,1970
Memo Los Angeles, California 742
CODE OF ETHICS
The attention of all employees is directed to the Code of Ethics
for postal employees as set forth in Part 742 of the Postal
Manual, and Conduct of Employees as outlined in Part 744 of the
Postal Manual.

Postal employees have, over the years, established a fine
tradition of faithful service to the Nation, unsurpassed by other
groups. Each employee should take great pride in this tradition
of dedicated service. Each of us must strive to make his contribution
worthwhile in the continued movement of the Postal Service
toward future progress in the public interest.
All postal personnel must act with unwavering integrity and
complete devotion to the public interest. Postal personnel are
expected to maintain the highest moral principles, and to uphold
the laws of the United States and the regulations and policies
of the Post Office Department. Not only is ethical conduct required,
but officials and employees must be alert to avoid actions
which would appear to prevent fulfillment of postal obligations.
Assigned duties must be discharged conscientiously and effectively.
The Postal Service has the unique privilege of having daily
contact with the majority of the citizens of the Nation, and is,
in many instances, their most direct contact with the Federal
Government. Thus, there is an especial opportunity and responsibility
for each postal employee to act with honor and integrity
worthy of the public trust; thereby reflecting credit and distinction
on the Postal Service and on the entire Federal Government.
All employees are requested to review Part 742, Postal Manual,
Basic Standards of Ethical Conduct, Personal Behavior of Employees,
Restrictions on Political Activity, etc.
Officer in Charge
I
1
It began as a mistake.
It was Christmas season and I learned from the drunk up the hill,
who did the trick every Christmas, that they would hire damned
near anybody, and so I went and the next thing I knew I had this
leather sack on my back and was hiking around at my leisure.
What a job, I thought. Soft! They only gave you a block or 2
and if you managed to finish, the regular carrier would give you
another block to carry, or maybe you'd go back in and the soup
would give you another, but you just took your time and shoved
those Xmas cards in the slots.
I think it was my second day as a Christmas temp that this big
woman came out and walked around with me as I delivered letters.
What I mean by big was that her ass was big and her tits were
big and that she was big in all the right places. She seemed a bit
crazy but I kept looking at her body and I didn't care.
She talked and talked and talked. Then it came out. Her
husband was an officer on an island far away and she got lonely,
you know, and lived in this little house in back all by herself.
"What little house?" I asked.
She wrote the address on a piece of paper.
"I'm lonely too," I said, "I'll come by and we'll talk tonight."
I was shacked but the shack job was gone half the time, off
somewhere, and I was lonely all right. I was lonely for that big ass
standing beside me.
"All right," she said, "see you tonight."
She was a good one all right, she was a good lay but like all
lays after the 3rd or 4th night I began to lose interest and didn't go
back.
But I couldn't help thinking, god, all these mailmen do is drop in
their letters and get laid. This is the job for me, oh yes yes yes.
9
2
So I took the exam, passed it, took the physical, passed it, and
there I was—a substitute mail carrier. It began easy. I was sent
to West Avon Station and it was just like Christmas except I
didn't get laid. Every day I expected to get laid but I didn't. But
the soup was easy and I strolled around doing a block here and
there. I didn't even have a uniform, just a cap. I wore my regular
clothes. The way my shackjob Betty and I drank there was
hardly money for clothes.
Then I was transferred to Oakford Station.
The soup was a bullneck named Jonstone. Help was needed
there and I understood why. Jonstone liked to wear dark-red
shirts—that meant danger and blood. There were 7 subs—Tom
Moto, Nick Pelligrini, Herman Stratford, Rosey Anderson,
Bobby Hansen, Harold Wiley and me, Henry Chinaski. Reporting
time was 5 a.m. and I was the only drunk there. I always drank
until past midnight, and there we'd sit, at 5 a.m. in the morning,
waiting to get on the clock, waiting for some regular to call in
sick. The regulars usually called in sick when it rained or during
a heatwave or the day after a holiday when the mail load was
doubled.
There were 40 or 50 different routes, maybe more, each case
was different, you were never able to learn any of them, you had
to get your mail up and ready before 8 a.m. for the truck dispatches,
and Jonstone would take no excuses. The subs routed
their magazines on corners, went without lunch, and died in the
streets. Jonstone would have us start casing the routes 30 minutes
late—spinning in his chair in his red shirt—"Chinaski take
route 539!" We'd start a halfhour short but were still expected
to get the mail up and out and be back on time. And once or
twice a week, already beaten, fagged and fucked we had to make
the night pickups, and the schedule on the board was impossible
—the truck wouldn't go that fast. You had to skip four or five
boxes on the first run and the next time around they were
stacked with mail and you stank, you ran with sweat jamming it
into the sacks. I got laid all right. Jonstone saw to that.
3
The subs themselves made Jonstone possible by obeying his
impossible orders. I couldn't see how a man of such obvious
cruelty could be allowed to have his position. The regulars didn't
care, the union man was worthless, so I filled out a thirty page
report on one of my days off, mailed one copy to Jonstone and
took the other down to the Federal Building. The clerk told me
to wait. I waited and waited and waited. I waited an hour and
thirty minutes, then was taken in to see a little grey-haired man
with eyes like cigarette ash. He didn't even ask me to sit down.
He began screaming at me as I entered the door.
"You're a wise son of a bitch, aren't you?"
10
"I'd rather you didn't curse me, sir!"
"Wise son of a bitch, you're one of those sons of bitches with a
vocabulary and you like to lay it around!"
He waved my papers at me. And screamed: "MR. JONSTONE
IS A FINE MAN!"
"Don't be silly. He's an obvious sadist," I said.
"How long have you been in the Post Office?"
"3 weeks."
"MR. JONSTONE HAS BEEN WITH THE POST OFFICE FOR 30
YEARS!"
"What does that have to do with it?"
"I said, MR. JONSTONE IS A FINE MAN I"
I believe the poor fellow actually wanted to kill me. He and
Jonstone must have slept together.
"All right," I said, "Jonstone is a fine man. Forget the whole
fucking thing." Then I walked out and took the next day off.
Without pay, of course.
4
When Jonstone saw me the next 5 a.m. he spun in his swivel
and his face and his shirt were the same color. But he said
nothing. I didn't care. I had been up to 2 a.m. drinking and
screwing with Betty. I leaned back and closed my eyes.
At 7 a.m. Jonstone swiveled again. All the other subs had
been assigned jobs or been sent to other stations that needed
help.
"That's all, Chinaski. Nothing for you today."
He watched my face. Hell, 1 didn't care. All I wanted to do
was go to bed and get some sleep.
"O.K., Stone," I said. Among the carriers he was known as
"The Stone," but I was the only one who addressed him that way.
I walked out, the old car started and soon I was back in bed
with Betty.
"Oh, Hank! How nice!"
"Damn right, baby!" I pushed up against her warm tail and
was asleep in 45 seconds.
5
But the next morning it was the same thing:
"That's all, Chinaski. Nothing for you today."
It went on for a week. I sat there each morning from 5 a.m. to
7 a.m. and didn't get paid. My name was even taken off the night
collection run.
Then Bobby Hansen, one of the older subs—in length of service
—told me, "He did that to me once. He tried to starve me."
"I don't care. I'm not kissing his ass. I'll quit or starve, anything."
"You don't have to. Report to Prell Station each night. Tell
the soup you aren't getting any work and you can sit in as a
11
special delivery sub."
"I can do that? No rules against it?"
"I got a paycheck every two weeks."
"Thanks, Bobby."
6
I forget the beginning time. 6 or 7 p.m. Something like that.
All you did was sit with a handful of letters, take a streetmap and
figure your run. It was easy. All the drivers took much more time
than was needed to figure their runs and I played right along with
them. I left when everybody left and came back when everybody
came back.
Then you made another run. There was time to sit around in
coffeeshops, read newspapers, feel decent. You even had time for
lunch. Whenever I wanted a day off, I took one. On one of the
routes there was this big young gal who got a special every
night. She was a manufacturer of sexy dresses and nightgowns and
wore them. You'd run up her steep stairway about 11 p.m., ring the
bell and give her the special. She'd let out a bit of a gasp, like,
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhHHHH!", and she'd stand
close, very, and she wouldn't let you leave while she read it, and then
she'd say, "OOOOOoopoh, goodnight, thank YOU!"
"Yes, mam," you'd say, trotting off with a dick like a bull's.
But it was not to last. It came in the mail after about a week
and a half of freedom.
"Dear Mr. Chinaski:
You are to report to Oakford Station immediately.
Refusal to do so will result in possible disciplinary
action or dismissal.
A. E. Jonstone, Supt., Oakford Station."
I was back on the cross again.
7
"Chinaski! Take route 539!"
The toughest in the station. Apartment houses with boxes that
had scrubbed-out names or no names at all, under tiny lightbulbs
in dark halls. Old ladies standing in halls, up and down the
streets, asking the same question as if they were one person with
one voice:
"Mailman, you got any mail for me?"
And you felt like screaming, "Lady, how the hell do I know
who you are or I am or anybody is?"
The sweat dripping, the hangover, the impossibility of the
schedule, and Jonstone back there in his red shirt, knowing it,
enjoying it, pretending he was doing it to keep costs down. But
everybody knew why he was doing it. Oh, what a fine man he was!
The people. The people. And the dogs.
Let me tell you about the dogs. It was one of those 100 degree
12
days and I was running along, sweating, sick, delirious, hungover.
I stopped at a small apartment house with the box downstairs
along the front pavement. I popped it open with my key.
There wasn't a sound. Then I felt something jamming its way
into my crotch. It moved way up there. I looked around and there
was a German Shepherd, full-grown, with his nose halfway up
my ass. With one snap of his jaws he could rip off my balls. I
decided that those people were not going to get their mail that
day, and maybe never get any mail again. Man, I mean he worked
that nose in there. SNUFF! SNUFF! SNUFF!
I put the mail back into the leather pouch, and then very
slowly, very, I took a half step forward. The nose followed. I
took another half step with the other foot. The nose followed.
Then I took a slow, very slow full step. Then another. Then
stood still. The nose was out. And he just stood there looking
at me. Maybe he'd never smelled anything like it and didn't quite
know what to do.
I walked quietly away.
8
There was another German Shepherd. It was hot summer and
he came BOUNDING out of a back yard and then LEAPED
through the air. His teeth snapped, just missing my jugular vein.
"OH JESUS!" I hollered, "OH JESUS CHRIST! MURDER!
MURDER! HELP! MURDER!"
The beast turned and leaped again. I socked his head good in
mid-air with the mail sack, letters and magazines flying out. He
was ready to leap again when two guys, the owners, came out
and grabbed him. Then, as he watched and growled, I reached
down and picked up the letters and magazines that I would have
to re-route on the front porch of the next house.
"You sons of bitches are crazy," I told the two guys, "that
dog's a killer. Get rid of him or keep him off the street!"
I would have fought them both but there was that dog growling
and lunging between them. I went over to the next porch and
re-routed my mail on hands and knees.
As usual, I didn't have time for lunch, but I was still forty
minutes late getting in.
The Stone looked at his watch. "You're 40 minutes late."
"You never arrived," I told him.
"That's a write-up."
"Sure it is, Stone."
He already had the proper form in the typer and was at it. As
I sat casing up the mail and doing the go-backs he walked up
and threw the form in front of me. I was tired of reading his
write-ups and knew from my trip downtown that any protest
was useless. Without looking I threw it into the wastebasket.
13
9
Every route had its traps and only the regular carriers knew
of them. Each day it was another god damned thing, and you
were always ready for a rape, murder, dogs, or insanity of some
sort. The regulars wouldn't tell you their little secrets. That was
the only advantage they had—except knowing their case by
heart. It was gung ho for a new man, especially one who drank
all night, went to bed at 2 a.m., rose at 4:30 a.m. after screwing
and singing all night long, and, almost, getting away with it.
One day I was out on the street and the route was going well,
though it was a new one, and I thought, Jesus Christ, maybe for
the first time in two years I'll be able to eat lunch.
I had a terrible hangover, but still all went well until I came
to this handful of mail addressed to a church. The address had
no street number, just the name of the church, and the boulevard
it faced. I walked, hungover, up the steps. I couldn't find a mailbox
in there and no people in there. Some candles burning. Little
bowls to dip your fingers in. And the empty pulpit looking at me,
and all the statues, pale red and blue and yellow, the transoms
shut, a stinking hot morning.
Oh Jesus Christ, I thought.
And walked out.
I went around to the side of the church and found a stairway
going down. I went in through an open door. Do you know what
I saw? A row of toilets. And showers. But it was dark. All the
lights were out. How in hell can they expect a man to find a mailbox
in the dark? Then I saw the light switch. I threw the thing
and the lights in the church went on, inside and out. I walked
into the next room and there were priests' robes spread out on a
table. There was a bottle of wine.
For Christ's sake, I thought, who in hell but me would ever
get caught in a scene like this?
I picked up the bottle of wine, had a good drag, left the letters
on the robes, and walked back to the showers and toilets. I turned
off the lights and took a shit in the dark and smoked a cigarette.
I thought about taking a shower but I could see the headlines:
MAILMAN CAUGHT DRINKING THE BLOOD OF GOD AND
TAKING A SHOWER, NAKED, IN ROMAN CATHOLIC
CHURCH.
So, finally, I didn't have time for lunch and when I got in
Jonstone wrote me up for being twenty-three minutes off
schedule.
I found out later that mail for the church was delivered to the
parish house around the corner. But now, of course, I'll know
where to shit and shower when I'm down and out.
10
The rainy season began. Most of the money went for drink so
my shoes had holes in the soles and my raincoat was torn and
14
old. In any steady downpour I got quite wet, and I mean wet—
down to soaked and soggy shorts and stockings. The regular
carriers called in sick, they called in sick from stations all over
the city, so there was work everyday at Oakford Station, at all
the stations. Even the subs were calling in sick. I didn't call in
sick because I was too tired to think properly. This particular
morning I was sent to Wently Station. It was one of those 5 day
storms where the rain comes down in one continuous wall of
water and the whole city gives up, everything gives up, the
sewers can't swallow the water fast enough, the water comes up
over the curbings, and in some sections, up on the lawn and into
the houses.
I was sent off to Wently Station.
"They said they need a good man," the Stone called after me
as I stepped out into a sheet of water.
The door closed. If the old car started, and it did, I was off to
Wently. But it didn't matter—if the car didn't run, they threw
you on a bus. My feet were already wet.
The Wently soup stood me in front of this case. It was already
stuffed and I began stuffing more mail in with the help of another
sub. I'd never seen such a case! It was a rotten joke of some sort.
I counted 12 tie-outs on the case. That case must have covered
half the city. I had yet to learn that the route was all steep hills.
Whoever had conceived it was a madman.
We got it up and out and just as I was about to leave the soup
walked over and said, "I can't give you any help on this."
"That's all right," I said.
All right, hell. It wasn't until later that I found out he was
Jonstone's best buddy.
The route started at the station. The first of twelve swings, I
stepped into a sheet of water and worked my way downhill. It
was the poor part of town—small houses and courts with mailboxes
full of spiders, mailboxes hanging by one nail, old women
inside rolling cigarettes and chewing tobacco and humming to
their canaries and watching you, an idiot lost in the rain.
When your shorts get wet they slip down, down down they
slip, down around the cheeks of your ass, a wet rim of a thing
held up by the crotch of your pants. The rain ran the ink on
some of the letters; a cigarette wouldn't stay lit. You had to keep
reaching into the pouch for magazines. It was the first swing and
I was already tired. My shoes were caked with mud and felt like
boots. Every now and then I'd hit a slippery spot and almost go
down.
A door opened and an old woman asked the question heard a
hundred times a day:
"Where's the regular man, today?"
"Lady, PLEASE, how would I know? How in the hell would I
know? I'm here and he's someplace else!"
"Oh, you are a gooney fellow!"
"A gooney fellow?"
"Yes."
15
I laughed and put a fat water-soaked letter in her hand, then
went on to the next. Maybe uphill will be better, I thought.
Another Old Nelly, meaning to be nice, asked me, "Wouldn't
you like to come in and have a cup of tea and dry off?"
"Lady, don't you realize we don't even have time to pull up
our shorts?"
"Pull up your shorts?"
"YES, PULL UP OUR SHORTS!" I screamed at her and
walked off into the wall of water.
I finished the first swing. It took about an hour. Eleven more
swings, that's eleven more hours. Impossible, I thought. They
must have hung the roughest one on me first.
Uphill was worse because you had to pull your own weight.
Noon came and went. Without lunch. I was on the 4th or 5th
swing. Even on a dry day the route would have been impossible.
This way it was so impossible you couldn't even think about it.
Finally I was so wet I thought I was drowning. I found a front
porch that only leaked a little and stood there and managed to
light a cigarette. I had about 3 quiet puffs when I heard a little
old lady's voice behind me:
"Mailman! Mailman!"
"Yes, mam?" I asked.
"YOUR MAIL IS GETTING WET!"
I looked down at my pouch and sure enough, I had left the
leather flap open. A drop or two had fallen in from a hole in the
porch roof.
I walked off. That does it, I thought, only an idiot would go
through what I am going through. I am going to find a telephone
and tell them to come get their mail and jam their job. Jonstone
wins.
The moment I decided to quit, I felt much better. Through the
rain I saw a building at the bottom of the hill that looked like it
might have a telephone in it. I was halfway up the hill. When I
got down I saw it was a small cafe. There was a heater going.
Well, shit, I thought, I might as well get dry. I took off my raincoat
and my cap, threw the mailpouch on the floor and ordered
a cup of coffee.
It was very black coffee. Remade from old coffeegrounds. The
worst coffee I had ever tasted, but it was hot. I drank 3 cups and
sat there an hour, until I was completely dry. Then I looked out:
it had stopped raining! I went out and walked up the hill and
began delivering mail again. I took my time and finished the
route. On the 12th swing I was walking in twilight. By the time
I returned to the station it was night.
The carrier's entrance was locked.
I beat on the tin door.
A little warm clerk appeared and opened the door.
"What the hell took you so long?" he screamed at me.
I walked over to the case and threw down the wet pouch full of
go-backs, miscased mail and pickup mail. Then I took off my key
and flipped it against the case. You were supposed to sign in and
16
out for your key. I didn't bother. He was standing there.
I looked at him.
"Kid, if you say one more word to me, if you so much as
sneeze, so help me God, I am going to kill you!"
The kid didn't say anything. I punched out.
The next morning I kept waiting for Jonstone to turn and say
something. He acted as if nothing had happened. The rain
stopped and all the regulars were no longer sick. The Stone sent
3 subs home without pay, one of them me. I almost loved him
then.
I went on in and got up against Betty's warm ass.
11
But then it began raining again. The Stone had me out on a
thing called Sunday Collection, and if you're thinking of church,
forget it. You picked up a truck at West Garage and a clipboard.
The clipboard told you what streets, what time you were to be
there, and how to get to the next pickup box. Like 2:32 p.m.,
Beecher and Avalon, L3 R2 (which meant left three blocks, right
two) 2:35 p.m., and you wondered how you could pick up one
box, then drive 5 blocks in 3 minutes and be finished cleaning out
another box. Sometimes it took you over 3 minutes to clean out a
Sunday box. And the boards weren't accurate. Sometimes they
counted an alley as a street and sometimes they counted a street
as an alley. You never knew where you were.
It was one of those continuous rains, not hard, but it never
stopped. The territory I was driving was new to me but at least
it was light enough to read the clipboard. But as it got darker it
was harder to read (by the dashboard light) or locate the pickup
boxes. Also the water was rising in the streets, and several times
I had stepped into water up to my ankles.
Then the dashboard light went out. I couldn't read the clipboard.
I had no idea where I was. Without the clipboard I was
like a man lost in the desert. But the luck wasn't all bad—yet. I
had two boxes of matches and before I made for each new pickup
box, I would light a match, memorize the directions and drive on.
For once, I had outwitted Adversity, that Jonstone up there in
the sky, looking down, watching me.
Then I took a corner, leaped out to unload the box and when I
got back the clipboard was GONE!
Jonstone in the Sky, have Mercy! I was lost in the dark and
the rain. Was I some kind of idiot, actually? Did I make things
happen to myself? It was possible. It was possible that I was
subnormal, that I was lucky just to be alive.
The clipboard had been wired to the dashboard. I figured it
must have flown out of the truck on the last sharp turn. I got out
of the truck with my pants rolled up around my knees and started
wading through a foot of water. It was dark. I'd never find the
god damned thing! I walked along, lighting matches—but nothing,
nothing. It had floated away. As I reached the corner I had
17
sense enough to notice which way the current was moving and
follow it. I saw an object floating along, lit a match, and there it
WAS! The clipboard. Impossible! I could have kissed the thing. I
waded back to the truck, got in, rolled my pantlegs down and
really wired that board to the dash. Of course, I was way behind
schedule by then but at least I'd found their dirty clipboard. I
wasn't lost in the backstreets of Nowhere. I wouldn't have to ring
a doorbell and ask somebody the way back to the post office
garage.
I could hear some fucker snarling from his warm frontroom:
"Well, well. You're a post office employee, aren't you? Don't
you know the way back to your own garage?"
So I drove along, lighting matches, leaping into whirlpools of
water and emptying collection boxes. I was tired and wet and
hungover, but I was usually that way and I waded through the
weariness like I did the water. I kept thinking of a hot bath,
Betty's fine legs, and—something to keep me going—a picture of
myself in an easychair, drink in hand, the dog walking up, me
patting his head.
But that was a long way off. The stops on the clipboard seemed
endless and when I reached the bottom it said "Over" and I
flipped the board and sure enough, there on the backside was
another list of stops.
With the last match I made the last stop, deposited my mail at
the station indicated, and it was a load, and then drove back
toward the West Garage. It was in the west end of town and in
the west the land was very flat, the drainage system couldn't
handle the water and anytime it rained any length of time at all,
they had what was called a "flood." The description was accurate.
Driving on in, the water rose higher and higher. I noticed
stalled and abandoned cars all around. Too bad. All I wanted was
to get in that chair with that glass of scotch in my hand and
watch Betty's ass wobble around the room. Then at a signal I
met Tom Moto, one of the other Jonstone subs.
"Which way you going in?" Moto asked.
"The shortest distance between 2 points, I was taught, is a
straight line," I answered him.
"You better not," he told me. "I know that area. It's an ocean
through there."
"Bullshit," I said, "all it takes is a little guts. Got a match?"
I lit up and left him at the signal.
Betty, baby, I'm coming!
Yeah.
The water got higher and higher but mail trucks are built
high off the ground. I took the shortcut through the residential
neighborhood, full speed, and water flew up all around me. It
continued to rain, hard. There weren't any cars around. I was
the only moving object.
Betty baby. Yeah.
Some guy standing on his front porch laughed at me and
18
yelled, "THE MAIL MUST GO THROUGH!"
I cursed him and gave him the finger.
I noticed that the water was rising above the floorboards,
whirling around my shoes, but I kept driving. Only 3 blocks
to go!
Then the truck stopped.
Oh. Oh. Shit.
I sat there and tried to kick it over. It started once, then
stalled. Then it wouldn't respond. I sat there looking at the
water. It must have been 2 feet deep. What was I supposed to do ?
Sit there until they sent a rescue squad?
What did the Postal Manual say? Where was it? I had never
known anybody who had seen one.
Balls.
I locked the truck, put the ignition keys in my pocket and
stepped into the water—nearly up to my waist—and began
wading toward West Garage. It was still raining. Suddenly the
water rose another 3 or 4 inches. I had been walking across a
lawn and had stepped off the curbing. The truck was parked on
somebody's front lawn.
For a moment I thought that swimming might be faster, then
I thought, no, that would look ridiculous. I made it to the garage
and walked up to the dispatcher. There I was, wet as wet could
get and he looked at me.
I threw him the truck keys and the ignition keys.
Then I wrote on a piece of paper: 3435 Mountview Place.
"Your truck's at this address. Go get it."
"You mean you left it out there?"
"I mean I left it out there."
I walked over, punched out, then stripped to my shorts and
stood in front of a heater. I hung my clothes over the heater.
Then I looked across the room and there by another heater stood
Tom Moto in his shorts.
We both laughed.
"It's hell, isn't it?" he asked.
"Unbelievable."
"Do you think The Stone planned it?"
"Hell yes! He even made it rain!"
"Did you get stalled out there?"
"Sure," I said.
"I did too."
"Listen, baby," I said, "my car is 12 years old. You've got a
new one. I'm sure I'm stalled out there. How about a push to get
me started?"
"O.K."
We got dressed and went out. Moto had bought a new model
car about 3 weeks before. I waited for his engine to start. Not a
sound. Oh Christ, I thought.
The rain was up to the floorboards.
Moto got out.
19
"No good. It's dead."
I tried mine without any hope. There was some action from
the battery, some spark, though feeble. I pumped the gas, hit it
again. It started up. I really let it roar. VICTORY! I warmed it
good. Then I backed up and began to push Moto's new car. I
pushed him for a mile. The thing wouldn't even fart. I pushed
him into a garage, left him there, and picking the highland and
the drier streets, made it back to Betty's ass.
12
The Stone's favorite carrier was Matthew Battles. Battles
never came in with a wrinkled shirt on. In fact, everything he
wore was new, looked new. The shoes, the shirts, the pants, the
cap. His shoes really shined and none of his clothing appeared
to have ever been laundered even once. Once a shirt or a pair of
pants became the least bit soiled he threw them away.
The Stone often said to us as Matthew walked by:
"Now, there goes a carrier!"
And The Stone meant it. His eyes damn near shimmered with
love.
And Matthew would stand at his case, erect and clean, scrubbed
and well-slept, shoes gleaming victoriously, and he would fan
those letters into the case with joy.
"You're a real carrier, Matthew!"
"Thank you, Mr. Jonstone!"
One 5 a.m. I walked in and sat down to wait behind The Stone.
He looked a bit slumped under that red shirt.
Moto was next to me. He told me: "They picked up Matthew
yesterday."
"Picked him up?"
"Yeah, for stealing from the mails. He'd been opening letters
for the Nekalayla Temple and taking money out. After 15 years
on the job."
"How'd they get him, how'd they find out?"
"The old ladies. The old ladies had been sending in letters to
Nekalayla filled with money and they weren't getting any thankyou
notes or response. Nekalayla told the P.O. and the P.O. put
the Eye on Matthew. They found him opening letters down at the
soak-box, taking money out."
"No shit?"
"No shit. They caught him in cold daylight."
I leaned back.
Nekalayla had built this large temple and painted it a sickening
green, I guess it reminded him of money, and he had an
office staff of 30 or 40 people who did nothing but open envelopes,
take out checks and money, record the amount, the sender, date
received and so on. Others were busy mailing out books and
pamphlets written by Nekalayla, and his photo was on the wall,
20
a large one of N. in priestly robes and beard, and a painting of
N., very large too, looked over the office, watching.
Nekalayla claimed he had once been walking through the
desert when he met Jesus Christ and Jesus Christ told him
everything. They sat on a rock together and J.C. laid it on him.
Now he was passing the secrets on to those who could afford it.
He also held a service every Sunday. His help, who were also his
followers, rang in and out on timeclocks.
Imagine Matthew Battles trying to outwit Nekalayla who had
met Christ in the desert!
"Has anybody said anything to The Stone?" I asked.
"Are you kidding?"
We sat an hour or so. A sub was assigned to Matthew's case.
The other subs were given other jobs. I sat alone behind The
Stone. Then I got up and walked to his desk.
"Mr. Jonstone?"
"Yes, Chinaski?"
"Where's Matthew today? Sick?"
The Stone's head dropped. He looked at the paper in his hand
and pretended to continue reading it. I walked back and sat
down.
At 7 a.m. The Stone turned:
"There's nothing for you today, Chinaski."
I stood up and walked to the doorway. I stood in the doorway.
"Good morning, Mr. Jonstone. Have a good day."
He didn't answer. I walked down to the liquor store and
bought a half pint of Grandad for my breakfast.
13
The voices of the people were the same, no matter where you
carried the mail you heard the same things over and over again.
"You're late, aren't you?"
"Where's the regular carrier?"
"Hello, Uncle Sam!"
"Mailman! Mailman! This doesn't go here!"
The streets were full of insane and dull people. Most of them
lived in nice houses and didn't seem to work, and you wondered
how they did it. There was one guy who wouldn't let you put the
mail in his box. He'd stand in the driveway and watch you coming
for 2 or 3 blocks and he'd stand there and hold his hand out.
I asked some of the others who had carried the route:
"What's wrong with that guy who stands there and holds his
hand out?"
"What guy who stands there and holds his hand out?" they
asked.
They all had the same voice too.
One day when I had the route, the man-who-holds-his-hand-out
was a half a block up the street. He was talking to a neighbor,
looked back at me more than a block away and knew he had
time to walk back and meet me. When he turned his back to me,
21
I began running. I don't believe I ever delivered mail that fast,
all stride and motion, never stopping or pausing, I was going to
kill him. I had the letter half in the slot of his box when he
turned and saw me.
"OH NO NO NO!" he screamed, "DON'T PUT IT IN THE
BOX!"
He ran down the street toward me. All I saw was the blur of
his feet. He must have run a hundred yards in 9.2.
I put the letter in his hand. I watched him open it, walk across
the porch, open the door and go into his house. What it meant
somebody else will have to tell me.
14
Again I was on a new route. The Stone always put me on hard
routes, but now and then, due to the circumstances of things, he
was forced to place me on one less murderous. Route 511 was
peeling off quite nicely, and there I was thinking about lunch
again, the lunch that never came.
It was an average residential neighborhood. No apartment
houses. Just house after house with well-kept lawns. But it was
a new route and I walked along wondering where the trap was.
Even the weather was nice.
By god, I thought, I'm going to make it! Lunch, and back in on
schedule! Life, at last, was bearable.
These people didn't even own dogs. Nobody stood outside waiting
for their mail. I hadn't heard a human voice in hours. Perhaps
I had reached my postal maturity, whatever that was. I
strolled along, efficient, almost dedicated.
I remembered one of the older carriers pointing to his heart
and telling me, "Chinaski, someday it will get you, it will get you
right here!"
"Heart attack?"
"Dedication to service. You'll see. You'll be proud of it."
"Balls!"
But the man had been sincere.
I thought about him as I walked along.
Then I had a registered letter with return attached.
I walked up and rang the doorbell. A little window opened in
the door. I couldn't see the face.
"Registered letter!"
"Stand back!" said a woman's voice. "Stand back so I can see
your face!"
Well, there it was, I thought, another nut.
"Look lady, you don't have to see my face. I'll just leave this
slip in the mailbox and you can pick your letter up at the station.
Bring proper identification."
I put the slip in the mailbox and began to walk off the porch.
The door opened and she ran out. She had on one of those seethrough
negligees and no brassiere. Just dark blue panties. Her
hair was uncombed and stuck out as if it were trying to run
22
away from her. There seemed to be some type of cream on her
face, most of it under the eyes. The skin on her body was white
as if it never saw sunlight and her face had an unhealthy look.
Her mouth hung open. She had on a touch of lipstick, and she
was built all the way . . .
I caught all this as she rushed at me. I was sliding the registered
letter back into the pouch.
She screamed, "Give me my letter!"
I said, "Lady, you'll have to . . ."
She grabbed the letter and ran to the door, opened it and ran
in.
God damn! You couldn't come back without either the registered
letter or a signature! You even had to sign in and out with
the things.
"HEY!"
I went after her and jammed my foot into the door just in
time.
"HEY. GOD DAMN YOU!"
"Go away! Go away! You are an evil man!"
"Look, lady! Try to understand! You've got to sign for that
letter! I can't let you have it that way! You are robbing the
United States mails!"
"Go away, evil man!"
I put all my weight against the door and pushed into the room.
It was dark in there. All the shades were down. All the shades in
the house were down.
"YOU HAVE NO RIGHT IN MY HOUSE! GET OUT!"
"And you have no right to rob the mails! Either give me the
letter back or sign for it. Then I'll leave."
"All right! All right! I'll sign."
I showed her where to sign and gave her a pen. I looked at her
breasts and the rest of her and I thought, what a shame she's
crazy, what a shame, what a shame.
She handed back the pen and her signature—it was just
scrawled. She opened the letter, began to read it as I turned to
leave.
Then she was in front of the door, arms spread across. The
letter was on the floor.
"Evil evil evil man! You came here to rape me!"
"Look lady, let me by."
"THERE IS EVIL WRITTEN ALL OVER YOUR FACE!"
"Don't you think I know that? Now let me out of here!"
With one hand I tried to push her aside. She clawed one side
of my face, good. I dropped my bag, my cap fell off, and as I held
a handkerchief to the blood she came up and raked the other side.
"YOU CUNT! WHAT THE HELL'S WRONG WITH YOU!"
"See there? See there? You're evil!"
She was right up against me. I grabbed her by the ass and
got my mouth on hers. Those breasts were against me, she was
all up against me. She pulled her head back, away from me—
"Rapist! Rapist! Evil rapist!"
23
I reached down with my mouth, got one of her tits, then
switched to the other.
"Rape! Rape! I'm being raped!"
She was right. I got her pants down, unzipped my fly, got it in,
then walked her backwards to the couch. We fell down on top
of it.
She lifted her legs high.
"RAPE!" she screamed.
I finished her off, zipped my fly, picked up my mail pouch and
walked out leaving her staring quietly at the ceiling . . .
I missed lunch but still couldn't make the schedule.
"You're 15 minutes late," said The Stone. I didn't say
anything.
The Stone looked at me. "God o mighty, what happened to
your face?" he asked.
"What happened to yours?" I asked him.
"Whadda you mean?" "Forget it."
15
I was hungover again, another heat spell was on—a week of
100 degree days. The drinking went on each night, and in the
early mornings and days there was The Stone and the impossibility
of everything.
Some of the boys wore African sun helmets and shades, but
me, I was about the same, rain or shine—ragged clothing, and
the shoes so old that the nails were always driving into my feet.
I put pieces of cardboard in the shoes. But it only helped temporarily—
soon the nails would be eating into my heels again.
The whiskey and beer ran put of me, fountained from the
armpits, and I drove along with this load on my back like a
cross, pulling out magazines, delivering thousands of letters,
staggering, welded to the side of the sun.
Some woman screamed at me:
"MAILMAN! MAILMAN! THIS DOESN'T GO HERE!"
I looked. She was a block back down the hill and I was already
behind schedule.
"Look, lady, put the letter outside your mailbox! We'll pick
it up tomorrow!"
"NO! NO! I WANT YOU TO TAKE IT NOW!"
She waved the thing around in the sky.
"Lady!"
"COME GET IT! IT DOESN'T BELONG HERE!"
Oh my god.
I dropped the sack. Then I took my cap and threw it on the
grass. It rolled out into the street. I left it and walked down
toward the woman. One half block.
24
I walked down and snatched the thing from her hand, turned,
walked back.
It was an advertisement! 4th class mail. Something about a
1/2 off clothing sale.
I picked my cap up out of the street, put it on my head. Put
the sack back onto the left side of my spine, started out again.
100 degrees.
I walked past one house and a woman ran out after me.
"Mailman! Mailman! Don't you have a letter for me ?"
"Lady, if I didn't put one in your box, that means you don't
have any mail."
"But I know you have a letter for me!"
"What makes you say that?"
"Because my sister phoned and said she was going to write
me."
"Lady, I don't have a letter for you."
"I know you have! I know you have! I know it's there!"
She started to reach for a handful of letters.
"DON'T TOUCH THE UNITED STATES MAILS, LADY!
THERE'S NOTHING FOR YOU TODAY!"
I turned and walked off.
"I KNOW YOU HAVE MY LETTER!"
Another woman stood on her porch.
"You're late today."
"Yes, mam."
"Where's the regular man today?"
"He's dying of cancer."
"Dying of cancer? Harold is dying of cancer?"
"That's right," I said.
I handed her mail to her.
"BILLS! BILLS! BILLS!" she screamed. "IS THAT ALL
YOU CAN BRING ME? THESE BILLS?"
"Yes, mam, that's all I can bring you."
I turned and walked on.
It wasn't my fault that they used telephones and gas and
light and bought all their things on credit. Yet when I brought
them their bills they screamed at me—as if 7 had asked them
to have a phone installed, or a $350 t.v. set sent over with no
money down.
The next stop was a small two storey dwelling, fairly new,
with ten or twelve units. The lock box was in the front, under a
porch roof. At last, a bit of shade. I put the key in the box and
opened it.
"HELLO UNCLE SAM! HOW ARE YOU TODAY?" He was
loud. I hadn't expected that man's voice behind me. He had
screamed at me, and being hungover I was nervous. I jumped in
shock. It was too much. I took the key out of the box and
turned. All I could see was a screen door. Somebody was back
in there. Air-conditioned and invisible.
"God damn you!" I said, "don't call me Uncle Sam! I'm not
Uncle Sam!"
25
"Oh you're one of those wise guys, eh? For 2 cents I'd come
out and whip your ass!"
I took my pouch and slammed it to the ground. Magazines
and letters flew everywhere. I would have to reroute the whole
swing. I took off my cap, and smashed it to the cement.
"COME OUT OF THERE, YOU SON OF A BITCH! OH,
GOD O MIGHTY, I BEG YOU! COME OUT OF THERE!
COME OUT, COME OUT OF THERE!"
I was ready to murder him.
Nobody came out. There wasn't a sound. I looked at the
screen door. Nothing. It was as if the apartment were empty.
For a moment I thought of going on in. Then I turned, got down
on my knees and began rerouting the letters and magazines. It's
a job without a case. Twenty minutes later I had the mail up.
I stuck some letters in the lock box, dropped the magazines on
the porch, locked the box, turned, looked at the screen door
again. Still not a sound.
I finished the route, walking along, thinking, well, he'll phone
and tell Jonstone that I threatened him. When I get in I better
be ready for the worst.
I swung the door open and there was The Stone at his desk,
reading something.
I stood there, looking down at him, waiting.
The Stone glanced up at me, then down at what he was
reading.
I kept standing there, waiting.
The Stone kept reading.
"Well," I finally said, "what about it?"
"What about what?" The Stone looked up.
"ABOUT THE PHONE CALL! TELL ME ALL ABOUT THE PHONE
CALL! DON'T JUST SIT THERE!"
"What phone call?"
"You didn't get a phone call about me?"
"A phone call? What happened? What have you been doing
out there? What did you do?"
"Nothing."
I walked over and checked my stuff in.
The guy hadn't phoned in. No grace on his part. He probably
thought I would come back if he phoned in.
I walked past The Stone on my way back to the case.
"What did you do out there, Chinaski?"
"Nothing."
My act so confused The Stone that he forgot to tell me I was
30 minutes late or write me up for it.
16
I was casing next to G.G. early one morning. That's what
they called him: G.G. His actual name was George Greene. But
26
for years he was simply called G.G. and after a while he looked
like G.G. He had been a carrier since his early twenties and
now he was in his late sixties. His voice was gone. He didn't
speak. He croaked. And when he croaked, he didn't say much.
He was neither liked nor disliked. He was just there. His face
had wrinkled into strange runs and mounds of unattractive flesh.
No light shone from his face. He was just a hard old crony who
had done his job: G.G. The eyes looked like dull bits of clay
dropped into the eye sockets. It was best if you didn't think about
him or look at him.
But G.G., having all that seniority had one of the easiest
routes, right out on the fringe of the rich district. In fact, you
might call it the rich district. Although the houses were old,
they were large, most of them two stories high. Wide lawns
mowed and kept green by Japanese gardeners. Some movie stars
lived there. A famous cartoonist. A best-selling writer. Two
former governors. Nobody ever spoke to you in that area. You
never saw anybody. The only time you saw anybody was at the
beginning of the route where there were less expensive homes,
and here the children bothered you. I mean, G.G. was a bachelor.
And he had this whistle. At the beginning of his route, he'd
stand tall and straight, take out the whistle, a large one, and
blow it, spit flying out in all directions. That was to let the
children know he was there. He had candy for the children. And
they'd come running out and he'd give them candy as he went
down the street. Good old G.G.
I'd found out about the candy the first time I got the route.
The Stone didn't like to give me a route that easy but sometimes
he couldn't help it. So I walked along and this young boy
came out and asked me,
"Hey, where's my candy?"
And I said, "What candy, kid?"
And the kid said, "My candy! I want my candy!"
"Look, kid," I said, "you must be crazy. Does your mother
just let you run around loose?"
The kid looked at me strangely.
But one day G.G. got into trouble. Good old G.G. He met this
new little girl in the neighborhood. And gave her some candy.
And said, "My, you're a pretty little girl! I'd like to have you for
my own little girl!"
The mother had been listening at the window and she ran out
screaming, accusing G.G. of child molestation. She hadn't known
about G.G., so when she saw him give the girl candy and make
that statement, it was too much for her.
Good old G.G. Accused of child molestation.
I came in and heard The Stone on the phone, trying to explain
to the mother that G.G. was an honorable man. G.G. just sat
in front of his case, transfixed.
When The Stone was finished and had hung up, I told him:
27
"You shouldn't suck up to that woman. She's got a dirty mind.
Half the mothers in America, with their precious big pussies
and their precious little daughters, half the mothers in America
have dirty minds. Tell her to shove it. G.G. can't get his pecker
hard, you know that."
The Stone shook his head. "No, the public's dynamite! They're
dynamite!"
That's all he could say. I had seen The Stone before—posturing
and begging and explaining to every nut who phoned in about
anything . . .
I was casing next to G.G. on route 501, which was not too
bad. I had to fight to get the mail up but it was possible, and that
gave one hope.
Although G.G. knew his case upsidedown, his hands were
slowing. He had simply stuck too many letters in his life—even
his sense-deadened body was finally revolting. Several times
during the morning I saw him falter. He'd stop and sway, go into
a trance, then snap out of it and stick some more letters. I wasn't
particularly fond of the man. His life hadn't been a brave one,
and he had turned out to be a hunk of shit more or less. But
each time he faltered, something tugged at me. It was like a
faithful horse who just couldn't go anymore. Or an old car, just
giving it up one morning.
The mail was heavy and as I watched G.G. I got death-chills.
For the first time in over 40 years he might miss the morning
dispatch! For a man as proud of his job and his work as G.G.,
that could be a tragedy. I had missed plenty of morning dispatches,
and had to take the sacks out to the boxes in my car,
but my attitude was a bit different.
He faltered again.
God o mighty, I thought, doesn't anybody notice but me?
I looked around, nobody was concerned. They all professed,
at one time or another, to be fond of him—"G.G.'s a good
guy." But the "good old guy" was sinking and nobody cared.
Finally I had less mail in front of me than G.G.
Maybe I can help him get his magazines up, I thought. But
a clerk came along and dropped more mail in front of me and I
was almost back with G.G. It was going to be close for both of
us. I faltered for a moment, then clenched my teeth together,
spread my legs, dug in like a guy who had just taken a hard
punch, and winged the mass of letters in.
Two minutes before pull-down time, both G.G. and I had gotten
our mail up, our mags routed and sacked, our airmail in.
We were both going to make it. I had worried for nothing. Then
The Stone came up. He carried two bundles of circulars. He
gave one bundle to G.G. and the other to me.
"These must be worked in," he said, then walked off.
The Stone knew that we couldn't work those circs in and pulldown
in time to meet the dispatch. I wearily cut the strings
28
around the circs and started to case them in. G.G. just sat there
and stared at his bundle of circs.
Then he put his head down, put his head down in his arms
and began to cry softly.
I couldn't believe it.
I looked around.
The other carriers weren't looking at G.G. They were pulling
down their letters, strapping them out, talking and laughing
with each other.
"Hey," I said a couple of times, "hey!"
But they wouldn't look at G.G.
I walked over to G.G. Touched him on the arm: "G.G., "I
said, "what can I do for you?"
He jumped up from his case, ran up the stairway to the
men's locker room. I watched him go. Nobody seemed to notice.
I stuck a few more letters, then ran up the stairs myself.
There he was, head down in his arms on one of the tables.
Only he wasn't quietly crying now. He was sobbing and wailing.
His whole body shook in spasms. He wouldn't stop.
I ran down the steps, past all the carriers, and up to The
Stone's desk.
"Hey, hey, Stone! Jesus Christ, Stone!"
"What is it?" he asked.
"G.G. has flipped out! Nobody cares! He's upstairs crying!
He needs help!"
"Who's manning his route?"
"Who gives a damn? I tell you, he's sick! He needs help!"
"I gotta get somebody to man his route!"
The Stone got up from his desk, circled around looking at
his carriers as if there might be an extra one somewhere. Then
he hustled back to his desk.
"Look, Stone, somebody's got to take that man home. Tell me
where he lives and I'll drive him home myself—off the clock.
Then I'll carry your damned route."
The Stone looked up:
"Who's manning your case?"
"Oh, God damn the case!"
"GO MAN YOUR CASE!"
Then he was talking to another supervisor on the phone:
"Hello, Eddie? Listen, I need a man out here . . . "
There'd be no candy for the kids that day. I walked back.
All the other carriers were gone. I began sticking in the circulars.
Over on G.G.'s case was his tie-up of unstuck circs. I was
behind schedule again. Without a dispatch. When I came in late
that afternoon, The Stone wrote me up.
I never saw G.G. again. Nobody knew what happened to him.
Nor did anybody ever mention him again. The "good guy." The
dedicated man. Knifed across the throat over a handful of circs
from a local market—with its special: a free box of a brand
name laundry soap, with the coupon, and any purchase over $3.
29
17
After 3 years I made "regular." That meant holiday pay (subs
didn't get paid for holidays) and a 40 hour week with 2 days
off. The Stone was also forced to assign me as relief man to 5
different routes. That's all I had to carry—5 different routes,
in time, I would learn the cases well plus the shortcuts and traps
on each route. Each day would be easier. I could begin to cultivate
that comfortable look.
Somehow, I was not too happy. I was not a man to deliberately
seek pain, the job was still difficult enough, but somehow
it lacked the old glamour of my sub days—the not-knowingwhat-
the-hell was going to happen next.
A few of the regulars came around and shook my hand.
"Congratulations," they said.
"Yeh," I said.
Congratulations for what? I hadn't done anything. Now I
was a member of the club. I was one of the boys. I could be
there for years, eventually bid for my own route. Get Xmas
presents from my people. And when I phoned in sick, they would
say to some poor bastard sub, "Where's the regular man today?
You're late. The regular man is never late."
So there I was. Then a bulletin came out that no caps or
equipment were to be placed on top of the carrier's case. Most
of the boys put their caps up there. It didn't hurt anything and
saved a trip to the locker room. Now after 3 years of putting
my cap up there I was ordered not to do so.
Well, I was still coming in hungover and I didn't have things
like caps on my mind. So my cap was up there, the day after
the order came out.
The Stone came running with his write-up. It said that it
was against rules and regulations to have any equipment on top
of the case. I put the write-up in my pocket and went on sticking
letters. The Stone sat swiveled in his chair, watching me.
All the other carriers had put their caps in their lockers. Except
me and one other—one Marty. And The Stone had gone up
to Marty and said, "Now, Marty, you read the order. Your cap
isn't supposed to be on top of the case."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. Habit, you know. Sorry." Marty took
his cap off the case and ran upstairs to his locker with it.
The next morning I forgot again. The Stone came with his
write-up.
It said that it was against rules and regulations to have any
equipment on top of the case.
I put the write-up in my pocket and went on sticking letters.
The next morning, as I walked in, I could see The Stone
watching me. He was very deliberate about watching me. He
was waiting to see what I would do with the cap. I let him wait
30
awhile. Then I took the cap off my head and placed it on top
of the case.
The Stone ran up with his write-up.
I didn't read it. I threw it in the wastebasket, left my cap
up there and went on sticking mail.
I could hear The Stone at his typewriter. There was anger
in the sound of the keys.
I wondered how he managed to learn how to type? I thought.
He came again. Handed me a 2nd write-up.
I looked at him.
"I don't have to read it. I know what it says. It says that I
didn't read the first write-up."
I threw the 2nd write-up in the wastebasket.
The Stone ran back to his typewriter.
He handed me a 3rd write-up.
"Look," I said, "I know what all these things say. The first
write-up was for having my cap on top of the case. The 2nd
was for not reading the first. This 3rd one is for not reading
the first or 2nd write-ups."
I looked at him, and then dropped the write-up into the wastebasket
without reading it.
"Now I can throw these away as fast as you can type them.
It can go on for hours, and soon one of us is going to begin
looking ridiculous. It's up to you."
The Stone went back to his chair and sat down. He didn't
type anymore. He just sat looking at me.
I didn't go in the next day. I slept until noon. I didn't phone.
Then I went down to the Federal Building. I told them my
mission. They put me in front of the desk of a thin old woman.
Her hair was grey and she had a very thin neck that suddenly
bent in the middle. It pushed her head forward and she looked
up over the top of her glasses at me.
"Yes?"
"I want to resign."
"To resign?"
"Yes, resign."
"And you're a regular carrier?"
"Yes," I said.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk," she went, making this sound
with her dry lips.
She gave me the proper papers and I sat there filling them
out.
"How long have you been with the post office?"
"Three and one half years."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk," she went, "tsk, tsk,
tsk, tsk."
And so there it was. I drove home to Betty and we uncapped
the bottle.
31
Little did I know that in a couple of years I would be back
as a clerk and that I would clerk, all hunched-up on a stool,
for nearly 12 years.
32
II
1
Meanwhile, things went on. I had a long run of luck at the
racetrack. I began to feel confident out there. You went for a
certain profit each day, somewhere between 15 and 40 bucks.
You didn't ask too much. If you didn't hit early, you bet a little
more, enough so that if the horse came in, you had your profit
margin. I kept coming back, day after day, winners, giving
Betty the thumb-up as I drove in the driveway.
Then Betty got a job as a typist, and when one of those
shack-jobs gets a job, you notice the difference right away.
We kept drinking each night and she left before I did in the
morning, all hungover. Now she'd know what it was like. I
got up around 10:30 a.m., had a leisurely cup of coffee and a
couple of eggs, played with the dog, flirted with the young wife
of a mechanic who lived in the back, got friendly with a stripteaser
who lived in the front. I'd be at the track by one p.m.,
then back with my profit, and out with the dog at the bus stop
to wait for Betty to come home. It was a good life.
Then, one night, Betty, my love, let me have it, over the first
drink:
"Hank, I can't stand it!"
"You can't stand what, baby?"
"The situation."
"What situation, babe?"
"Me working and you laying around. All the neighbors think
I am supporting you."
"Hell, I worked and you laid around."
"That's different. You're a man, I'm a woman."
"Oh, I didn't know that. I thought you bitches were always
screaming for equal rights?"
"I know what's going on with little butterball in back, walking
around in front of you with her tits hanging out.. ."
33
"Her tits hanging out?"
"Yes, her TITS! Those big white cow-tits!"
"Hmm ... They are big at that."
"There! You see!"
"Now what the hell?"
"I've got friends around here. They see what's going on!"
"These aren't friends. Those are just mealy-mouthed gossips."
"And that whore up front who poses as a dancer."
"She's a whore?"
"She'll screw anything with a cock."
"You've gone crazy."
"I just don't want all these people thinking I am supporting
you. All the neighbors ..."
"God damn the neighbors! What do we care what they think ?
We never did before. Besides, I'm paying the rent. I'm buying
the food! I'm making it at the track. Your money is yours. You
never had it so good."
"No, Hank, it's over. I can't stand it!"
I got up and walked over to her.
"Now, come on, baby, you're just a little upset tonight,"
I tried to grab her. She pushed me away.
"All right, god damn it!" I said.
I walked back to my chair, finished my drink, had another.
"It's over," she said, "I'm not sleeping with you another night."
"All right. Keep your pussy. It's not that great."
"Do you want to keep the house or do you want to move out?"
she asked.
"You keep the house."
"How about the dog?"
"You keep the dog," I said.
"He's going to miss you."
"I'm glad somebody is going to miss me."
I got up, walked to the car and I rented the first place I saw
with a sign. I moved in that night.
I had just lost 3 women and a dog.
2
The next thing I knew, I had a young girl from Texas on my
lap. I won't go into details of how I met her. Anyway, there it
was. She was 23. I was 36.
She had long blonde hair and was good solid meat. I didn't
know, at the time, that she also had plenty of money. She didn't
drink but I did. We laughed a lot at first. And went to the racetrack
together. She was a looker, and everytime I got back to my
seat there would be some jerkoff sliding closer and closer to her.
There were dozens of them. They just kept moving closer and
closer. Joyce would just sit. I had to handle them all one of two
ways. Either take Joyce and move off or tell the guy:
"Look, buddy, this one's taken! Now move off!"
But fighting the wolves and the horses at the same time was
34
too much for me. I kept losing. A pro goes to the track alone.
I knew that. But I thought maybe I was exceptional. I found
out that I wasn't exceptional at all. I could lose my money as fast
as anybody.
Then Joyce demanded that we get married.
What the hell? I thought, I'm cooked anyhow.
I drove her to Vegas for a cheap wedding, then drove her
right back.
I sold the car for ten dollars and the next thing I knew we were
on a bus to Texas and when we landed I had 75 cents in my
pocket. It was a very small town, the population, I believe, was
under 2,000. The town had been picked by experts, in a national
article, as the last town in the USA any enemy would attack
with an atomic bomb. I could see why.
All this time, without knowing it, I was working my way back
toward the post office. That mother.
Joyce had a little house in town and we laid around and
screwed and ate. She fed me well, fattened me up and weakened
me at the same time. She couldn't get enough. Joyce, my wife,
was a nymph.
I took little walks through the town, alone, to get away from
her, teethmarks all over my chest, neck and shoulders, and somewhere
else that worried me more and was quite painful. She
was eating me alive.
I limped through the town and they stared at me, knowing
about Joyce, her sex drive, and also that her father and grandfather
had more money, land, lakes, hunting preserves than all
of them. They pitied and hated me at the same time.
A midget was sent to get me out of bed one morning and he
drove me all over, pointing out this and that, Mr. so and so,
Joyce's father owns that, and Mr. so and so, Joyce's grandfather
owns that...
We drove all morning. Somebody was trying to scare me. I
was bored. I sat in the back seat and the midget thought I was an
operator, that I had worked my way into millions. He didn't
know it was an accident, and that I was an ex-mail carrier with
75 cents in my pocket.
The midget, poor fellow, had a nervous disease and drove
very fast, and every so often he'd shake all over and lose
control of the car. It went from one side of the road to the other
and once scraped along a fence for 100 yards before the midget
got control of himself.
"HEY! EASY THERE, BUSTER!" I yelled at him from the
back seat.
That was it. They were trying to knock me off. It was obvious.
The midget was married to a very beautiful girl. When she was
in her teens she got a coke bottle trapped in her pussy and had
to go to a doctor to get it out, and, like in all small towns, the
word got around about the coke bottle, the poor girl was shunned,
and the midget was the only taker. He'd ended up with the
35
best piece of ass in town.
I lit up a cigar Joyce had given me and I told the midget,
"That'll be all, buster. Now see that I get back. And drive
slowly. I don't want to blow this game now."
I played the operator to please him.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Chinaski. Yes, sir!"
He admired me. He thought I was a son of a bitch.
When I got in, Joyce asked, "Well, did you see everything?"
"I saw enough," I said. Meaning, that they were trying to
knock me off. I didn't know if Joyce was in on it or not.
Then she started peeling my clothes off and pushing me toward
the bed.
"Now wait a minute, baby! We've already gone twice and it's
not even 2 p.m. yet!"
She just giggled and kept on pushing.
3
Her father really hated me. He thought I was after his money.
I didn't want his god damned money. And I didn't even want
his god damned precious daughter.
The only time I ever saw him was when he walked into the
bedroom one morning about 10 a.m. Joyce and I were in bed,
resting up. Luckily we had just finished.
I peered at him from under the edge of the cover. Then I
couldn't help myself. I smiled at him and gave him a big wink.
He ran out of the house growling and cursing.
If I could be removed, he'd certainly see to it.
Cramps was cooler. We'd go to his place and I'd drink whiskey
with him and listen to his cowboy records. His old lady was
simply indifferent. She neither liked or hated me. She fought
with Joyce a lot and I sided with the old lady once or twice.
That kind of won her over. But gramps was cool. I think he was
in on the conspiracy.
We had been at this cafe and eaten, with everybody fawning
over us and staring. There was gramps, grandma, Joyce, and I.
Then we got in the car and drove along.
"Ever seen any buffalo, Hank?" gramps asked me.
"No, Wally, I haven't."
I called him "Wally." Old whiskey buddies. Like hell.
"We have them here."
"I thought they were just about extinct?"
"Oh, no, we got dozens of 'em."
"I don't believe it."
"Show him, Daddy Wally," said Joyce.
Silly bitch. She called him "Daddy Wally." He wasn't her
daddy.
"All right."
We drove on a way until we came to this empty fenced-in field.
The ground sloped and you couldn't see the other end of the field.
36
It was miles long and wide. There was nothing but short green
grass.
"I don't see any buffalo," I said.
"The wind's right," said Wally. "Just climb in there and walk
a ways. You've got to walk a ways to see them."
There was nothing in field. They thought they were being very
funny, conning a city-slicker. I climbed the fence and walked
on in.
"Well, where are the buffalo?" 1 called back.
"They're there. Go on in."
Oh hell, they were going to play the old drive-away joke.
Damned farmers. They'd wait until I got in there and then drive
off laughing. Well, let them. I could walk back. It'd give me a
rest from Joyce.
I walked very quickly into the field, waiting for them to drive
off. I didn't hear them leaving. I walked further in, then turned,
cupped my hands and yelled back at them: "WELL, WHERE'S
THE BUFFALO?"
My answer came from behind me. I could hear their feet on
the ground. There were 3 of them, big ones, just like in the
movies, and they were running, they were coming FAST! One
had a bit of a lead on the others. There was little doubt who they
were headed for.
"Oh shit!" I said.
I turned and began running. That fence looked a long way
away. It looked impossible. I couldn't spare the time to look back.
That might make the difference. I was flying, wide-eyed. I really
moved! But they gained steadily! I could feel the ground shaking
around me as they beat up the earth getting right down on me.
I could hear them slobbering, I could hear them breathing. With
the last of my strength I dug in and leaped the fence. I didn't
climb it. I sailed over it. And landed on my back in a ditch with
one of those things poking his head over the fence and looking
down at me.
In the car, they were all laughing. They thought it was the
funniest thing they had ever seen. Joyce was laughing louder
than any of them.
The stupid beasts circled, then loped off.
I got out of the ditch and climbed in the car.
"I've seen the buffalo," I said, "now let's go catch a drink."
They laughed all the way in. They'd stop and then somebody
would start and then they all would start. Wally had to stop the
car once. He couldn't drive anymore. He opened the door and
rolled out on the ground and laughed. Even grandma was getting
hers, along with Joyce.
Later the story got around in town and there was a bit of
swagger missing from my walk. I needed a haircut. I told Joyce.
She said, "Go to a barbershop."
And I said, "I can't. It's the buffalo."
"Are you afraid of those men in the barbershop ?"
"It's the buffalo," I said.
37
Joyce cut my hair. She
did a terrible job.
4
Then Joyce wanted to go back to the city. For all the drawbacks,
that little town, haircuts or not, beat city life. It was
quiet. We had our own house. Joyce fed me well.) Plenty of meat.
Rich, good, well-cooked meat. I'll say one thing for that bitch.
She could cook. She could cook better than any woman I had ever
known. Food is good for the nerves and the spirit. Courage
comes from the belly—all else is desperation.
But no, she wanted to go. Granny was always climbing her
and she was pissed. Me, I rather enjoyed playing the villain. I
had made her cousin, the town bully, back down. It had never
been done before. On blue jean day everybody in town was supposed
to wear blue jeans or get thrown in the lake. I put on my
only suit and necktie and slowly, like Billy the Kid, with all eyes
on me, I walked slowly through the town, looking in windows,
stopping for cigars. I broke that town in half like a wooden
match.
Later, I met the town doctor in the street. I liked him. He was
always high on drugs. I was not a drug man, but in case I had
to hide from myself for a few days, I knew I could get anything
I wanted from him.
"We've got to leave," I told him.
"You ought to stay here," he said, "it's a good life. Plenty of
hunting and fishing. The air's good. And no pressure. You own
this town," he said.
"I know, doc, but she wears the pants."
5
So gramps wrote Joyce a big check and there we were. We
rented a little house up on a hill, and then Joyce got this stupid
moralistic thing.
"We both ought to get jobs," Joyce said, "to prove to them
that you are not after their money. To prove to them that we
are self-sufficient."
"Baby, that's grammar school. Any damn fool can beg up
some kind of job; it takes a wise man to make it without working.
Out here we call it 'hustling.' I'd like to be a good hustler."
She didn't want it.
Then I explained that a man couldn't find a job unless he had
a car to drive around in. Joyce got on the phone and gramps
sent the money on in. Next thing I knew I was sitting in a new
Plymouth. She sent me out on the streets dressed in a fine new
suit, 40 dollar shoes, and I thought, what the hell, I'll try to
stretch it out. Shipping clerk, that's what I was. When you
didn't know how to do anything that's what you become—a
38
shipping clerk, receiving clerk, stock boy. I checked two ads,
went to two places and both of the places hired me. The first
place smelled like work, so I took the second.
So there I was with my gummed tape machine working in an
art store. It was easy. There was only an hour or two of work
a day. I listened to the radio, built a little office out of plywood,
put an old desk in there, the telephone, and I sat around reading
the Racing Form. I'd get bored sometimes and walk down the
alley to the coffee shop and sit in there, drinking coffee, eating
pie and flirting with the waitresses.
The truck drivers would come in:
"Where's Chinaski?"
"He's down at the coffeeshop."
They'd come down there, have a coffee, and then we'd walk up
the alley and do our bit, take a few cartons off the truck or throw
them on. Something about a bill of lading.
They wouldn't fire me. Even the salesmen liked me. They were
robbing the boss out the back door but I didn't say anything.
That was their little game. It didn't interest me. I wasn't much
of a petty thief. I wanted the whole world or nothing.
6
There was death in that place on the hill. I knew it the first
day I walked out the screen door and into the backyard. A zinging
binging buzzing whining sound came right at me: 10,000
flies rose straight up into the air at once. All the backyards had
these flies—there was this tall green grass and they nested in it,
they loved it.
Oh Jesus Christ, I thought, and not a spider within 5 miles!
As I stood there, the 10,000 flies began to come back down out
of the sky, settling down in the grass, along the fence, the
ground, in my hair, on my arms, everywhere. One of the bolder
ones bit me.
I cursed, ran out and bought the biggest fly sprayer you ever
saw. I fought them for hours, raging we were, the flies and I,
and hours later, coughing and sick from breathing the fly killer,
I looked around and there were as many flies as ever. I think for
each one I killed they got down in the grass and bred two. I gave
it up.
The bedroom had this room-break encircling the bed. There
were pots and the pots had geraniums in them. When I went to
bed with Joyce the first time and we worked out, I noticed the
boards begin to wave and shake.
Then plop.
"Oh oh!" I said.
"What's the matter now?" asked Joyce. "Don't stop! Don't
stop!"
"Baby, a pot of geraniums just fell on my ass."
"Don't stop! Go ahead!"
"All right, all right!"
39
I stoked up again, was going fairly well, then—
"Oh, shit!"
"What is it? What is it?"
"Another pot of geraniums, baby, hit me in the small of the
back, rolled down my back to my ass, then dropped off."
"God damn the geraniums! Go ahead! Go ahead!"
"Oh, all right . . ."
All through the workout these pots kept falling down on me.
It was like trying to screw during an aerial attack. I finally
made it.
Later I said, "Look, baby, we've got to do something about
those geraniums."
"No, you leave them there!"
"Why, baby, why?"
"It adds to it."
"It adds to it?"
"Yes."
She just giggled. But the pots stayed up there. Most of the
time.
7
Then I started coming home unhappy.
"What's the matter, Hank?"
I had to get drunk every night.
"It's the manager, Freddy. He has started whistling this song.
He's whistling it when I come in in the morning and he never
stops, and he's whistling it when I go home at night. It's been
going on for two weeks!"
"What's the name of the song?"
"Around The World In Eighty Days. I never did like that
song."
"Well, get another job."
"I will."
"But keep working there until you find another job. We've got
to prove to them that. . ."
"All right. All right!"
8
I met an old drunk on the street one afternoon. I used to know
him from the days with Betty when we made the rounds of the
bars. He told me that he was now a postal clerk and that there
was nothing to the job.
It was one of the biggest fattest lies of the century. I've been
looking for that guy for years but I'm afraid somebody else has
gotten to him first.
So there I was taking the civil service exam again. Only this
time I marked the paper "clerk" instead of "carrier."
By the time I got the notice to report for the swearing-in
ceremonies, Freddy had stopped whistling Around The World In
40
Eighty Days, but I was looking forward to that soft job with
"Uncle Sam."
I told Freddy, "I've got a little business to take care of, so I
may take an hour or an hour and a half for lunch."
"O.K., Hank."
Little did I know how long that lunch would be.
9
There was a gang of us down there. 150 or 200. There were
tedious papers to fill out. Then we all stood up and faced the flag.
The guy who swore us in was the same guy who had sworn me in
before.
After swearing us in, the guy told us:
"All right now, you've got a good job. Keep your nose clean
and you've got the security the rest of your life."
Security? You could get security in jail. 3 squares and no rent
to pay, no utilities, no income tax, no child support. No license
plate fees. No traffic tickets. No drunk driving raps. No losses
at the race track. Free medical attention. Comradeship with those
with similar interests. Church. Roundeye. Free burial.
Nearly 12 years later, out of these 150 or 200, there would
only be 2 of us left. Just like some guys can't taxi or pimp or
hustle dope, most guys, and gals too, can't be postal clerks. And
I don't blame them. As the years went by, I saw them continue
to march in in their squads of 150 or 200 and two, three, or four
remain out of each group—just enough to replace those who
were retiring.
10
The guide took us all over the building. There were so many
of us that they had to break us up into groups. We used the
elevator in shifts. We were shown the employee's cafeteria, the
basement, all those dull things.
God o mighty, I thought, I wish he'd hurry up. My lunch is
over two hours late now.
Then the guide handed us all timecards. He showed us the
timeclocks.
"Now here is how you punch in."
He showed us how. Then he said, "Now, you punch in."
Twelve and one half hours later we punched out. That was
one hell of a swearing-in ceremony.
11
After nine or ten hours people began getting sleepy and falling
into their cases, catching themselves just in time. We were working
the zoned mail. If a letter read zone 28 you stuck it to hole
no. 28. It was simple.
41
One big black guy leaped up and began swinging his arms to
keep awake. He staggered about the floor.
"God damn! I can't stand it!" he said.
And he was a big powerful brute. Using the same muscles
over and over again was quite tiring. I ached all over. And at the
end of the aisle stood a supervisor, another Stone, and he had
this look on his face—they must practice it in front of mirrors,
all the supervisors had this look on their faces—they looked at
you as if you were a hunk of human shit. Yet they had come in
through the same door. They had once been clerks or carriers. I
couldn't understand it. They were handpicked screws.
You had to keep one foot on the floor at all times. One notch up
on the rest-bar. What they called a "rest-bar" was a little round
cushion set up on a stilt. No talking allowed. Two 10 minute
breaks in 8 hours. They wrote down the time when you left and
the time when you came back. If you stayed 12 or 13 minutes,
you heard about it.
But the pay was better than at the art store. And, I thought,
I might get used to it.
I never got used to it.
12
Then the supervisor moved us to a new aisle. We had been
there ten hours.
"Before you begin," the soup said, "I want to tell you something.
Each tray of this type of mail must be stuck in 23 minutes.
That's the production schedule. Now, just for fun, let's see if
each of us can meet the production schedule! Now, one, two,
three . . . GO!"
What the hell is this? I thought. I'm tired.
Each tray was two feet long. But each tray held different
amounts of letters. Some trays had 2 or 3 times as much mail in
them as others, depending upon the size of the letters.
Arms started flying. Fear of failure.
I took my time.
"When you finish your first tray, grab another!"
They really worked at it. Then they jumped up and grabbed
another tray.
The supervisor walked up behind me. "Now," he said, pointing
at me, "this man is making production. He's halfway through
his second tray!"
It was my first tray. I didn't know if he were trying to con me
or not, but since I was that far ahead of them I slowed down a
little more.
13
At 3:30 a.m. my twelve hours were up. At that time they did
not pay the subs time and one half for overtime. You just got
42
straight time. And you hired in as a "temporary indefinite substitute
clerk."
I set the alarm so that I would be at the art store at 8 a.m.
"What happened, Hank? We thought maybe you had been in
an auto accident. We kept waiting for you to come back."
"I'm quitting."
"Quitting?"
"Yes, you can't blame a man for wanting to better himself."
I walked into the office and got my check. I was back in the
post office again.
14
Meanwhile, there was still Joyce, and her geraniums, and a
couple of million if I could hang on. Joyce and the flies and the
geraniums. I worked the night shift, 12 hours, and she pawed me
during the day, trying to get me to perform. I'd be asleep and I'd
awaken with this hand stroking me. Then I'd have to do it. The
poor dear was mad.
Then I came in one morning and she said, "Hank, don't be
mad."
I was too tired to be mad.
"What izzit, baby?"
"I got us a dog. A little pup dog."
"O.K. That's nice. There's nothing wrong with dogs. Where
is he?"
"He's in the kitchen. I named him 'Picasso.' "
I walked in and looked at the dog. He couldn't see. Hair covered
his eyes. I watched him walk. Then I picked him up and
looked at his eyes. Poor Picasso!
"Baby, you know what you've gone and done?"
"You don't like him?"
"I didn't say I didn't like him. But he's a subnormal. He has
an I.Q. of about 12. You've gone out and gotten us an idiot of a
dog." ,
"How can you tell?"
"I can tell just by looking at him."
Just then Picasso started to piss. Picasso was full of piss. It
ran in long yellow fat rivulets along the kitchen floor. Then
Picasso finished, ran and looked at it.
I picked him up.
"Mop it up."
So Picasso was just one more problem.
I'd awaken after a 12 hour night with Joyce strumming me
under the geraniums and I'd say, "Where's Picasso?"
"Oh god damn Picasso!" she'd say.
I'd get out of bed, naked, with this big thing in front of me.
"Look, you've left him out in the yard again! I told you not to
leave him out in the yard in the daytime!"
Then I'd go out into the backyard, naked, too tired to dress. It
was fairly well sheltered. And there would be poor Picasso, over-
43
run with 500 flies, flies crawling all over him in circles. I'd run
out with the thing (going down then) and curse those flies. They
were in his eyes, under the hair, in his ears, on his privates, in
his mouth . . . everywhere. And he'd just sit there and smile at
me. Laugh at me, while the flies ate him up. Maybe he knew
more than any of us. I'd pick him up and carry him into the
house.
"The little dog laughed To see such sport;
And the dish ran away with the spoon."
"God damn it, Joyce! I've told you and told you and told you."
"Well, you were the one who housebroke him. He's got to go
out there to crap!"
"Yes, but when he's through, bring him in. He doesn't have
sense enough to come in himself. And wash away the crap when
he's finished. You're creating a fly-paradise out there."
Then as soon as I fell asleep, Joyce would begin stroking me
again. That couple of million was a long time coming.
15
I was half asleep in a chair, waiting for a meal.
I got up for a glass of water and as I walked into the
kitchen I saw Picasso walk up to Joyce and lick her ankle. I was
barefooted and she didn't hear me. She had on high heels. She
looked at him and her face was pure smalltown hatred, white
hot. She kicked him hard in the side with the point of her shoe.
The poor fellow just ran in little circles, whimpering. Piss
dripped from his bladder. I walked in for my glass of water. I
held the glass in my hand and then before I could get the water
into it I threw the glass at the cupboard to the left of the sink.
Glass went everywhere. Joyce had time to cover her face. I
didn't bother. I picked up the dog and walked out. I sat in the
chair with him and petted the little shitsnot. He looked up at me
and his tongue came out and licked my wrist. His tail wagged
and flapped like a fish dying in a sack.
I saw Joyce on her knees with a paper sack, gathering glass.
Then she began to sob. She tried to hide it. She turned her back
to me but I could see the jolts of it, shaking her, tearing her.
I put Picasso down and walked into the kitchen.
"Baby. Baby, don't!"
I picked her up from behind. She was limp.
"Baby, I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry.
I held her up against me, my hand flat on her belly. I rubbed
her belly easily and gently, trying to stop the convulsions.
"Easy, baby, easy now. Easy . . ."
She quieted a little. I pulled her hair back and kissed her
behind the ear. It was warm back there. She jerked her head
away. The next time I kissed her there she didn't jerk her head
away. I could feel her inhale, then she let out a little moan. I
picked her up and carried her to the other room, sat down in a
44
chair with her in my lap. She wouldn't look at me. I kissed her
throat and ears. One hand around her shoulders and the other
above the hip. I moved the hand above her hip up and down with
her breathing, trying to work the bad electricity out.
Finally, with the faintest of smiles, she looked at me. I reached
out and bit the point of her chin.
"Crazy bitch!" I said.
She laughed and then we kissed, our heads moving back and
forth. She began to sob again.
I pulled back and said, "DON'T!"
We kissed again. Then I picked her up and carried her to the
bedroom, placed her on the bed, got my pants and shorts and
shoes off fast, pulled her pants down over her shoes, got one of
the shoes off, and then with one shoe off and one on, I gave her
the best ride in months. Every geranium plant shook off the
boards. When I finished, I nursed her back slowly, playing with
her long hair, telling her things. She purred. Finally she got up
and went to the bathroom.
She didn't come back. She went into the kitchen and began
washing dishes and singing.
For Christ's sake, Steve McQueen couldn't have done better.
I had two Picassos on my hands.
16
After dinner or lunch or whatever it was—with my crazy 12
hour night I was no longer sure what was what—I said, "Look,
baby, I'm sorry, but don't you realize that this job is driving me
crazy? Look, let's give it up. Let's just lay around and make love
and take walks and talk a little. Let's go to the zoo. Let's look at
animals. Let's drive down and look at the ocean. It's only 45
minutes. Let's play games in the arcades. Let's go to the races,
the Art Museum, the boxing matches. Let's have friends. Let's
laugh. This kind of life is like everybody else's kind of life: it's
killing us."
"No, Hank, we've got to show them, we've got to show
them . . ."
It was the little smalltown Texas girl speaking.
I gave it up.
17
Each night as I got ready to go on in, Joyce had my clothing
laid out on the bed. Everything was the most expensive money
could buy. I never wore the same pair of pants, the same shirt,
the same shoes two nights in a row. There were dozens of different
outfits. I put on whatever she laid out for me. Just like mama
used to do.
I haven't come very far, I thought, and then I'd put the stuff
on.
45
18
They had this thing called Training Class, and so for 30 minutes
each night, anyhow, we didn't have to stick mail.
A big Italiano got up on the lecture platform to tell us where it
was.
". . . now there's nothing like the smell of good clean sweat but
there's nothing worse than the smell of stale sweat . . ."
Good god, I thought, am I hearing right? This thing is government
sanctioned, surely. This big oaf is telling me to wash under the
armpits. They wouldn't do this to an engineer or a concert-master.
He's downgrading us.
". . . so take a bath everyday. You will be graded upon appearance
as well as production."
I think he wanted to use the word "hygienics" somewhere but it
simply wasn't in him.
Then he went to the back of the lecture platform and pulled
down a big map. And I mean big. It covered half the stage. A light
was shone upon the map. And the big Italiano took a pointer
with the little rubber nipple on the end of it like they used in
grammar school and he pointed to the map:
"Now, you see all this GREEN? Well, there's a hell of a lot of
it. Look!"
He took the pointer and rubbed it back and forth along the
green.
There was quite a bit more anti-Russian feeling then than
there is now. China had not yet begun to flex her muscles. Vietnam
was just a little firecracker party. But I still thought, I must be
crazy! I can't be hearing right? But nobody in the audience
protested. They needed jobs. And according to Joyce, I needed a
job.
Then he said, "Look here. That's Alaska! And there they are!
Looks almost as if they could jump across, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," said some brainwash job in the front row.
The Italiano flipped the map. It leaped crisply up into itself,
crackling in war fury.
Then he walked to the front of the stage, pointed his rubber-titted
pointer at us.
"I want you to understand that we've got to hold down the
budget! I want you to understand that EACH LETTER YOU
STICK—EACH SECOND, EACH MINUTE, EACH HOUR,
EACH DAY, EACH WEEK—EACH EXTRA LETTER YOU
STICK BEYOND DUTY HELPS DEFEAT THE RUSSIANS!
Now, that's all for today. Before you leave, each of you will
receive your scheme assignment."
Scheme assignment. What was that?
Somebody came along handing out these sheets.
"Chinaski?" he said.
"Yeh?"
"You have zone 9."
"Thank you," I said.
46
I didn't realize what I was saying. Zone 9 was the largest
station in the city. Some guys got tiny zones. It was the same as
the two foot tray in 23 minutes—they just rammed it into you.
19
The next night as they moved the group from the main building
to the training building, I stopped to talk to Gus the old
newsboy. Gus had once been 3rd-ranked welterweight contender
but he never got a look at the champ. He swung from the left
side, and, as you know, nobody ever likes to fight a lefty—you've
got to train your boy all over again. Why bother? Gus took me
inside and we had a little nip from his bottle. Then I tried to
catch the group.
The Italiano was waiting in the doorway. He saw me coming.
He met me halfway in the yard.
"Chinaski?"
"Yeh?"
"You're late."
I didn't say anything. We walked toward the building together.
"I've got half a mind to slap your wrist with a warning slip,"
he said.
"Oh, please don't do that, sir! Please don't!" I said as we
walked along.
"All right," he said, "I'll let you go this time."
"Thank you, sir," 1 said, and we walked in together.
Want to know something? The son of a bitch had body odor.
20
Our 30 minutes was now devoted to scheme training. They
gave us each a deck of cards to learn and stick into pur cases. To
pass the scheme you had to throw 100 cards in 8 minutes or less
with at least 95 per cent accuracy. You were given 3 chances to
pass, and if you failed the 3rd time, they let you go. I mean, you
were fired.
"Some of you won't make it," the Italiano said. "So maybe you
were meant for something else. Maybe you will end up President
of General Motors."
Then we were rid of Italiano and we had our nice little scheme
instructor who encouraged us.
"You can do it, fellows, it's not as hard as it looks."
Each group had its own scheme instructor and they were
graded too, upon the percentage of their group that passed. We
had the guy with the lowest percentage. He was worried.
"There's nothing to it, fellows, just put your minds to it."
Some of the fellows had thin decks. I had the fattest deck of
them all.
I just stood there in my fancy new clothes. Stood there with
my hands in my pockets.
47
"Chinaski, what's the matter?" the instructor asked. "I know
you can do it."
"Yeh. Yeh. I'm thinking right now."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
And then I walked away.
A week later I was still standing there with my hands in my
pockets and a sub walked up to me.
"Sir, I think that I am ready to throw my scheme now."
"Are you sure?" I asked him.
"I've been throwing 97, 98, 99 and a couple of 100's in my
practice schemes."
"You must understand that we spend a great deal of money
training you. We want you to have this thing down to the ace!"
"Sir, I truly believe that I am ready!"
"All right," I reached out and shook his hand, "go to it then,
my boy, and the best of luck."
"Thank you, sir!"
He ran off towards the scheme room, a glass-enclosed fishbowl
they put you in to see if you could swim their waters. Poor fish.
What a comedown from being a small-town villain. I walked into
the practice room, took the rubber band off of the cards and
looked at them for the first time.
"Oh, shit!" I said.
A couple of the guys laughed. Then the scheme instructor said,
"Your 30 minutes are up. You will now return to the workfloor."
Which meant back to the 12 hours.
They couldn't keep enough help to get the mail out, so those
who did remain had to do it all. On the schedule board they had
us working two weeks straight but then we would get 4 days off.
That kept us going. 4 days rest. The last night before our 4 days
off, the intercom came on.
"ATTENTION! ALL SUBS IN GROUP 409! ..."
I was in group 409.
". . . YOUR FOUR OFF DAYS HAVE BEEN CANCELED. YOU ARE
SCHEDULED TO REPORT FOR WORK ON THESE 4 DAYS!"
21
Joyce found a job with the county, the county Police Department,
of all things. I was living with a cop! But at least it was
during the day, which gave me a little rest from those fondling
hands except—Joyce bought two parakeets, and the damn things
didn't talk, they just made these sounds all day.
Joyce and I met over breakfast and dinner—it was all very
brisk—nice that way. Though she still managed to rape me now
and then, it beat the other, except—the parakeets.
"Look, baby . . ."
"Now what is it?"
"All right, I've gotten used to the geraniums and the flies and
48
Picasso, but you've got to realize that I am working 12 hours a
night and studying a scheme on the side, and you molest my
remaining energy . . ."
"Molest?"
"All right. I'm not saying it right. I'm sorry."
"What do you mean, 'molest' ?"
"I said, forget it! Now look, it's the parakeets."
"So now it's the parakeets! Are they molesting you too?"
"Yes, they are."
"Who's on top?"
"Look, don't get funny. Don't get dirty. I'm trying to tell you
something."
"Now you're trying to tell me how to get!"
"All right! Shit! You're the one with the money! Are you
going to let me talk or not? Answer me, yes or no?"
"All right, little baby: yes."
"All right. Little baby says this: 'Mama! Mama! Those fucking
parakeets are driving me nuts!' "
"All right, tell mama how the parakeets are driving you nuts."
"Well, it's like this, mama, the things chatter all day, they
never stop, and I keep waiting for them to say something but
they never say anything and I can't sleep all day from listening
to the idiots!"
"All right, little baby. If they keep you awake, put them out."
"Put them out, mama?"
"Yes, put them out."
"All right, mama."
She gave me a kiss and then wiggled down the stairway on her
way to her cop job.
I got into bed and tried to sleep. How they chattered! Every
muscle in my body ached. If I lay on this side, if I lay on
that side, if I lay on my back, I ached. I found the easiest way
was on my stomach, but that grew tiresome. It took a good two
or three minutes to get from one position to another.
I tossed and turned, cursing, screaming a little, and laughing
a little too, at the ridiculousness of it. On they chattered. They
got to me. What did they know of pain in their little cage ? Eggheads
yakking! Just feathers; brains the size of a pinhead.
I managed to get out of bed, go into the kitchen, fill a cup with
water and then I walked up to the cage and threw the water all
over them.
"Motherfuckers!" I cursed them.
They looked out at me balefully from under their wet feathers.
They were silent! Nothing like the old water treatment. I had
borrowed a page from the headshrinkers.
Then the green one with the yellow breast reached down and
bit himself on the chest. Then he looked up and started chattering
to the red one with the green breast, and then they were going
again.
I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to them. Picasso
walked up and bit me on the ankle.
49
That did it. I took the cage outside. Picasso followed me.
10,000 flies rose straight up into the air. I put the cage on the
ground, opened the cage door and sat on the steps.
Both birds looked at that cage door. They couldn't
understand it and they could. I could feel their tiny minds
trying to function. They had their food and water right there,
but what was that open space?
The green one with the yellow breast went first. He leaped
down to the opening from his rung. He sat gripping the wire. He
looked around at the flies. He stood there 15 seconds, trying to
decide. Then something clicked in his little head. Or her little
head. He didn't fly. He shot straight up into the sky. Up, up, up,
up. Straight up! Straight as an arrow! Picasso and I sat there
and watched. The damn thing was gone.
Then it was the red one with the green breast's turn.
The red one was much more hesitant. He walked around in
the bottom of the cage, nervously. It was a hell of a decision.
Humans, birds, everything has to make these decisions. It
was a hard game.
So old red walked around thinking it over. Yellow sunlight.
Buzzing flies. Man and dog looking on. All that sky, all that
sky.
It was too much. Old red leaped to the wire. 3 seconds.
ZOOP!
The bird was gone.
Picasso and I picked up the empty cage and walked back into
the house.
I had a good sleep for the first time in weeks. I even forgot
to set the alarm. I was riding a white horse down Broadway,
New York City. I had just been elected mayor. I had this big
hard-on, and then somebody threw a hunk of mud at me . . .
and Joyce shook me.
"What happened to the birds?"
"Damn the birds! I am the mayor of New York I"
"I asked you about the birds! All I see is an empty cage!"
"Birds? Birds? What birds?"
"Wake up, damn you!"
"Hard day at the office dear? You seem snappish."
"Where ARE the BIRDS?"
"You said to put them out if they kept me awake."
"I meant to put them in the back porch or outside, you fool!"
"Fool?"
"Yes, you fool! Do you mean to say you let those birds out
of the cage? Do you mean to say you really let them out of
the cage?"
"Well, all I can say is, they are not locked in the bathroom,
they are not in the cupboard."
"They'll starve out there!"
"They can catch worms, eat berries, all that stuff."
"They can't, they can't. They don't know how! They'll die!"
50
"Let 'em learn or let 'em die," I said, and then I turned slowly
over and went back to sleep. Vaguely, I could hear her cooking
her dinner, dropping lids and spoons on the floor, cursing. But
Picasso was on the bed with me, Picasso was safe from her
sharp shoes. I put my hand out and he licked it and then I slept.
That is, I did for a while. Next thing I knew I was being
fondled. I looked up and she was staring into my eyes like a
madwoman. She was naked, her breasts dangling in my eyes.
Her hair tickling my nostrils. I thought of her millions, picked
her up, flipped her on her back and stuck it in.
22
She wasn't really a cop, she was a clerk-cop. And she started
coming in and telling me about a guy who wore a purple stick pin
and was a "real gentleman."
"Oh, he's so kind!"
I heard all about him each night.
"Well," I'd ask, "how was old Purple Stickpin tonight?"
"Oh," she said, "you know what happened ?"
"No, babe, that's why I'm asking."
"Oh, he's SUCH a gentleman!"
"All right. All right. What happened?"
"You know, he has suffered so much!"
"Of course."
"His wife died, you know."
"No, I didn't."
"Don't be so flip. I'm telling you, his wife died and it cost him
15 thousand dollars in medical and burial bills."
"All right. So?"
"I was walking down the hall. He was coming the other way.
We met. He looked at me, and with this Turkish accent he said,
'Ah, you are so beautiful!' And you know what he did?"
"No, babe, tell me. Tell me quick."
"He kissed me on the forehead, lightly, ever so lightly. And
then he walked on."
"I can tell you something about him, babe. He's seen too many
movies."
"How did you know?"
"Whatchamean?"
"He owns a drive-in theatre. He operates it after work each
night."
"That figures," I said.
"But he's such a gentleman!" she said.
"Look, babe, I don't want to hurt you, but—"
"But what?"
"Look, you're small-town. I've had over 50 jobs, maybe a hundred.
I've never stayed anywhere long. What I am trying to say
is, there is a certain game played in offices all over America. The
people are bored, they don't know what to do, so they play the
office-romance game. Most of the time it means nothing but the
51
passing of time. Sometimes they do manage to work off a screw
or two on the side. But even then, it is just an offhand past-time,
like bowling or t.v. or a New Year's eye party. You've got to
understand that it doesn't mean anything and then you won't
get hurt. Do you understand what I mean?"
"I think that Mr. Partisian is sincere."
"You're going to get stuck with that pin, babe, don't forget I
told you. Watch those slicks. They are as phony as a lead dime."
"He's not phony. He's a gentleman. He's a real gentleman. I
wish you were a gentleman."
I gave it up. I sat on the couch and took my scheme sheet and
tried to memorize Babcock Boulevard. Babcock broke: 14, 39, 51,
62. What the hell? Couldn't I remember that?
23
I finally, got a day off, and you know what I did? I got up
early before Joyce got back in and I went down to the market
to do a little shopping, and maybe I was crazy. I walked through
the market and instead of getting a nice red steak or even a bit
of frying chicken, you know what I did? I hit snake-eyes and
walked over to the Oriental section and began filling my basket
full of octopi, sea-spiders, snails, seaweed and so forth. The clerk
gave me a strange look and began ringing it up.
When Joyce came home that night, I had it all on the table,
ready. Cooked seaweed mixed with a dash of sea-spider, and piles
of little golden, fried-in-butter snails.
I took her into the kitchen and showed her the stuff on the
table.
"I've cooked this in your honor," I said, "in dedication of our
love."
"What the hell's that shit?" she asked.
"Snails."
"Snails?"
"Yes, don't you realize that for many centuries Orientals have
thrived upon this and the like? Let us honor them and honor
ourselves. It's fried in butter."
Joyce came in and sat down.
I started snapping snails into my mouth.
"God damn, they are good, baby! TRY ONE!"
Joyce reached down and forked one into her mouth while
looking at the others on her plate.
I jammed in a big mouthful of delicious seaweed.
"Good, huh, baby?"
She chewed the snail in her mouth.
"Fried in golden butter!"
I picked up a few with my hand, tossed them into my mouth.
"The centuries are on our side, babe. We can't go wrong!"
She finally swallowed hers. Then examined the others on her
plate.
"They all have tiny little assholes! It's horrible! Horrible!"
52
"What's horrible about assholes, baby?"
She held a napkin to her mouth. Got up and ran to the bathroom.
She began vomiting. I hollered in from the kitchen:
"WHAT'S WRONG WITH ASSHOLES, BABY? YOU'VE
GOT AN ASSHOLE, I'VE GOT AN ASSHOLE! YOU GO TO
THE STORE AND BUY A PORTERHOUSE STEAK, THAT
HAD AN ASSHOLE! ASSHOLES COVER THE EARTH! IN
A WAY TREES HAVE ASSHOLES BUT YOU CAN'T FIND
THEM, THEY JUST DROP THEIR LEAVES. YOUR ASSHOLE,
MY ASSHOLE, THE WORLD IS FULL OF BILLIONS
OF ASSHOLES. THE PRESIDENT HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE
CARWASH BOY HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE JUDGE AND THE
MURDERER HAVE ASSHOLES ... EVEN PURPLE STICKPIN
HAS AN ASSHOLE!"
"Oh stop it! STOP IT!"
She heaved again. Small town. I opened the bottle of sake and
had a drink.
24
It was about a week later around 7 a.m. I had lucked into
another day off and after a double workout, I was up against
Joyce's ass, her asshole, sleeping, verily sleeping, and then the
doorbell rang and I got out of bed and answered the thing.
There was a small man in a necktie. He jammed some papers
into my hand and ran away.
It was a summons, for divorce. There went my millions. But
I wasn't angry because I had never expected her millions anyhow.
I awakened Joyce.
"What?"
"Couldn't you have had me awakened at a more decent hour?"
I showed her the papers.
"I'm sorry, Hank."
"That's O.K. All you had to do was tell me. I would have agreed.
We just made love twice and laughed and had fun. I don't understand
it. And you knew all along. God damn if I can
understand a woman."
"Look, I filed when we had an argument. I thought, if I wait
until I cool off I'll never do it."
"O.K., babe, I admire an honest woman. Is it Purple Stickpin?"
"It's Purple Stickpin," she said.
I laughed. It was a rather sad laugh, I'll admit. But it came out.
"It's easy to second guess. But you're going to have trouble
with him. I wish you luck, babe. You know there's a lot of you
I've loved and it hasn't been entirely your money."
She began to cry into the pillow, on her stomach, shaking all
over. She was just a small town girl, spoiled and mixed-up. There
she shook, crying, nothing fake about it. It was terrible.
The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white
back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow
53
into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.
I got into bed, stroked her back, stroked her, stroked her,
calmed her—then she'd break down again:
"Oh Hank, I love you, I love you, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry
sorry so sorry!"
She was really on the rack.
After a while, I began to feel as if I were the one who was
divorcing her.
Then we knocked off a good one for old time's sake.
She got the place, the dog, the flies, the geraniums.
She even helped me pack. Folding my pants neatly into suitcases.
Packing in my shorts and razor. When I was ready to
leave she started crying again. I bit her on the ear, the right
one, then went down the stairway with my stuff. I got into the
car and began cruising up and down the streets looking for a
For Rent sign.
It didn't seem to be an unusual thing to do.
54
III
1
I didn't contest the divorce, didn't go to court. Joyce gave me
the car. She didn't drive. All I had lost was 3 or 4 million. But I
still had the post office.
I met Betty on the street.
"I saw you with that bitch a while back. She's not your kind
of woman."
"None of them are."
I told her it was over. We went for a beer. Betty had gotten
old, fast. Heavier. The lines had come in. Flesh hung under the
throat. It was sad. But I had gotten old too.
Betty had lost her job. The dog had been run over and killed.
She got a job as a waitress, then lost that when they tore down
the cafe to erect an office building. Now she lived in a small
room in a loser's hotel. She changed the sheets there and cleaned
the bathrooms. She was on wine. She suggested that we might
get together again. I suggested that we might wait awhile. I
was just getting over a bad one.
She went back to her room and put on her best dress, high
heels, tried to fix up. But there was a terrible sadness about her.
We got a fifth of whiskey and some beer, went up to my place
on the 4th floor of an old apartment house. I picked up the
phone and called in sick. I sat across from Betty. She crossed her
legs, kicked her heels, laughed a little. It was like old times.
Almost. Something was missing.
At that time, when you called in sick the post office sent
out a nurse to spot check, to make sure you weren't night-clubbing
or sitting in a poker parlor. My place was close to the
central office, so it was convenient for them to check up on me.
Betty and I had been there about two hours when there was a
knock on the door.
"What's that?"
55
"All right," I whispered, "shut up! Take off those high heels,
go into the kitchen and don't make a sound."
"JUST A MOMENT!" I answered the knocker.
I lit a cigarette to kill my breath, then went to the door and
opened it a notch. It was the nurse. The same one. She knew me.
"Now what's your trouble?" she asked.
I blew out a little roll of smoke.
"Upset stomach."
"Are you sure?"
"It's my stomach."
"Will you sign this form to show that I called here and that
you were at home?"
"Surely."
The nurse slipped the form in sideways. I signed it. Slipped
it back out.
"Will you be in to work tomorrow?"
"I have no way of knowing. If I'm well, I'll come in. If not,
I'll stay out."
She gave me a dirty look and walked off. I knew she had
smelled whiskey on my breath. Proof enough ? Probably not, too
many technicalities, or maybe she was laughing as she got into
her car with her little black bag.
"All right," I said, "get on your shoes and come on out."
"Who was it?"
"A post office nurse."
"Is she gone?"
"Yeh."
"Do they do that all the time?"
"They haven't missed yet. Now let's each have a good tall
drink to celebrate!"
I walked into the kitchen and poured 2 good ones. I came out
and handed Betty her drink.
"Salud!" I said.
We raised our glasses high, clicked them.
Then the alarm clock went off and it was a loud one.
I jerked as if I had been shot in the back. Betty leaped a foot
into the air, straight up. I ran over to the clock and shut off the
alarm.
"Jesus," she said, "I almost shit myself!"
We both started laughing. Then we sat down. Had the good
drink.
"I had a boyfriend who worked for the county," she said.
"They used to send out an inspector, a guy, but not everytime,
maybe one time in 5. So this night I am drinking with Harry—
that was his name: Harry. This night I am drinking with Harry
and there's a knock on the door. Harry's sitting on the couch
with all his clothes on. 'Oh Jesus Christ!' he says, and he leaps
into bed with all his clothes on and pulls the covers up. I put
the bottles and glasses under the bed and open the door. This
guy comes in and sits on the couch. Harry even has his shoes
56
and stockings on but he is completely under the covers. The guy
says, 'How you feeling, Harry?' And Harry says, 'Not so good.
She's over to take care of me.' He points at me. I was sitting
there drunk. 'Well, I hope you get well, Harry,' the guy says,
and then he leaves. I'm sure he saw those bottles and glasses
under the bed, and I'm sure he knew that Harry's feet weren't
that big. It was a jumpy time."
"Damn, they won't let a man live at all, will they? They always
want him at the wheel."
"Of course."
We drank a little longer and then we went to bed, but it
wasn't the same, it never is—there was space between us, things
had happened. I watched her walk to the bathroom, saw the
wrinkles and folds under the cheeks of her ass. Poor thing. Poor
poor thing. Joyce had been firm and hard—you grabbed a
handful and it felt good. Betty didn't feel so good. It was sad, it
was sad, it was sad. When Betty came back we didn't sing or
laugh, or even argue. We sat drinking in the dark, smoking
cigarettes, and when we went to sleep, I didn't put my feet on her
body or she on mine like we used to. We slept without touching.
We had both been robbed.
2
I phoned Joyce.
"How's it working with Purple Stickpin?"
"I can't understand it," she said.
"What did he do when you told him you were divorced?"
"We were sitting across from each other in the employee's
cafeteria when I told him."
"What happened?"
"He dropped his fork. His mouth fell open. He said, 'What?' "
"He knew you meant business then."
"I can't understand it. He's been avoiding me ever since. When
I see him in the hall he runs away. He doesn't sit across from
me anymore when we eat. He seems ... well, almost... cold."
"Baby, there are other men. Forget that guy. Set your sails for
a new one."
"It's hard to forget him. I mean, the way he was."
"Does he know that you have money?"
"No, I have never told him, he doesn't know."
"Well, if you want him ..."
"No, no! I don't want him that way!"
"All right, then. Goodbye Joyce."
"Goodbye, Hank."
It wasn't long after that, I got a letter from her. She was back
in Texas. Grandma was very sick, she wasn't expected to live
long. People were asking about me. So forth. Love, Joyce.
I put the letter down and I could see that midget wondering
how I had missed out. Little shaking freak, thinking I was such
a clever bastard. It was hard to let him down like that.
57
3
Then I was called down to personnel at the old Federal Building.
They let me sit the usual 45 minutes or hour and one half.
Then. "Mr. Chinaski?" this voice said.
"Yeh," I said.
"Step in."
The man walked me back to a desk. There sat this woman.
She looked a bit sexy, melting into 38 or 39, but she looked as if
her sexual ambition had either been laid aside for other things
or as if it had been ignored.
"Sit down, Mr. Chinaski."
I sat down.
Baby, I thought, I could really give you a ride.
"Mr. Chinaski," she said, "we have been wondering if you
have filled out this application properly."
"Uh?"
"We mean, the arrest record."
She handed me the sheet. There wasn't any sex in her eyes.
I had listed 8 or 10 common drunk raps. It was only an
estimate. I had no idea of the dates.
"Now, have you listed everything?" she asked me.
"Hmmm, hmmm, let me think ..."
I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to say "yes" and then
she had me.
"Let me see . . . Hmmm. Hmmm."
"Yes?" she said.
"Oh oh! My god I"
"What is it?"
"It's either drunk in auto or drunk driving. About 4 years ago
or so. I don't know the exact date."
"And this was a slip of the mind?"
"Yes, really, I meant to put it down."
"All right. Put it down."
I wrote it down.
"Mr. Chinaski. This is a terrible record. I want you to explain
these charges and if possible justify your present employment
with us."
"All right."
"You have ten days to reply."
I didn't want the job that badly. But she irritated me.
I phoned in sick that night after buying some ruled and
numbered legal paper and a blue, very official-looking folder. I
got a fifth of whiskey and a six pack, then sat down and typed
it out. I had the dictionary at my elbow. Every now and then I
would flip a page, find a large incomprehensible word and build
a sentence or paragraph out of the idea. It ran 42 pages. I
finished up with, "Copies of this statement have been retained
for distribution to the press, television, and other mass communication
media."
I was full of shit.
58
She got up from her desk and got it personally. "Mr. Chinaski?"
"Yes?"
It was 9 a.m. One day after her request to answer charges.
"Just a moment."
She took the 42 pages back to her desk. She read and read
and read. There was somebody reading over her shoulder. Then
there were 2, 3, 4, 5. All reading. 6, 7, 8, 9. All reading.
What the hell? I thought.
Then I heard a voice from the crowd, "Well, all geniuses are
drunkards!" As if that explained away the matter. Too many
movies again.
She got up from the desk with the 42 pages in her hand.
"Mr. Chinaski?"
"Yes?"
"Your case will be continued. You will hear from us."
"Meanwhile, continue working?"
"Meanwhile, continue working."
"Good morning," I said.
4
One night I was assigned to the stool next to Butchner. He
didn't stick any mail. He just sat there. And talked.
A young girl came in and sat down at the end of the aisle.
I heard Butchner. "Yeah, you cunt! You want my cock in your
pussy, don't you? That's what you want, you cunt, don't you?"
I went on sticking mail. The soup walked past. Butchner said,
"You're on my list, mother! I'm going to get you, you dirty
mother! You rotten bastard! Cocksucker!"
The supervisors never bothered Butchner. Nobody ever
bothered Butchner.
Then I heard him again. "All right, baby! I don't like that
look on your face! You're on my list, mother! You're right there
on top of my list! I'm going to get your ass! Hey, I'm talking to
you! You hear me?"
It was too much. I threw my mail down.
"All right," I told him, "I'm calling your card! I'm calling
your whole stinking deck! You wanna go right here or outside ?"
I looked at Butchner. He was talking to the ceiling, insane:
"I told you, you're on top of my list! I'm going to get you and
I'm going to get you good!"
O for Christ's sake, I thought, I really sucked into that one!
The clerks were very quiet. I couldn't blame them. I got up,
went to get a drink of water. Then came back. 20 minutes later
I got up to take my ten minute break. When I got back, the
supervisor was waiting. A fat black man in his early 50's. He
screamed at me:
"CHINASKI!"
"What's the matter, man?" I asked.
"You've left your seat twice in 30 minutes!"
59
"Yeah, I got a drink of water the first time. 30 seconds. Then
later I took my break."
"Suppose you worked at a machine? You couldn't leave your
machine twice in 30 minutes!"
His whole face glistened in fury. It was astounding. I couldn't
understand it.
"I'M WRITING YOU UP!"
"All right," I said.
I went down and sat next to Butchner. The supervisor came
running down with the write-up. It was written in longhand. I
couldn't even read it. He had written in such fury that it had all
come out in blots and slants.
I folded the write-up into a neat package, slipped it in my
rear pocket.
"I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!" Butchner said.
"I wish you would, fat boy," I said, "I wish you would."
5
It was 12 hours a night, plus supervisors, plus clerks, plus
the fact that you could hardly breathe in that pack of flesh, plus
stale baked food in the "non-profit" cafeteria.
Plus the CP1. City Primary 1. That station scheme was nothing
compared to the City Primary 1. Which contained about
1/3 of the streets in the city and how they were broken up into
zone numbers. I lived in one of the largest cities in the U. S.
That was a lot of streets. After that there was CP2. And CP3.
You had to pass each test in 90 days, 3 shots at it, 95 percent or
better, 100 cards in a glass cage, 8 minutes, fail and they let you
try for President of General Motors, as the man said. For those
who got through, the schemes would get a little easier, the 2nd
or 3rd time around. But with the 12 hour night and canceled days
off, it was too much for most. Already, out of our original group
of 150 to 200, there were only 17 or 18 of us left.
"How can I work 12 hours a night, sleep, eat, bathe, travel
back and forth, get the laundry and the gas, the rent, change
tires, do all the little things that have to be done and still study
the scheme?" I asked one of the instructors in the scheme room.
"Do without sleep," he told me.
I looked at him. He wasn't playing Dixie on the harmonica.
The damn fool was serious.
6
I found that the only time to study was before sleeping. I
was always too tired to make and eat breakfast, so I would go
out and buy a tall 6 pack, put it on the chair beside the bed, rip
open a can, take a good pull and then open the scheme sheet.
About the time I got to the 3rd can of beer I had to drop the
sheet. You could only inject so much. Then I'd drink the rest of
the beer, sitting up in bed, staring at the walls. With the last
60
can I'd be asleep. And when I awakened, there was just time to
toilet, bathe, eat, arid drive back on in.
And you didn't adjust, you simply got more and more tired. I
always picked up my 6 pack on the way in, and one morning I
was really done. I climbed the stairway (there was no elevator)
and put the key in. The door swung open. Somebody had changed
all the furniture around, put in a new rug. No, the furniture
was new too.
There was a woman on the couch. She looked all right. Young.
Good legs. A blonde.
"Hello," I said, "care for a beer?"
"Hi!" she said. "All right, I'll have one."
"I like the way this place is fixed up," I told her.
"I did it myself."
"But why?"
"I just felt like it," she said.
We each drank at the beer.
"You're all right," I said. I put my beercan down and gave
her a kiss. I put my hand on one of her knees. It was a nice knee.
Then I had another swallow of beer.
"Yes," I said, "I really like the way this place looks. It's really
going to lift my spirits."
"That's nice. My husband likes it too."
"Now why would your husband ... What ? Your husband ?
Look, what's this apartment number?"
"309."
"309? Great Christ! I'm on the wrong floor! I live in 409. My
key opened your door."
"Sit down, sweety," she said.
"No, no..."
I picked up the 4 remaining beers.
"Why rush right off?" she asked.
"Some men are crazy," I said, moving toward the door.
"What do wou mean?"
"I mean, some men are in love with their wives."
She laughed. "Don't forget where I'm at."
I closed the door and walked up one more flight. Then I opened
my door. There was nobody in there. The furniture was old and
ripped, the rug almost colorless. Empty beercans on the floor. I
was in the right place.
I took off my clothes, climbed into bed alone and cracked
another beer.
7
While working Dorsey station I heard some of the old timers
needling Big Daddy Greystone about how he'd had to buy a tape
recorder in order to learn his schemes. Big Daddy had read the
scheme sheet breaks onto the tape and listened to it as it played
back. Big Daddy was called Big Daddy for obvious reasons. He'd
put 3 women in the hospital with that thing. Now he'd found
61
some roundeye. A fag named Carter. He'd even ripped Carter
up. Carter had gone to a hospital in Boston. The joke was that
Carter had to go all the way to Boston because there wasn't
enough string on the West Coast to sew him up after Big Daddy
finished with him. True or not, I decided to try the tape recorder.
My worries were over. I could leave it on while I was sleeping.
I had read somewhere that you could learn with your subconscious
while sleeping. That seemed the easiest way out. I bought
a machine and some tape.
I read the scheme sheet onto the tape, got into bed with my
beer and listened:
"NOW, HIGGINS BREAKS 42 HUNTER, 67 MARKLEY, 71
HUDSON, 84 EVERGLADES! AND NOW, LISTEN, LISTEN,
CHINASKI, PITTSFIELD BREAKS 21 ASHGROVE, 33 SIMMONS,
46 NEEDLES! LISTEN, CHINASKI, LISTEN, WESTHAVEN
BREAKS 11 EVERGREEN, 24 MARKHAM, 55
WOODTREE! CHINASKI, ATTENTION, CHINASKI!
PARCHBLEAK BREAKS . . . "
It didn't work. My voice put me to sleep. I couldn't get past
the 3rd beer.
After a while I didn't play the recorder or study the scheme
sheet. I just drank my 6 tall cans of beer and went to sleep. I
couldn't understand it. I even thought about going to see a
psychiatrist. I envisioned the thing in my mind:
"Yes, my boy?"
"Well, it's like this."
"Go ahead. You need the couch?"
"No, thanks. I'd fall asleep."'
"Go ahead, please."
"Well, I need my job."
"That's rational."
"But I have to study and pass 3 more schemes in order to
keep it."
"Schemes? What are these 'schemes'?"
"That's when people don't put down zone numbers. Somebody
has to stick that letter. So we have to study these scheme
sheets after working 12 hours a night."
"And?"
"I can't pick the sheet up. If I do, it falls from my hand."
"You can't study these schemes?"
"No. And I have to throw 100 cards in a glass cage in 8
minutes to at least an accuracy of 95 percent or I'm out. And I
need the job."
"Why can't you study these schemes?"
"That's why I'm here. To ask you. I must be crazy. But there
are all these streets and they all break in different ways. Here
look."
And I would hand him the 6 page scheme, stapled together at
the top, small print on both sides.
He would flip through the pages.
"And you are supposed to memorize all this?"
62
"Yes, Doctor."
"Well, my boy," handing the sheets back, "you're not crazy
for not wanting to study this. I'd be more apt to say that you
were crazy if you wanted to study this. That'll be $25."
So I analyzed myself and kept the money.
But something had to be done.
Then I had it. It was about 9:10 a.m. I phoned the Federal
Building, Personnel Department,
"Miss Graves. I'd like to speak to Miss Graves, please."
"Hello?"
There she was. The bitch. I fondled myself as I spoke to her.
"Miss Graves. This is Chinaski. I filed an answer to your
charge that I had a bad record. I don't know if you remember
me?"
"We remember you, Mr. Chinaski."
"Has any decision been rendered?"
"Not yet. We'll let you know."
"All right, then. But I have a problem."
"Yes, Mr. Chinaski?"
"I am now studying the CP1." I paused.
"Yes?" she asked.
"I find it very difficult, I find it almost impossible to study
this scheme, to put in all that extra time when it might be of no
avail. I mean, I may be removed from the postal service at any
moment. It is not fair to ask me to study the scheme under these
conditions."
"All right, Mr. Chinaski. I'll phone the scheme room and instruct
them to take you off the scheme until we have reached a
decision."
"Thank you, Miss Graves."
"Good day," she said, and hung up.
It was a good day. And after fondling myself while on the
phone I almost decided to go downstairs to 309. But I played it
safe. I put on some bacon and eggs and celebrated with an extra
quart of beer.
8
Then there were only 6 or 7 of us. The CP1 was simply too
much for the rest.
"How you doing on your scheme, Chinaski?" they asked me.
"No trouble at all," I said.
"O.K., break Woodburn Ave."
"Woodburn?"
"Yes, Woodburn."
"Listen, I don't like to be bothered with that stuff while I'm
working. It bores me. One job at a time."
63
9
On Christmas I had Betty over. She baked a turkey and we
drank. Betty always liked huge Christmas trees. It must have
been 7 feet tall, and 1/2 as wide, covered with lights, bulbs,
tinsel, various crap. We drank from a couple of fifths of whiskey,
made love, ate our turkey, drank some more. The nail in the
stand was loose and the stand was not big enough to hold the
tree. I kept straightening it. Betty stretched out on the bed,
passed out. I was drinking on the floor with my shorts on. Then
I stretched out. Closed my eyes. Something awakened me. I
opened my eyes. Just in time to see the huge tree covered with
hot lights, lean slowly toward me, the pointed star coming down
like a dagger. I didn't quite know what it was. It looked like the
end of the world. I couldn't move. The arms of the tree enfolded
me. I was under it. The light bulbs were red hot.
"Oh, OH JESUS CHRIST, MERCY! LORD HELP ME!
JESUS! JESUS! HELP!"
The bulbs were burning me. I rolled to the left, couldn't get
out, then I rolled to the right.
"YAWK!"
I finally rolled out from under. Betty was up, standing there.
"What happened? What is it?"
"CAN'T YOU SEE? THAT GOD DAMNED TREE TRIED
TO MURDER ME!"
"What?"
"YES, LOOK AT ME!"
I had red spots all over my body.
"Oh, poor, baby!"
I walked over and pulled the plug from the wall. The lights
went out. The thing was dead.
"Oh, my poor tree!"
"Your poor tree?"
"Yes, it was so pretty!"
"I'll stand it up in the morning. I don't trust it now. I'm giving
it the rest of the night off."
She didn't like that. I could see an argument coming, so I
stood the thing up behind a chair and turned the lights back on.
If the thing had burned her tits or ass, she would have thrown it
out the window. I thought I was being very kind.
Several days after Christmas I stopped in to see Betty. She
was sitting in her room, drunk, at 8:45 a.m. in the morning. She
didn't look well but then neither did I. It seemed that almost
every roomer had given her a fifth. There was wine, vodka,
whiskey, scotch. The cheapest brands. The bottles filled her room.
"Those damn fools! Don't they know any better ? If you drink
all this stuff it will kill you!"
Betty just looked at me. I saw it all in that look.
She had two children who never came to see her, never wrote
64
her. She was a scrubwoman in a cheap hotel. When I had first
met her her clothes had been expensive, trim ankles fitting into
expensive shoes. She had been firm-fleshed, almost beautiful.
Wild-eyed. Laughing. Coming from a rich husband, divorced
from him, and he was to die in a car wreck, drunk, burning to
death in Connecticut. "You'll never tame her," they told me.
There she was. But I'd had some help.
"Listen," I said, "I ought to take that stuff. I mean, I'll just
give you back a bottle now and then. I won't drink it."
"Leave the bottles," Betty said. She didn't look at me. Her
room was on the top floor and she sat in a chair by the window
watching the morning traffic.
I walked over. "Look, I'm beat. I've got to leave. But for
Christ's sake, take it easy on that stuff!"
"Sure," she said.
I leaned over and kissed her goodbye.
About a week and a half later I came by again. There wasn't
any answer to my knock.
"Betty! Betty! Are you all right?"
I turned the knob. The door was open. The bed was turned
back. There was a large bloodspot on the sheet.
"Oh shit!" I said. I looked around. All the bottles were gone.
Then I looked around. There was a middle-aged Frenchwoman
who owned the place. She stood in the doorway.
"She's at County General Hospital. She was very sick. I called
the ambulance last night."
"Did she drink all that stuff?"
"She had some help."
I ran down the stairway and got into my car. Then I was
there. I knew the place well. They told me the room number.
There were 3 or 4 beds in a tiny room. A woman was sitting
up in hers across the way, chewing an apple and laughing with
two female visitors. I pulled the drop sheet around Betty's bed,
sat down on the stool and leaned over her.
"Betty! Betty!"
I touched her arm.
"Betty!"
Her eyes opened. They were beautiful again. Bright calm blue.
"I knew it would be you." she said.
Then she closed her eyes. Her lips were parched. Yellow
spittle had caked at the left corner of her mouth. I took a cloth
and washed it away. I cleaned her face, hands and throat. I
took another cloth and squeezed a bit of water on her tongue.
Then a little more. I wet her lips. I straightened her hair. I
heard the women laughing through the sheets that separated us.
"Betty, Betty, Betty. Please, I want you to drink some water,
just a sip of water, not too much, just a sip."
She didn't respond. I tried for ten minutes. Nothing.
More spittle formed at her mouth. I wiped it away.
65
Then I got up and pulled the drop sheet back. I stared at the 3
women.
I walked out and spoke to the nurse at the desk.
"Listen, why isn't anything being done for that woman in
45-c? Betty Williams."
"We're doing all we can, sir."
"But there's nobody there."
"We make our regular rounds."
"But where are the doctors? I don't see any doctors."
"The doctor has seen her, sir."
"Why do you just let her lay there?"
"We've done all we can, sir."
"SIR! SIR! SIR! FORGET THAT 'SIR' STUFF, WILL YOU?
I'll bet if that were the president or governor or mayor or some
rich son of a bitch, there would be doctors all over that room
doing something! Why do you just let them die? What's the sin in
being poor?"
'I've told you, sir, that we've done ALL we can."
'I'll be back in two hours."
'Are you her husband?"
'I used to be her common-law husband."
'May we have your name and phone number?"
I gave her that, then hurried out.
10
The funeral was to be at 10:30 a.m. but it was already hot.
I had on a cheap black suit, bought and fitted in a rush. It was
my first new suit in years. I had located the son. We drove
along in his new Mercedes-Benz. I had traced him down with
the help of a slip of paper with the address of his father-in-law
on it. Two long distance calls and I had him. By the time he had
driven in, his mother was dead. She died while I was making
the phone calls. The kid, Larry, had never fit into the society
thing. He had a habit of stealing cars from friends, but between
the friends and the judge he managed to get off. Then the army
got him, and somehow he got into a training program and when
he got out he walked into a good-paying job. That's when he
stopped seeing his mother, when he got that good job.
"Where's your sister?" I asked him.
"I don't know."
"This is a fine car. I can't even hear the engine."
Larry smiled. He liked that.
There were just 3 of us going to the funeral: son, lover and the
subnormal sister of the owner of the hotel. Her name was
Marcia. Marcia never said anything. She just sat around with
this inane smile on her lips. Her skin was white as enamel. She
had a mop of dead yellow hair and a hat that would not fit.
Marcia had been sent by the owner in her place. The owner had
to watch the hotel.
Of course, I had a very bad hangover. We stopped for coffee.
66
Already there had been trouble with the funeral. Larry had
had an argument with the Catholic priest. There was some doubt
that Betty was a true Catholic. The priest didn't want to do the
service. Finally it was decided that he would do half a service.
Well, half a service was better than none.
We even had trouble with the flowers. I had bought a wreath
of roses, mixed roses, and they had been worked into a wreath.
The flower shop spent an afternoon making it. The lady in the
flower shop had known Betty. They had drank together a few
years earlier when Betty and I had the house and dog. Delsie,
her name was. I had always wanted to get into Delsie's pants but
I never made it.
Delsie had phoned me. "Hank, what's the matter with those
bastards?"
"Which bastards?"
"Those guys at the mortuary."
"What is it?"
"Well, I sent the boy in the truck to deliver your wreath and
they didn't want to let him in. They said they were closed. You
know, that's a long drive up there."
"Yeah, Delsie?"
"So finally they let the boy put the flowers inside the door but
they wouldn't let him put them in the refrigerator. So the boy
had to leave them inside the door. What the hell's wrong with
those people?"
"I don't know. What the hell's wrong with people everywhere?"
"I won't be able to be at the funeral. Are you all right, Hank?"
"Why don't you come by and console me?"
"I'd have to bring Paul."
Paul was her husband.
"Forget it."
So there we were on our way to 1/2 a funeral.
Larry looked up from his coffee. "I'll write you about a headstone
later. I don't have any more money now."
"All right," I said.
Larry paid for the coffees, then we went out and climbed into
the Mercedes-Benz.
"Wait a minute," I said.
"What is it?" asked Larry.
"I think we forgot something."
I walked back into the cafe.
"Marcia."
She was still sitting at the table.
"We're leaving now, Marcia."
She got up and followed me out.
The priest read his thing. I didn't listen. There was the coffin.
What had been Betty was in there. It was very hot. The sun
came down in one yellow sheet. A fly circled around. Halfway
through the halfway funeral two guys in working clothes came
67
carrying my wreath. The roses were dead, dead and dying in the
heat, and they leaned the thing up against a nearby tree. Near
the end of the service my wreath leaned forward and fell flat on
its face. Nobody picked it up. Then it was over. I walked up to
the priest and shook his hand, "Thank you." He smiled. That
made two smiling: the priest and Marcia.
On the way in, Larry said again:
"I'll write you about the headstone."
I'm still waiting for that letter.
11
I went upstairs to 409, had a stiff scotch and water, took
some money out of the top drawer, went down the steps, got in
my car and drove to the racetrack. I got there in time for the
first race but didn't play it because I hadn't had time to read the
form.
I went to the bar for a drink and I saw this high yellow walk
by in an old raincoat. She was really dressed down but since I
felt that way, I called her name just loud enough for her to hear
as she walked by:
"Vi, baby."
She stopped, then came on over.
"Hi, Hank. How are you?"
I knew her from the central post office. She worked another
station, the one near the water fountain, but she seemed more
friendly than most.
"I've got the low blues. 3rd funeral in 2 years. First my
mother, then my father. Today, an old girl friend."
She ordered something. I opened the Form.
"Let's catch this 2nd race."
She came over and leaned a lot of leg and breast against me.
There was something under that raincoat. I always look for the
non-public horse who could beat the favorite. If I found nobody
could beat the favorite, I bet the favorite.
I had come to the racetrack after the other two funerals and
had won. There was something about funerals. It made you see
things better. A funeral a day and I'd be rich.
The 6 horse had lost by a neck to the favorite in a mile race
last time out. The 6 had been overtaken by the favorite after a
2 length lead at the head of the stretch. The 6 had been 35/1.
The favorite had been 9/2 in that race. Both were coming back
in the same class. The favorite was adding two pounds, 116 to
118. The 6 still carried 116 but they had switched to a less
popular jock, and also the distance was a mile and a 16th. The
crowd figured that since the favorite had caught the 6 at a mile,
then surely it would catch the 6 with the extra 16th of a mile
to run. That seemed logical. But horse racing doesn't run to logic.
Trainers enter their horses in what seems unfavorable conditions
in order to keep the public money off the horse. The dis-
68
tance switch, plus the switch to a less popular jock all pointed
to a gallop at a good price. I looked at the board. The morning
line was 5. The board read 7 to 1.
"It's the 6 horse," I told Vi.
"No, that horse is a quitter," she said.
"Yeah," I said, then walked over and put ten win on the 6.
The 6 took the lead out of the gate, hugged the rail around the
first turn, then under an easy hold kept a length and a quarter
lead down the backstretch. The pack followed. They figured the
6 would lead around the curve, then open up at the top of the
stretch, and then they'd go after it. That was standard procedure.
But the trainer had given the boy different instructions.
At the top of the curve the boy let out the string and the horse
leaped forward. Before the other jocks could get to their mounts,
the 6 had a 4 length lead. At the top of the stretch the boy gave
the 6 a slight breather, looked back, then let it out again. I was
looking good. Then the favorite, 9/5, came out of the pack and
the son of a bitch was moving. It was eating up the lengths,
driving. It looked like it was going to drive right past my horse.
The favorite was the 2 horse. Halfway down the stretch, the 2
was a half length behind the 6, then the boy on the 6 went to the
whip. The boy on the favorite had been whipping. They went
the rest of the stretch that way, a half length apart, and that's
what it was at the wire. I looked at the board. My horse had risen
to 8 to 1.
We walked back to the bar.
"The best horse didn't win that race," said Vi.
"I don't care who's best. All I want is the front number. Order
up."
We ordered.
"All right, smart boy. Let's see you get the next one."
"I tell you, baby, I am hell coming out of funerals."
She put that leg and breast up against me. I took a nip of
scotch and opened the Form. 3rd race.
I looked it over. They were out to murder the crowd that day.
The early foot had just won, so now the crowd was conscious of
the speed horse and down on the stretch runners. The crowd
only goes back one race in their memory. Part of it is caused by
the 25 minutes wait between races. All they can think of is what
had just happened.
The 3rd race was 6 furlongs. Now the speed horse, the early
foot was the favorite. It had lost its last race by a nose at 7
furlongs, holding the lead all the way down the stretch and losing
in the last jump. The 8 horse was the closer. It had finished 3rd,
a length and a half behind the favorite, closing 2 lengths in the
stretch. The crowd figured that if the 8 hadn't caught the
favorite at 7 furlongs, how in the hell could he catch it with a
furlong less to go? The crowd always went home broke. The
horse who had won the 7 furlong race wasn't in today's race.
"It's the 8 horse," I told Vi.
"The distance is too short. He'll never get up," said Vi.
69
The 8 horse was 6 on the line and read 9.
I collected from the last race, then put a ten win on the 8
horse. If you bet too heavy your horse loses. Or you change your
mind and get off your horse. Ten win was a nice comfortable bet.
The favorite looked good. It came out of the gate first, got the
rail and opened up two lengths. The 8 was running wide, next
to last, gradually moving in closer to the rail. The favorite still
looked good at the top of the stretch. The boy took the 8 horse,
now running 5th, wide, gave it a taste of the whip. Then the
favorite began to shorten stride. It had gone the first quarter in
22 and 4/5, but it still had 2 lengths halfway down the stretch.
Then the 8 horse just blew by, breezing, and won by 2 and 1/2
lengths. I looked at the board. It still read 9 to 1.
We went back to the bar. Vi really laid her body against me.
I won 3 of the last 5 races. They only ran 8 races in those days
instead of 9. Anyhow, 8 races was enough that day. I bought a
couple of cigars and we got into my car. Vi had come out on the
bus. I stopped for a 5th, then we went up to my place.
12
Vi looked around.
"What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"
"That's what all the girls ask me."
"It's really a rat hole."
"It keeps me modest."
"Let's go to my place."
"O.k."
We got into my car and she told me where she lived. We stopped
for a couple of big steaks, vegetables, stuff for a salad,
potatoes, bread, more to drink.
In the hallway of her apartment house there was a sign: NO
LOUD NOISE OR DISTURBANCE OF ANY KIND
ALLOWED. TV SETS MUST BE OFF AT 10 P.
M. WE HAVE WORKING PEOPLE HERE.
It was a large sign done up in red paint.
"I like that part about the t.v. sets," I told her.
We took the elevator up. She did have a nice place. I carried
the bags into the kitchen, found two glasses, poured two drinks.
"You get the stuff out. I'll be right back."
I pulled the stuff out, laid it on the sink. Had another drink.
Vi came back. She was all dressed. Ear rings, high heels, short
skirt. She looked all right. Stocky. But good ass and thighs,
breasts. A hard tough ride.
"Hello there," I said, "I'm a friend of Vi's. She said she'd be
right back. Care for a drink ?"
She laughed, then I grabbed that big body and gave her a kiss.
Her lips were cold as diamonds but tasted good.
"I'm hungry," she said. "Let me cook!"
70
"I'm hungry too. I'll eat you!"
She laughed. I gave her a short kiss, grabbing her ass. Then
I walked into the front room with my drink, sat down, stretched
my legs, sighed.
i could stay here, I thought, make money at the track while
she nurses me over the bad moments, rubs oils on my body,
cooks for me, talks to me, goes to bed with me. Of course, there
would always be arguments. That is the nature of Woman.
They like the mutual exchange of dirty laundry, a bit of screaming,
a bit of dramatics. Then an exchange of vows. I wasn't very
good on the exchange of vows.
I was getting high. In my mind I'd already moved in.
Vi had everything going. She came out with her drink, sat on
my lap, kissed me, putting her tongue into my mouth. My cock
leaped up against her firm bottom. I grabbed a handful. Squeezed.
"I want to show you something," she said.
"I know you do but let's wait until about an hour after dinner."
"Oh, I don't mean that!"
I reached for her and gave her the tongue.
Vi got off my lap.
"No, I want to show you a photo of my daughter. She's in
Detroit with my mother. But she's coming out here in the Fall to
go to school."
"How old is she?"
"6."
"And the father?"
"I divorced Roy. The son of a bitch was no good. All he did
was drink and play the horses."
"Oh?"
She came back with the photo, put it in my hand. I tried to
make it out. There was a dark background.
"Listen, Vi, she's really black! God damn, don't you have
sense enough to take this with a light background?"
"It's from her father. The black dominates."
"Yeh. I can see that."
"My mother took the photo."
"I'm sure you have a nice daughter."
"Yes, she is nice, really."
Vi put the photo back and went into the kitchen.
The eternal photo! Women with their photos. It was the same
over and over and over again. Vi stood in the kitchen doorway.
"Don't drink too much now! You know what we have to do!"
"Don't worry, baby, I'll have something for you. Meanwhile,
bring me a drink! I've had a hard day. Half scotch, half water."
"Get your own drink, bigshot."
I turned my chair around, flicked on the t.v.
"You want another good day at the track, woman, you better
bring Mr. Bigshot a drink. And I mean now!"
Vi had finally bet my horse in the last race. It was a 5/1 shot
who hadn't shown a decent race in 2 years. I bet it merely because
it was 5/1 when it should have been 20. The horse had
71
won by 6 lengths, eased up. They had that baby fixed from asshole
to nostril.
I looked up and here was a hand with a drink reaching over
my shoulder.
"Thanks, baby."
"Yes, master," she laughed.
13
In bed I had something in front of me but I couldn't do anything
with it. I whaled and I whaled and I whaled. Vi was very
patient. I kept striving and banging but I'd had too much to
drink.
"Sorry, baby," I said. Then I rolled off. And went to sleep.
Then something awakened me. It was Vi. She had stoked me
up and was riding topside.
"Go, baby, go!" I told her.
I arched my back now and then. She looked down at me with
little greedy eyes. I was being raped by a high yellow enchantress!
For a moment, it excited me.
Then I told her. "Shit. Get down, baby. It's been a long hard
day. There will be a better time."
She climbed off. The thing went down like an express elevator.
14
In the morning I heard her walking around. She walked and
she walked and she walked.
It was about 10:30 a.m. I was sick. I didn't want to face her.
15 more minutes. Then I'd get out.
She shook me. "Listen, I want you to get out of here before
my girlfriend shows!"
"So what? I'll screw her too."
"Yeah," she laughed, "yeah."
I got up. Coughed, gagged. Slowly got into my clothes.
"You make me feel like a wash-out," I told her. "I can't be
that bad! There must be some good in me."
I finally got dressed. I went to the bathroom and threw some
water on my face, combed my hair. If I could only comb that
face, I thought, but I can't.
I came out.
"Vi."
"Yes?"
"Don't be too pissed. It wasn't you. It was the booze. It has
happened before."
"All right, then, you shouldn't drink so much. No woman likes
to come in second to a bottle."
"Why don't you bet me to place then?"
"Oh, stop it!"
"Listen, you need any money, babe?"
72
I reached into my wallet and took out a twenty. I handed it
to her.
"My, you are sweet!"
Her hand touched my cheek, she kissed me gently along the
side of the mouth.
"Drive carefully now."
"Sure, babe."
I drove carefully all the way to the racetrack.
15
They had me in the counselor's office in one of the back rooms
of the second floor.
"Let me see how you look, Chinaski."
He looked at me.
"Ow! You look bad. I better take a pill."
Sure enough, he opened a bottle and took one.
"All right, Mr. Chinaski, we'd like to know where you've
been the last two days?"
"Mourning."
"Mourning? Mourning about what?"
"Funeral. Old friend. One day to pack in the stiff. One day
to mourn."
"But you didn't phone in, Mr. Chinaski."
"Yeh."
"And I want to tell you something, Chinaski, off the record."
"All right."
"When you don't phone in, you know what you are saying?"
"No."
"Mr. Chinaski, you are saying, 'Fuck the post office!' "
"I am?"
"And, Mr. Chinaski, you know what that means?"
"No, what does it mean?"
"That means, Mr. Chinaski, that the post office is going to
fuck youl"
Then he leaned back and looked at me.
"Mr. Feathers," I told him, "you can go to hell."
"Don't get fresh, Henry. I can make it tough on you."
"Please address me by my full name, sir. I ask for a simple
bit of respect from you."
"You ask respect for me but . . . "
"That's right. We know where you park, Mr. Feathers."
"What? Is that a threat?"
"The blacks love me here, Feathers. I have fooled them."
"The blacks love you?"
"They give me water. I even fuck their women. Or try to."
"All right. This is getting out of hand. Please report back to
your assignment."
He handed me my travel slip. He was worried, poor fellow.
I hadn't fooled the blacks. I hadn't fooled anybody but Feathers.
But you couldn't blame him for worrying. One supervisor had
73
been pushed down the stairway. Another slashed across the ass.
Another knifed in the belly as he was waiting in the crosswalk
for the signal to change at 3 a.m. Right in front of the central
post office. We never saw him again.
Feathers, soon after I spoke to him, bid out of the central
office. I don't know exactly where he went. But it was out of
the central office.
16
One morning about 10 a.m. the phone rang. "Mr. Chinaski?"
I recognized the voice and began to fondle myself.
"Ummmm," I said. It was Miss Graves, that bitch. "Were
you asleep?"
"Yes, yes, Miss Graves, but go on. It's all right, it's all right."
"Well, you've made clearance." "Ummm, ummm."
"So therefore we have notified the scheme room."
"Ummhmm."
"And you are scheduled to throw your CP1 two weeks from
today."
"What? Now wait a minute . . . "
"That's all, Mr. Chinaski. Good day."
She hung up.
17
Well, I took the scheme sheet and I related everything to sex
and age. This guy lived in this house with 3 women. He beltwhipped
one (her name was the name of the street and her
age the break number); he ate another (ditto), and he simply
screwed the third old-fashioned (ditto). There were all these
fags and one of them (his name was Manfred Ave.) was 33
years old ... etc., etc., etc.
I'm sure they wouldn't have let me into that glass cage if
they had known what I was thinking as I looked at all those
cards. They all looked like old friends to me.
Still, I got some of my orgies crossed. I threw a 94 the first
time.
Ten days later, when I came back, I knew who was doing
what to whom.
I threw 100 percent in 5 minutes.
And got a form letter of congratulation from the City Postmaster.
18
Soon after that I made regular and that gave me an 8 hour
night, which beat 12, and pay for holidays. Of the 150 or 200
that had come in, there were only two of us left.
Then I met David Janko on the station. He was a young white
in his early twenties. I made the mistake of talking to him, some-
74
thing about classical music. I happened to be up on my classical
music because it was the only thing I could listen to while drinking
beer in bed in the early morning. If you listen morning after
morning you are bound to remember things. And when Joyce
had divorced me I had mistakenly packed 2 volumes of The Lives
of the Classical and Modern Composers into one of my suitcases.
Most of these men's lives were so tortured that I enjoyed reading
about them, thinking, well, I am in hell too and I can't even write
music.
But I had opened my mouth. Janko and some other guy were
arguing and I settled it by giving them Beethoven's birthdate,
when he had penned the 3rd Symphony, and a generalized (if
confused) idea of what the critics said about the 3rd.
It was too much for Janko. He immediately mistook me for a
learned man. Sitting on the stool next to me he began to complain
and rant, night after long night, about the misery buried
deep in his twisted and pissed soul. He had a terribly loud voice
and he wanted everybody to hear. I flipped the letters in, I listened
and listened and listened, thinking what will I do now?
How will I get this poor mad bastard to shut up ?
I went home each night dizzy and sick. He was murdering me
with the sound of his voice.
19
I began at 6:18 p.m. and Dave Janko did not begin until 10:36
p.m., so it could have been worse. Having a 10:06 thirty minute
lunch, I was usually back by the time he got in. In he'd come,
looking for a stool next to mine. Janko, besides playing at the
great mind also played at the great lover. According to him, he
was trapped in hallways by beautiful young women, followed
down the streets by them. They wouldn't let him rest, poor fellow.
But I never saw him speak to a women down at work, nor did
they to him.
In he'd come: "HEY, HANK! MAN, I REALLY CAUGHT
A HEAD JOB TODAY!"
He didn't speak, he screamed. He screamed all night.
"JESUS CHRIST, SHE REALLY ATE ME UP! AND
YOUNG TOO! BUT SHE WAS REALLY A PRO!"
I lit a cigarette.
Then I had to hear all about how he met her—
"I HAD TO GO OUT FOR A LOAF OF BREAD, SEE?"
Then—down to the last detail—what she said, what he said,
what they did, etc.
At that time, a law was passed requiring the post office to pay
substitute clerks time and one half. So the post office shifted the
overtime to the regular clerks.
Eight or ten minutes before my regular quitting time of 2:48
a.m. the intercom would come on:
"Your attention, please! All regular clerks who reported at
6:18 p.m., are required to work one hour overtime!"
75
Janko would smile, lean forward and pour more of his poison
into me.
Then, 8 minutes before my 9th hour was up, the intercom
would come on again.
"Your attention, please! All regular clerks who reported at
6:18 p.m., are required to work two hours overtime!"
Then 8 minutes before my 10th hour:
"Your attention, please! All regular clerks who reported at
6:18 p.m., are required to work 3 hours overtime!"
Meanwhile Janko never stopped.
"I WAS SITTING IN THIS DRUGSTORE, YOU SEE. TWO
CLASS BROADS CAME IN. ONE OF THEM SAT ON EACH
SIDE OF ME . . ."
The boy was murdering me but I couldn't find any way out. I
remembered all the other jobs I had worked at. I had drawn the
nut each time. They liked me.
Then Janko put his novel on me. He couldn't type and had the
thing typed up by a professional. It was enclosed in a fancy
black leather notebook. The title was very romantic. "LET ME
KNOW WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT IT," he said.
"Yeh," I said.
20
I took it home, opened the beer, got into bed and began.
It started well. It was about how Janko had lived in small
rooms and starved while trying to find a job. He had trouble
with the employment agencies. And there was a guy he met in a
bar—he seemed like a very learned type—but his friend kept
borrowing money from him which he never paid back.
It was honest writing.
Maybe I have misjudged this man, I thought.
I was hoping for him as I read. Then the novel fell apart. For
some reason the moment he started writing about the post office,
the thing lost reality.
The novel got worse and worse. It ended up with him being at
the opera. It was intermission. He had left his seat in order to
get away from the coarse and stupid crowd. Well, I was with him
there. Then, rounding a pillar, it happened. It happened very
quickly. He crashed into this cultured, dainty, beautiful thing.
Almost knocked her down.
The dialogue went like this:
"Oh, I'm so sorry!"
"It's quite all right..."
"I didn't mean to . . . you know . .. I'm sorry...!"
"Oh, I assure you, it's all right!"
"But I mean, I didn't see you ... I didn't mean to . . . "
"It's all right. It's quite all right. . . "
The dialogue about the bumping went on for a page and a half.
The poor boy was truly mad.
It turned out this broad, although she's wandering1 around
76
among the pillars alone, well, she's really married to this doctor,
but the doc didn't comprehend opera, or for that matter, didn't
even care for such simple things as Ravel's Bolero. Or even The
Three-Cornered Hat Dance by de Falla. I was with the doc there.
From the bumping of these two true sensitive souls, something
developed. They met at concerts and had a quickie afterwards.
(This was inferred rather than stated, for both of them were
too delicate to simply fuck.)
Well, it ended. The poor beautiful creature loved her husband
and she loved the hero (Janko). She didn't know what to do, so,
of course, she committed suicide. She left both the doc and Janko
standing in their bathrooms alone.
I told the kid, "It starts well. But you'll have to take out that
bumping-around-the-pillar dialogue. It's very bad . . ." "NO I"
he said. "EVERYTHING STAYS!"
The months went by and the novel kept coming back.
"JESUS CHRIST!" he said, "I CAN'T GO TO NEW YORK
AND SHAKE THE HANDS OF THE PUBLISHERS!"
"Look, kid, why don't you quit this job? Go to a small room
and write. Work it out."
"A GUY LIKE YOU CAN DO THAT," he said, "BECAUSE
YOU LOOK LIKE A WINO. PEOPLE WILL HIRE YOU
BECAUSE THEY FIGURE YOU CAN'T GET A JOB ANYWHERE
ELSE AND YOU'LL STAY. THEY WON'T HIRE
ME BECAUSE THEY LOOK AT ME AND THEY SEE HOW
INTELLIGENT I AM AND THEY THINK, WELL, AN INTELLIGENT
MAN LIKE HIM WON'T STAY WITH US, SO
THERE'S NO USE HIRING HIM."
"I still say, go to a small room and write."
"BUT I NEED ASSURANCE.'"
"It's a good thing a few others didn't think that way. It's a
good thing Van Gogh didn't think that way."
"VAN GOGH'S BROTHER GAVE HIM FREE PAINTS!"
the kid said to me.
77

IV
1
Then I developed a new system at the racetrack. I pulled in
$3,000 in a month and a half while only going to the track two
or three times a week. I began to dream. I saw a little house
down by the sea. I saw myself in fine clothing, calm, getting up
mornings, getting into my imported car, making the slow easy
drive to the track. I saw leisurely steak dinners, preceded and
followed by good chilled drinks in colored glasses. The big tip.
The cigar. And women as you wanted them. It's easy to fall into
this kind of thinking when men handed you large bills at the
cashier's window. When in one six furlong race, say in a minute
and 9 seconds, you make a month's pay.
So I stood in the tour superintendent's office. There he was
behind his desk. I had a cigar in my mouth and whiskey on my
breath. I felt like money. I looked like money.
"Mr. Winters," I said, "the post office has treated me well. But
I have outside business interests that simply must be taken care
of. If you can't give me a leave of absence, I must resign."
"Didn't I give you a leave of absence earlier in the year,
Chinaski?"
"No, Mr. Winters, you turned down my request for a leave of
absence. This time there can't be any turndown. Or I will resign."
"All right, fill out the form and I'll sign it. But I can only give
you 90 working days off."
"I'll take 'em," I said, exhaling a long trail of blue smoke from
my expensive cigar.
2
The track had moved down the coast a hundred miles or so. I
kept paying the rent on my apartment in town, got in my car
and drove down. Once or twice a week I would drive back to the
79
apartment, check the mail, maybe sleep overnight, then drive
back down.
It was a good life, and I started winning. After the last race
each night I would have one or two easy drinks at the bar, tipping
the bartender well. It looked like a new life. I could do no
wrong.
One night I didn't even watch the last race. I went to the bar.
$50 to win was my standard bet. After you bet 50 win a while
it feels like betting 5 win or 10 win.
"Scotch and water," I told the barkeep. "Think I'll listen to
this one over the speaker."
"Who you got?"
"Blue Stocking," I told him. "50 win."
"Too much weight."
"Are you kidding? A good horse can pack 122 pounds in a
6 thousand dollar claimer. That means, according to the conditions,
that the horse has done something that no other horse in
that race has done."
Of course, that wasn't the reason I had bet Blue Stocking. I
was always giving out misinformation. I didn't want anybody
else on board.
At the time, they didn't have closed circuit t.v. You just listened
to the calls. I was $380 ahead. A loss on the last race would
give me a $330 profit. A good day's work.
We listened. The caller mentioned every horse in the race but
Blue Stocking.
My horse must have fallen down, I thought.
They were in the stretch, coming down toward the wire. That
track was notorious for its short stretch.
Then right before the race ended the announcer screamed,
"AND HERE COMES BLUE STOCKING ON THE OUTSIDE!
BLUE STOCKING IS GETTING UP I IT'S . . . BLUE STOCKING!"
"Pardon me," I told the bartender, "I'll be right back. Fix me
a scotch and water, double shot."
"Yes, sir!" he said.
I went put back where they had a small tote board near the
walking ring. Blue Stocking read 9/2. Well it wasn't 8 or 10 to
one. But you played the winner, not the price. I'd take the $250
profit plus change. I went back to the bar.
"Who do you like tomorrow, sir?" asked the barkeep.
"Tomorrow's a long way off," I told him.
I finished my drink, tipped him a dollar and walked off.
3
Every night was about the same. I'd drive along the coast
looking for a place to have dinner. I wanted an expensive place
that wasn't too crowded. I developed a nose for those places. I
could tell by looking at them from the outside. You couldn't
always get a table directly overlooking the ocean unless you
80
wanted to wait. But you could still see the ocean out there and
the moon, and let yourself get romantic. Let yourself enjoy life.
I always asked for a small salad and a big steak. The waitresses
smiled deliciously and stood very close to you. I had come a long
way from a guy who had worked in slaughterhouses, who had
crossed the country with a railroad track gang, who had worked
in a dog biscuit factory, who had slept on park benches, who had
worked the nickle and dime jobs in a dozen cities across the
nation.
After dinner I would look for a motel. This also took a bit of
driving. First I'd stop somewhere for whiskey and beer. I
avoided the places with t.v. sets. It was clean sheets, a hot shower,
luxury. It was a magic life. And I did not tire of it.
4
One day I was at the bar between races and I saw this woman.
God or somebody keeps creating women and tossing them out on
the streets, and this one's ass is too big and that one's tits are too
small and this one is mad and that one is crazy and that one is a
religionist and that one reads tea leaves and this one can't control
her farts, and that one has this big nose, and that one has boney
legs . . .
But now and then, a woman walks up, full blossom, a woman
just bursting out of her dress . . . a sex creature, a curse, the end
of it all. I looked up and there she was, down at the end of the
bar. She was about drunk and the bartender wouldn't serve her
and she began to bitch and they called one of the track cops and
the track cop had her by the arm, leading her off, and they were
talking.
I finished my drink and followed them.
"Officer! Officer!"
He stopped and looked at me.
"Has my wife done something wrong?" I asked.
"We believe that she is intoxicated, sir. I was going to escort
her to the gate."
"The starting gate?"
He laughed. "No, sir. The exit gate."
"I'll take over here, officer."
"All right, sir. But see that she doesn't drink anymore."
I didn't answer. I took her by the arm and led her back in.
"Thank god, you saved my life," she said.
Her flank bumped against me.
"It's all right. My name's Hank."
"I'm Mary Lou," she said.
"Mary Lou," I said, "I love you."
She laughed.
"By the way, you don't hide behind pillars at the opera house,
do you?"
"I don't hide behind anything," she said, sticking her breasts
out.
81
"Want another drink?"
"Sure, but he won't serve me."
"There's more than one bar at this track, Mary Lou. Let's take
a run upstairs. And keep quiet. Stand back and I will bring your
drink to you. What're you drinking?"
"Anything," she said.
"Scotch and water do?"
"Sure."
We drank the rest of the card. She brought me luck. I hit two
of the last three.
"Did you bring a car ?" I asked her.
"I came with some damn fool," she said. "Forget him."
"If you can, I can," I told her.
We wrapped up in the car and her tongue flicked in and out of
my mouth like a tiny lost snake. We unwrapped and I drove down
the coast. It was a lucky night. I got a table overlooking the
ocean and we ordered drinks and waited for the steaks. Everybody
in the place looked at her. I leaned forward and lit her
cigarette, thinking, this one's going to be a good one. Everybody
in the place knew what I was thinking and Mary Lou knew what
1 was thinking, and I smiled at her over the flame.
"The ocean," I said, "look at it out there, battering, crawling
up and down. And underneath all that, the fish, the poor fish
fighting each other, eating each other. We're like those fish, only
we're up here. One bad move and you're finished. It's nice to be a
champion. It's nice to know your moves."
I took out a cigar and lit it.
" 'nother drink, Mary Lou ?"
"All right, Hank."
5
There was this place. It stretched over the sea, it was built
over the sea. An old place, but with a touch of class. We got a
room on the first floor. You could hear the ocean running down
there, you could hear the waves, you could smell the ocean, you
could feel the tide going in and out, in and out.
I took my time with her as we talked and drank. Then I went
over to the couch and sat next to her. We worked something up,
laughing and talking and listening to the ocean. I stripped down
but made her keep her clothes on. Then I carried her over to the
bed and while crawling all over her, I finally worked her clothing
off and I was in. It was hard getting in. Then she gave way.
It was one of the best. I heard the water, I heard the tide going
in and out. It was as if I were coming with the whole ocean. It
seemed to last and last. Then I rolled off.
"Oh Jesus Christ," I said, "Oh Jesus Christ!"
I don't know how Jesus Christ always got into such things.
82
6
The next day we picked up some of her stuff at this motel.
There was a little dark guy in there with a wart on the side of
his nose. He looked dangerous.
"You going with him?" he asked Mary Lou.
"Yes."
"All right. Luck." He lit a cigarette.
"Thanks, Hector."
Hector? What the hell kind of name was that?
"Care for a beer?" he asked me.
"Sure," I said.
Hector was sitting on the edge of the bed. He went into the
kitchen and got three beers. It was good beer, imported from
Germany. He opened Mary Lou's bottle, poured some of the
bottle into a glass for her. Then he asked me:
"Glass?"
"No, thanks."
I got up and switched bottles with him.
We sat drinking the beer in silence.
Then he said, "You're man enough to take her away from me?"
"Hell, I don't know. It's her choice. If she wants to stay with
you, she'll stay. Why don't you ask her?"
"Mary Lou, will you stay with me?"
"No," she said, "I'm going with him."
She pointed at me. I felt important. I had lost so many women
to so many other guys that it felt good for the thing to be working
the other way around. I lit a cigar. Then I looked around for
an ashtray. I saw one on the dresser.
I happened to look into the mirror to see how hungover I was
and I saw him coming at me like a dart toward a dartboard. I
still had the beerbottle in my hand. I swung and he walked right
into it. I got him in the mouth. His whole mouth was broken
teeth and blood. Hector dropped to his knees, crying, holding
his mouth with both hands. I saw the stiletto. I kicked the stiletto
away from him with my foot, picked it up, looked at it. 9 inches.
I hit the button and the blade dropped back in. I put the thing
in my pocket.
Then as Hector was crying I walked up and booted him in the
ass. He sprawled flat on the floor, still crying. I walked over,
took a pull at his beer.
Then I walked over and slapped Mary Lou. She screamed.
"Cunt! You set this up, didn't you? You'd let this monkey kill
me for the lousy 4 or 5 hundred bucks in my wallet!"
"No, no!" she said. She was crying. They both were crying.
I slapped her again.
"Is that how you make it, cunt? Killing men for a couple hundred?"
"No, no, I LOVE you, Hank, I LOVE you!"
I grabbed that blue dress by the neck and ripped one side of it
83
down to her waist. She didn't wear a brassiere. The bitch didn't
need one.
I walked out of there, got outside and drove toward the track.
For two or three weeks I was looking over my shoulder. I was
jumpy. Nothing happened. I never saw Mary Lou at the racetrack
again. Or Hector.
7
Somehow the money slipped away after that and soon I left
the track and sat around in my apartment waiting for the 90
days' leave to run out. My nerves were raw from the drinking
and the action. It's not a new story about how women descend
upon a man. You think you have space to breathe, then you look
up and there's another one. A few days after returning to work,
there was another one. Fay. Fay had grey hair and always
dressed in black. She said she was protesting the war. But if Fay
wanted to protest the war, that was all right with me. She was a
writer of some sort and went to a couple of writers' workshops.
She had ideas about Saving the World. If she could Save it for
me, that would be all right too. She had been living off alimony
checks from a former husband—they had had 3 children—and
her mother also sent money now and then. Fay had not had more
than one or two jobs in her life.
Meanwhile Janko had a new load of bullshit. He sent me home
each morning with my head aching. At the time I was getting
numerous traffic citations. It seemed that everytime I looked into
the rear view mirror there were the red lights. A squad car or a
bike.
I got to my place late one night. I was really beat. Getting that
key out and into the door was about the last of me. I walked into
the bedroom and there was Fay in bed reading the New Yorker
and eating chocolates. She didn't even say hello.
I walked into the kitchen and looked for something to eat.
There was nothing in the refrigerator. I decided to pour myself
a glass of water. I walked to the sink. It was stopped-up with
garbage. Fay liked to save empty jars and jar lids. The dirty
dishes filled half the sink and on top of the water, along with a
few paper plates, floated these jars and jar lids.
I walked back into the bedroom just as Fay was putting a
chocolate in her mouth.
"Look, Fay," I said, "I know you want to save the world. But
can't you start in the kitchen ?"
"Kitchens aren't important," she said.
It was difficult to hit a woman with grey hair so I just went
into the bathroom and let the water run into the tub. A burning
bath might cool the nerves. When the tub was full I was afraid
to get into it. My sore body had, by then, stiffened to such an
extent that I was afraid I might drown in there.
I went into the front room and after an effort I managed to
84
get out of my shirt, pants, shoes, stockings. I walked into the
bedroom and climbed into bed next to Fay. I couldn't get settled.
Every time I moved, it cost me.
The only time you are alone, Chinaski, I thought, is when you
are driving to work or driving back.
I finally worked my way to a position on my stomach. I ached
all over. Soon I'd be back on the job. If I could manage to sleep,
it would help. Every now and then I could hear a page turn, the
sound of chocolates being eaten. It had been one of her writers'
workshop nights. If she would only turn out the lights.
"How was the workshop?" I asked from my belly.
"I'm worried about Robby."
"Oh," I asked, "what's wrong?"
Robby was a guy nearing forty who had lived with his mother
all his life. All he wrote, I was told, were terribly funny stories
about the Catholic Church. Robby really laid it to the Catholics.
The magazines just weren't ready for Robby, although he had
been printed once in a Canadian journal. I had seen Robby once
on one of my nights off. I drove Fay up to this mansion where
they all read their stuff to each other. "Oh! There's Robby!"
Fay had said, "he writes these very funny stories about the Catholic
Church!"
She had pointed. Robby had his back to us. His ass was wide
and big and soft; it hung in his slacks. Can't they see that? I
thought.
"Won't you come in?" Fay had asked.
"Maybe next week . . ."
Fay put another chocolate into her mouth.
"Robby's worried. He lost his job on the delivery truck. He
says he can't write without a job. He needs a feeling of security.
He says he won't be able to write until he finds another job."
"Oh hell," I said, "I can get him another job."
"Where? How?"
"They are hiring down at the post office, right and left. The
pay's not bad."
"THE POST OFFICE! ROBBY'S TOO SENSITIVE TO
WORK AT THE POST OFFICE!"
"Sorry," I said, "thought it was worth a try. Good night."
Fay didn't answer me. She was angry.
8
I had Fridays and Saturdays off, which made Sunday the
roughest day. Plus the fact that on Sunday they made me report
at 3:30 p.m. instead of my usual 6:18 p.m.
This Sunday I went in and they put me in the station papers
section, as usual per Sundays, and this meant at least eight hours
on my feet.
85
Besides the pains, I was beginning to suffer from dizzy spells.
Everything would whirl, I would come very close to blacking out,
then I would grab myself.
It had been a brutal Sunday. Some friends of Fay's had come
over and sat on the couch and chirped, how they were really
great writers, really the best in the nation. The only reason they
didn't get published was that they didn't—they said—send their
stuff out.
I had looked at them. If they wrote the way they looked, drinking
their coffee and giggling and dipping their doughnuts, it
didn't matter if they sent it out or jammed it.
I was sticking in the magazines this Sunday. I needed coffee,
2 coffees, a bite to eat. But all the soups were standing out front.
I hit out the back way. I had to get straight. The cafeteria was
on the 2nd floor. I was on the 4th. There was a doorway down by
the men's crapper. I looked at the sign.
WARNING!
DO NOT USE THIS
STAIRWAY!
It was a con. I was wiser than those mothers. They just put
the sign up to keep clever guys like Chinaski from going down
to the cafeteria. I opened the door and went on down. The door
closed behind me. I walked down to the second floor. Turned the
knob. What the fuck! The door wouldn't open! It was locked. I
walked back up. Past the 3rd floor door. I didn't try it. I knew it
was locked. As the first floor door was locked. I knew the post
office well enough by then. When they laid a trap, they were
thorough. I had one slim chance. I was at the 4th floor. I tried
the knob. It was locked.
At least the door was near the men's crapper. There was
always somebody going in and out of the men's crapper. I waited.
10 minutes. 15 minutes. 20 minutes! Didn't ANYBODY want to
shit, piss or goof-off ? 25 minutes. Then I saw a face. I tapped on
the glass.
"Hey, buddy! HEY, BUDDY!"
He didn't hear me, or he pretended not to hear me. He marched
into the crapper. 5 minutes. Then another face came by.
I rapped hard. "HEY, BUDDY! HEY. YOU COCKSUCKER!"
I guess he heard me. He looked at me from behind the wired
glass.
I said, "OPEN THE DOOR! CAN'T YOU SEE ME IN
HERE? I'M LOCKED IN, YOU FOOL! OPEN THE DOOR!"
He opened the door. I went in. The guy was in a trance-like
state.
I squeezed his elbow.
"Thanks, kid."
I walked back to the magazine case.
Then the soup walked past. He stopped and looked at me. I
slowed down.
"How are you doing, Mr. Chinaski ?"
86
I growled at him, waved a magazine in the air as if I were
going insane, said something to myself, and he walked on.
9
Fay was pregnant. But it didn't change her and it didn't
change the post office either.
The same clerks did all the work while the miscellaneous crew
stood around and argued about sports. They were all big black
dudes—built like professional wrestlers. Whenever a new one
came into the service he was tossed into the miscellaneous crew.
This kept them from murdering the supervisors. If the miscellaneous
crew had a supervisor you never saw him. The crew
brought in truckloads of mail that arrived via freight elevator.
This was a 5 minute on the hour job. Sometimes they counted
the mail, or pretended to. They looked very calm and intellectual,
making their counts with long pencils behind one ear. But most
of the time they argued the sports scene violently. They were all
experts—they read the same sports writers.
"All right, man, what's your all time outfield?"
"Well, Willie Mays, Ted Williams, Cobb."
"What? What?"
"That's right, baby!"
"What about the Babe? Whatta ya gonna do with the Babe?"
"O.K., O.K., who's your all star outfield?"
"All time, not all star!"
"O.K., O.K., you know what I mean, baby, you know what I
mean!"
"Well, I'll take Mays, Ruth and Di Maj!"
"Both you guys are nuts! How about Hank Aaron, Baby? How
about Hank?"
At one time, all miscellaneous jobs were put on bid. Bids were
filled mostly on a basis of seniority. The miscellaneous crew went
about and ripped the bids out of the order books. Then they had
nothing to do. Nobody filed a complaint. It was a long dark walk
to the parking lot at night.
10
I began getting dizzy spells. I could feel them coming. The case
would begin to whirl. The spells lasted about a minute. I couldn't
understand it. Each letter was getting heavier and heavier. The
clerks began to have that dead grey look. I began to slide off my
stool. My legs would barely hold me up. The job was killing me.
I went to my doctor and told him about it. He took my blood
pressure.
"No, no, your blood pressure is all right."
Then he put the stethoscope to me and weighed me.
"I can find nothing wrong."
Then he gave me a special blood test. He took blood from my
arm three times at intervals, each time lapse longer than the last.
87
"Do you care to wait in the other room ?"
"No, no, I'll go out and walk around and come back in time."
"All right but come back in time."
I was on time for the second blood extraction. Then there was a
longer wait for the 3rd one, 20 or 25 minutes. I walked out on the
street. Nothing much was happening. I went into a drugstore and
read a magazine. I put it down, looked at the clock and went outside.
I saw this woman sitting at the bus stop. She was one of those rare
ones. She was showing plenty of leg. I couldn't keep my eyes off
her. I crossed the street and stood about 20 yards away.
Then she got up. I had to follow her. That big ass beckoned
me. I was hypnotized. She walked into a post office and I walked in
behind her. She stood in a long line and I stood behind her. She
got 2 postcards. I bought 12 airmail postcards and two dollars
worth of stamps.
When I came out she was getting on the bus. I saw the last of
that delicious leg and ass get on the bus and the bus carried her
away.
The doctor was waiting.
"What happened? You're 5 minutes late!"
"I don't know. The clock must have been wrong."
"THIS THING MUST BE EXACT!"
"Go ahead. Take the blood anyhow."
He stuck the needle into me . . .
A couple of days later, the tests said there was nothing wrong
with me. I didn't know if it was the 5 minutes difference or what.
But the dizzy spells got worse. I began to clock out after 4 hours
work without filling out the proper forms.
I'd walk in around 11 p.m. and there would be Fay. Poor
pregnant Fay.
"What happened?"
"I couldn't take any more," I'd say, "too sensitive . . ."
11
The boys on Dorsey station didn't know my problems.
I'd enter through the back way each night, hide my sweater in
a tray and walk in to get my timecard:
"Brothers and sisters!" I'd say.
"Brother, Hank!"
"Hello, Brother Hank!"
We had a game going, the black-white game and they liked to
play it. Boyer would walk up to me, touch me on the arm and say,
"Man, if I had your paint job I'd be a millionaire!"
"Sure you would, Boyer. That's all it takes: a white skin."
Then round little Hadley would walk up to us.
"There used to be this black cook on this ship. He was the only
black man aboard. He cooked tapioca pudding 2 or 3 times a
88
week and then jacked-off into it. Those white boys really liked
his tapioca pudding, hehehehe! They asked him how he made it
and he said he had his own secret recipe, hehehehehehe!"
We all laughed. I don't know how many times I had to hear
the tapioca pudding story ...
"Hey, poor white trash! Hey, boy!"
"Look, man, if I called you 'boy' you might draw steel on me.
So don't call me 'boy.' "
"Look, white man, what do you say we go out together this
Saturday night? I got me a nice white gal with blonde hair."
"And I got myself a nice black gal. And you know what color
her hair is."
"You guys been fucking pur women for centuries. We're trying
to catch up. You don't mind if I stick my big black dick into
your white gal?"
"If she wants it she can have it."
"You stole the land from the Indians."
"Sure I did."
"You won't invite me to your house. If you do, you'll ask me
to come in the back way, so no one will see my skin . . ."
"But I'll leave a small light burning."
It got boring but there was no way out.
12
Fay was all right with the pregnancy. For an old gal, she was
all right. We waited around at our place. Finally the time came.
"It won't be long," she said. "I don't want to get there too
early."
I went out and checked the car. Came back.
"Oooh, oh," she said. "No, wait."
Maybe she could save the world. I was proud of her calm. I
forgave her for the dirty dishes and the New Yorker and her
writers' workshop. The old gal was only another lonely creature
in a world that didn't care.
"We better go now," I said.
"No," said Fay, "I don't want to make you wait too long. I
know you haven't been feeling well."
"To hell with me. Let's make it."
"No, please, Hank."
She just sat there.
"What can I do for you?" I asked.
"Nothing."
She sat there ten minutes. I went into the kitchen for a glass
of water. When I came out she said, "You ready to drive?"
"Sure."
"You know where the hospital is ?"
"Of course."
I helped her into the car. I had made two practice runs the
89
week earlier. But when we got there I had no idea where to park.
Fay pointed up a runway.
"Go in there. Park in there. We'll go in from there."
"Yes, mam," I said . . .
She was in bed in a back room overlooking the street. Her face
grimaced. "Hold my hand," she said.
I did.
"Is it really going to happen ?" I asked.
"Yes."
"You make it seem so easy," I said.
"You're so very nice. It helps."
"I'd like to be nice. It's that god damned post office . . . "
"I know. I know."
We were looking out the back window.
I said, "Look at those people down there. They have no idea
what is going on up here. They just walk on the sidewalk. Yet,
it's funny . . . they were once born themselves, each one of them."
"Yes, it is funny."
I could feel the movements of her body through her hand.
"Hold tighter," she said.
"Yes."
"I'll hate it when you go."
"Where's the doctor? Where is everybody? What the hell!"
"They'll be here."
Just then a nurse walked in. It was a Catholic hospital and she
was a very handsome nurse, dark, Spanish or Portuguese.
"You . . . must go . . . now," she told me.
I gave Fay crossed fingers and a twisted smile. I don't think
she saw. I took the elevator downstairs.
13
My German doctor walked up. The one who had given me the
blood tests.
"Congratulations," he said, shaking my hand, "it's a girl. 9
pounds, 3 ounces."
"And the mother?"
"The mother will be all right. She was no trouble at all."
"When can I see them?"
"They'll let you know. Just sit there and they'll call you."
Then he was gone.
I looked through the glass. The nurse pointed down at my
child. The child's face was very red and it was screaming louder
than any of the other children. The room was full of screaming
babies. So many births! The nurse seemed very proud of my
baby. At least, I hoped it was mine. She picked the girl up so I
could see it better. I smiled through the glass, I didn't know how
to act. The girl just screamed at me. Poor thing, I thought, poor
9«
little damned thing. I didn't know then that she would be a
beautiful girl someday who would look just like me, hahaha.
I motioned the nurse to put the child down, then waved goodbye
to both of them. She was a nice nurse. Good legs, good hips. Fair
breasts.
Fay had a spot of blood on the left side of her mouth and I
took a wet cloth and wiped it off. Women were meant to suffer;
no wonder they asked for constant declarations of love.
"I wish they'd give me my baby," said Fay, "it's not right to
separate us like this."
"I know. But I guess there's some medical reason."
"Yes, but it doesn't seem right.
"No, it doesn't. But the child looked fine. I'll do what I can
to make them send up the child as soon as possible. There must
have been 40 babies down there. They're making all the mothers
wait. I guess it's to let them get their strength back. Our baby
looked very strong, I assure you. Please don't worry."
"I'd be so happy with my baby."
"I know, I know. It won't be long."
"Sir," a fat Mexican nurse walked up, "I'll have to ask you
to leave now."
"But I'm the father."
"We know. But your wife must rest."
I squeezed Fay's hand, kissed her on the forehead. She closed
her eyes and seemed to sleep then. She was not a young woman.
Maybe she hadn't saved the world but she had made a major
improvement. Ring one up for Fay.
14
Marina Louise, Fay named the child. So there it was, Marina
Louise Chinaski. In the crib by the window. Looking up at the
tree leafs and bright designs whirling on the ceiling. Then she'd
cry. Walk the baby, talk to the baby. The girl wanted mama's
breasts but mama wasn't always ready and I didn't have mama's
breasts. And the job was still there. And now riots. One tenth
of the city was on fire . . .
15
On the elevator up, I was the only white man there. It seemed
strange. They talked about the riots, not looking at me.
"Jesus," said a coal black guy, "it's really something. These
guys walking around the streets drunk with 5ths of whiskey
in their hands. Cops driving by but the cops don't get out of
their cars, they don't bother the drunks. It's daylight. People
walking around with t.v. sets, vacuum cleaners, all that. It's
really something. . . "
91
"Yeah, man."
"The black-owned places put up signs, 'BLOOD BROTHERS.'
And the white-owned places too. But they can't fool the people.
They know which places belong to Whitey . . . "
"Yeah, brother."
Then the elevator stopped at the 4th floor and we all got off
together. I felt that it was best for me not to make any comment
at that time.
Not much later the postmaster of the city came on over the
intercoms:
"Attention! The southeast area has been barricaded. Only
those with proper identification will be allowed through. There
is a 7 p.m. curfew. After 7 p.m. nobody will be allowed to pass.
The barricade extends from Indiana Street to Hoover Street,
and from Washington Boulevard to 135th Place. Anybody living
in this area is excused from work now."
I got up and reached for my timecard.
"Hey! Where you going?" the supervisor asked me.
"You heard the announcement?"
"Yeah, but you're not—"
I slipped my left hand into my pocket.
"I'm not WHAT? I'm not WHAT?"
He looked at me.
"What do you know, WHITEY?" I said.
I took my timecard, walked over and punched out.
16
The riots ended, the baby calmed down, and I found ways
to avoid Janko. But the dizzy spells persisted. The doctor wrote
me a standing order for the green-white librium capsules and
they helped a bit.
One night I got up to get a drink of water. Then I came back,
worked 30 minutes and took my ten minute break.
When I sat down again, Chambers the supervisor, a high yellow
came running up:
"Chinaski! You've finally hung yourself! You've been gone 40
minutes!"
Chambers had fallen on the floor in a fit one night, frothing
and twitching. They had carried him out on a stretcher. The
next night he had come back, necktie, new shirt, as if nothing
had happened. Now he was pulling the old water fountain game
on me.
"Look, Chambers, try to be sensible. I got a drink of water,
sat down, worked 30 minutes, then took my break. I was gone
ten minutes."
"You've hung yourself, Chinaski! You've been gone 40 minutes!
I have 7 witnesses!"
"7 witnesses?"
92
"YES, 7!"
"I tell you, it was ten minutes."
"No, we've got you, Chinaski! We've really got you this time!"
Then, I was tired of it. I didn't want to look at him anymore:
"All right, then. I've been gone 40 minutes. Have your way.
Write it up."
Chambers ran off.
I stuck a few more letters, then the general foreman walked
up. A thin white man with little tufts of grey hair hanging over
each ear. I looked at him and then turned and stuck some more
letters.
"Mr. Chinaski, I'm sure that you understand the rules and
regulations of the post office. Each clerk is allowed 2 ten minute
breaks, one before lunch, the other after lunch. The break privilege
is granted by management: ten minutes. Ten minutes is—"
"GOD DAMN IT!" I threw my letters down. "Now I admitted
to a 40 minute break just to satisfy you guys and get you off my
ass. But you keep coming around! Now I take it back! I only
took 10 minutes! I want to see your 7 witnesses! Trot them out!"
Two days later I was at the racetrack. I looked up and saw
all these teeth, this big smile and the eyes shining, friendly. What
was it—with all those teeth? I looked closer. It was Chambers
looking at me, smiling and standing in a coffee line. I had a beer
in my hand. I walked over to a trashcan, and still looking at him,
I spit. Then I walked off. Chambers never bothered me again.
17
The baby was crawling, discovering the world. Marina slept
in bed with us at night. There was Marina, Fay, the cat and
myself. The cat slept on the bed too. Look here, I thought, I have
3 mouths depending on me. How very strange. I sat there and
watched them sleeping.
Then two nights in a row when I came home in the mornings,
the early mornings, Fay was sitting up reading the classified
sections.
"All these rooms are so damned expensive," she said.
"Sure," I said.
The next night I asked her as she read the paper:
"Are you moving out?"
"Yes."
"All right. I'll help you find a place tomorrow. I'll drive you
around."
I agreed to pay her a sum each month. She said, "All right."
Fay got the girl. I got the cat.
We found a place 8 or 10 blocks away. I helped her move in,
said goodbye to the girl and drove on back.
93
I went over to see Marina 2 or 3 or 4 times a week. I knew
as long as I could see the girl I would be all right.
Fay was still wearing black to protest the war. She attended
local peace demonstrations, love-ins, went to poetry readings,
workshops, communist party meetings, and sat in a hippie coffee
house. She took the child with her. If she wasn't out she was
sitting in a chair smoking cigarette after cigarette and reading.
She wore protest buttons on her black blouse. But she was usually
off somewhere with the girl when I drove over to visit.
I finally found them in one day. Fay was eating sunflower
seeds with yogurt. She baked her own bread but it wasn't very
good.
"I met Andy, this truckdriver," she told me. "He paints on the
side. That's one of his paintings." Fay pointed to the wall.
I was playing with the girl. I looked at the painting. I didn't
say anything.
"He has a big cock," said Fay. "He was over the other night
and he asked me, 'How would you like to be fucked with a big
cock?' and I told him, 'I would rather be fucked with love!'"
"He sounds like a man of the world," I told her.
I played with the girl a little more, then left. I had a scheme
test coming up.
Soon after, I got a letter from Fay. She and the child were
living in a hippie commune in New Mexico. It was a nice place,
she said. Marina would be able to breathe there. She enclosed a
little drawing the girl had made for me.
94
V
1
POST OFFICE DEPARTMENT
SUBJECT: Letter of Warning
TO: Mr. Henry Chinaski
Information has been received in this office indicating
that you were arrested by the Los Angeles
Police Department on March 12, 1969, on a drunk
charge.
In this connection, your attention is invited to
Section 744.12 of the Postal Manual, as follows:
"Postal employees are servants of the general
public and their conduct, in many instances,
must be subject to more restrictions and to higher
standards than may be for certain private
employments. Employees are expected to conduct
themselves during and outside of working
hours in a manner which will reflect favorably
upon the Postal Service. Although it is not the
policy of the Post Office Department to interfere
with the private lives of employees, it does require
that Postal personnel be honest, reliable,
trustworthy, and of good character and reputation."
While your arrest was on a relatively minor
charge, it constitutes evidence of your failure to
95
conduct yourself as required in a manner which
will reflect favorably upon the Postal Service. You
are hereby cautioned and warned that a repetition
of this offense or other involvement with police
authorities will leave this office no alternative but
to consider disciplinary action.
You may submit your written explanation in this
matter if you wish to do so.
2
POST OFFICE DEPARTMENT
SUBJECT: Notice of Proposed Adverse Action
TO : Mr. Henry Chinaski
This is advance notice that it is proposed to
suspend you from duty without pay for 3 days or
to take such other disciplinary action as may be
determined to be appropriate. The proposed action
is considered to be for such cause as will promote
the efficiency of the service and will be effected no
sooner than 35 calendar days from the receipt of
this letter.
The charge against you and the reasons supporting
the charge are:
CHARGE NO. 1
You are charged with being absent without leave
on May, 13, 1969, May 14, 1969, and May 15,
1969.
In addition to the above, the following element
of your past record will be considered in determining
the extent of disciplinary action should the
current charge be sustained:
You were issued a letter of warning April 1,
1969, for being absent without leave.
You have a right to answer the charge in person
or in writing, or both, and to be accompanied
by a representative of your own choosing. Your
reply is to be made within ten (10) calendar days
96
of the receipt of this letter. You may also submit
affidavits in support of your answer. Any written
reply should be directed to the Postmaster, Los
Angeles, California 90052. If additional time is
needed within which to submit your reply, it will
be considered upon written application showing the
necessity.
If you wish to reply in person, you may make an
appointment with Ellen Normell, Chief Employment
and Services Section, or K. T. Shamus,
Employee Services Officer, by telephoning 289-2222.
After the expiration of the 10-day time limit
for reply, all of the facts in your case, including
any reply you may submit, will be given full consideration
before a decision is rendered. A decision
in writing will be issued to you. If the decision is
adverse, the letter of decision will advise you of
the reason, or reasons, relied upon in making the
decision.
3
POST OFFICE DEPARTMENT
SUBJECT: Notice of Decision
TO: Henry Chinaski
This will refer to the letter addressed to you
dated August 17, 1969, proposing your suspension
without pay for three days or other disciplinary
action, based on Charge No. 1 specified therein. To
date no reply has been received to that letter.
After careful consideration of the charge, it has
been decided that Charge No. 1, which is supported
by substantial evidence, is sustained and
warrants your suspension. Accordingly, you will
be suspended from duty without pay for a period
of three (3) days.
Your first day of suspension will be November
17, 1969, and your last day of suspension will be
November 19, 1969.
The element of your past record, as set forth
in detail in the letter of proposed adverse action,
was also considered in deciding upon the penalty to
be imposed.
97
You have the right to appeal this decision either
to the Post Office Department or to the U. S. Civil
Service Commission, or first to the Post Office Department
and then to the Civil Service Department
and then to the Civil Service Commission, in accordance
with the following:
If you appeal first to the Civil Service Commission,
you will have no right to appeal to the
Post Office Department. An appeal to the Civil
Service Commission must be submitted to the
Regional Director, San Francisco Region, U. S.
Civil Service Commission, 450 Golden Gate
Avenue, Box 36010, San Francisco, California
94102. Your appeal must (a) be in writing, (b)
set forth your reasons for contesting the suspension,
with such offer of proof and documents as
you are able to submit, and (c) be submitted no
later than 15 days after the effective date of
your suspension. The Commission will upon
proper appeal, review the action only to determine
that, proper procedures have been followed,
unless you furnish an affidavit alleging that the
action is for political reasons, except as may be
required by law, or resulted from discrimination
because of martial status or physical handicap. If
you appeal to the Post Office Department, you
will not be entitled to appeal to the Commission
until after a first level decision has been made
on your appeal by the Department. At that point,
you will have a choice of continuing with your
appeal through higher levels in the Post Office
Department or appealing to the Commission.
However, if no first level decision on the appeal
has been made within 60 days after it is filed,
you may elect to terminate your appeal to the
Department by appealing to the Commission.
If you appeal to the Post Office Department within
ten (10) calendar days of receiving this notice of
decision, your suspension will not be put into
effect until you have received a decision on your
appeal from the Regional Director, Post Office
Department. Further, if you appeal to the Department,
you have the right to be accompanied,
represented, and advised by a representative of
your own choosing. You and your representative
will have freedom from restraint, interference,
coercion, descrimination, or reprisal. You and
your representative will also be allowed a rea-
98
sonable amount of official time to prepare your
presentation.
An appeal to the Post Office Department may
be submitted at any time after you receive this
letter but not later than 15 calendar days after
the effective date of the suspension. Your letter
must include a request for a hearing or a statement
that no hearing is desired. The appeal
should be addressed to:
Regional Director Post
Office Department 631
Howard Street San
Francisco, California 94106
If you file an appeal with either the Regional
Director or with the Civil Service Commission, furnish
me with a signed copy of the appeal at the
same time it is sent to the Region or Civil Service
Commission.
If you have any questions about the appeals
procedure, you may contact Richard N. Marth,
Employee Services and Benefits Assistant, at the
Employment and Services Section, Office of Personnel,
Room 2205, Federal Building, 300 North
Los Angeles Street, between 8:30 a.m. and 4 p.m.,
Monday through Friday.
4
POST OFFICE DEPARTMENT
SUBJECT: Notice of Proposed Adverse Action
TO: Henry Chinaski
This is advance notice that it is proposed to remove
you from the Postal Service or to take such
other disciplinary action as may be determined to
be appropriate. The proposed action is considered
to be for such cause as will promote the efficiency
of the service and will be affective no sooner than
35 calendar days from the receipt of this letter.
The charge against you and the reasons supporting
the charge are:
99
CHARGE NO. 1
You are charged with being absent without leave
on the following dates:
September 25, 1969 4 hrs
September 28, 1969 8 hrs
September 29, 1969 8 hrs
October 5, 1969 8 hrs
October 6, 1969 4 hrs
October 7, 1969 4 hrs
October 13, 1969 5 hrs
October 15, 1969 4 hrs
October 16, 1969 8 hrs
October 19, 1969 8 hrs
October 23, 1969 4 hrs
October 29, 1969 4 hrs
November 4, 1969 8 hrs
November 6, 1969 4 hrs
November 12, 1969 4 hrs
November 13, 1969 8 hrs
In addition to the above, the following elements
of your past record will be considered in determining
the extent of disciplinary action should the
current charge be sustained:
You were issued a letter of warning April 1,
1969, for being absent without leave.
You were issued a notice of proposed adverse
action August 17, 1969, for being absent without
leave. As a result of that charge you were
suspended from duty without pay for three days
from November 17, 1969 to November 19, 1969.
You have the right to answer the charge in person
or in writing, or both, and to be accompanied
by a representative of your own choosing. Your
reply is to be made within ten (10) calendar days
of the receipt of this letter. You may also submit
affidavits in support of your answers. Any written
reply should be directed to the Postmaster, Los
Angeles, California 90052. If additional time is
needed within which to submit your reply, it will
be considered upon written application showing
the necessity.
If you wish to reply in person, you may make an
appointment with Ellen Normell, Chief, Employ-
100
ment and Services Section, or K. T. Shamus, Employee
Services Officer, by telephoning 289-2222.
After the expiration of the 10-day limit for reply, all of the
facts in your case, including any reply you may submit, will be
given full consideration before a decision is rendered. A decision
in writing will be issued to you. If the decision is adverse, the
letter of decision will advise you of the reason, or reasons, relied
upon in making the decision.
101

VI
1
I was sitting next to a young girl who didn't know her scheme
very well.
"Where does 2900 Roteford go?" she asked me.
"Try throwing it to 33," I told her.
The supervisor was talking to her.
"You say you're from Kansas City? Both my parents were
born in Kansas City."
"Is that so?" said the girl.
Then she asked me:
"How about 8400 Meyers?"
"Give it to 18."
She was a little on the plump side but she was ready. I passed.
I'd had it with the ladies for a while.
The supervisor was standing real close to her.
"Do you live far from work?"
"No."
"Do you like your job?"
"Oh, yes."
She turned to me.
"How about 6200 Albany?"
"16."
When I finished my tray, the supervisor spoke to me:
"Chinaski, I timed you on that tray. It took you 28 minutes."
I didn't answer.
"Do you know what the standard is for that tray?"
"No, I don't know."
"How long have you been here?"
"Eleven years."
"You've been here eleven years and you don't know the standard?"
103
"That's correct."
"You stick mail as if you don't care about it."
The girl still had a full tray in front of her. We had begun our
trays together.
"And you've been talking to this lady next to you."
I lit a cigarette.
"Chinaski, come here a minute."
He stood at the front of the tin cases and pointed. All the
clerks were sticking very fast now. I watched them swinging
their right arms frantically. Even the plump girl was jamming
them home.
"See these numbers painted on the end of the case?"
"Yeh."
"Those numbers indicate the number of pieces that must be
stuck in a minute. A 2 foot tray must be stuck in 23 minutes.
You ran 5 minutes over."
He pointed to the 23. "23 minutes is standard."
"That 23 doesn't mean anything," I said.
"Whadda ya mean?"
"I mean a man came along and painted that 23 on there with a
can of paint."
"No, no, this is time-tested over the years and rechecked."
What was the use? I didn't answer.
"I'm going to have to write you up, Chinaski. You will be
counseled on this."
I went back and sat down. 11 years! I didn't have a dime more
in my pocket than when I had first walked in. 11 years. Although
each night had been long, the years had gone fast. Perhaps it
was the night work. Or doing the same thing over and over and
over again. At least with The Stone I had never known what to
expect. Here there weren't any surprises.
II years shot through the head. I had seen the job eat men
up. They seemed to melt. There was Jimmy Potts of Dorsey
Station. When I first came in, Jimmy had been a well-built guy
in a white T shirt. Now he was gone. He put his seat as close
to the floor as possible and braced himself from falling over with
his feet. He was too tired to get a haircut and had worn the
same pair of pants for 3 years. He changed shirts twice a week
and he walked very slow. They had murdered him. He was 55.
He had 7 years to go until retirement.
"I'll never make it," he told me.
They either melted or they got fat, huge, especially around the
ass and the belly. It was the stool and the same motion and the
same talk. And there I was, dizzy spells and pains in the arms,
neck, chest, everywhere. I slept all day resting up for the job. On
weekends I had to drink in order to forget it. I had come in
weighing 185 pounds. Now I weighed 223 pounds. All you moved
was your right arm.
104
2
I walked into the counselor's office. It was Eddie Beaver sitting
behind the desk. The clerks called him "Skinny Beaver." He had
a pointed head, pointed nose, pointed chin. He was all points. And
out for them too.
"Sit down, Chinaski."
Beaver had some papers in his hand. He read them.
"Chinaski, it took you 28 minutes to throw a 23 minute tray."
"Oh, knock off the bullshit. I'm tired."
"What?"
"I said, knock off the bullshit! Let me sign the paper and go
back. I don't want to hear it all."
"I'm here to counsel you, Chinaski!"
I sighed. "O.K., go ahead. Let's hear it."
"We have a production schedule to meet, Chinaski."
"Yeh."
"And when you fall behind on production that means that
somebody else is going to stick your mail for you. That means
overtime."
"You mean / am responsible for those 3 and one half hours
overtime they call almost every night?"
"Look, you took 28 minutes on a 23 minute tray. That's all
there is to it."
"You know better. Each tray is 2 feet long. Some trays have 3,
even 4 times as many letters than others. The clerks grab iwhat
they call the 'fat' trays. I don't bother. Somebody has to stick with
the tough mail. Yet all you guys know is that each tray is two
feet long and that it must be stuck in 23 minutes. But we're not
sticking trays in those cases, we're sticking letters."
"No, no, this thing has been time-tested!"
"Maybe it has. I doubt it. But if you're going to time a man,
don't judge him on one tray. Even Babe Ruth struck out now
and then. Judge a man on ten trays, or a night's work. You guys
just use this thing to hang anybody who gets in your craw."
"All right, you've had your say, Chinaski. Now, I'm telling
YOU: you stuck a 28 minute tray. We go by that. NOW, if you are
caught on another slow tray you will be due for ADVANCED
COUNSELING!"
"All right, just let me ask you one question?"
"All right."
"Suppose I get an easy tray. Once in a while I do. Sometimes I
finish a tray in 5 minutes or in 8 minutes. Let's say I stick a tray
in 8 minutes. According to the time-tested standard I have saved
the post office 15 minutes. Now can I take these 15 minutes and go
down to the cafeteria, have a slice of pie with ice cream, watch t.v.
and come back?"
"NO! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO GRAB A TRAY IMMEDIATELY
AND START STICKING MAIL!"
I signed a paper saying that I had been counseled. Then Skinny
105
Beaver signed my travel form, wrote the time on it and sent me
back to my stool to stick more mail.
3
But, there were still bits of action. One guy was caught on the
same stairway that I had been trapped on. He was caught there
with his head under some girl's skirt. Then one of the girls who
worked in the cafeteria complained that she hadn't been paid,
as promised, for a bit of oral copulation she had supplied to a
general foreman and 3 mailhandlers. They fired the girl and the
3 mailhandlers and busted the general foreman down to supervisor.
Then, I set the post office on fire.
I had been sent to fourth class papers and was smoking a
cigar, working a stack of mail off of a hand truck when some
guy came by and said, "HEY, YOUR MAIL IS ON FIRE!"
I looked around. There it was. A small flame was starting to
stand up like a dancing snake. Evidently part of a burning cigar
ash had fallen in there earlier.
"Oh shit!"
The flame grew rapidly. I took a catalogue and, holding it flat,
I beat the shit out of it. Sparks flew. It was hot. As soon as I
put out one section, another caught up.
I heard a voice:
"Hey! I smell fire!"
"YOU DON'T SMELL FIRE," I yelled, "YOU SMELL
SMOKE!"
"I think I'm going to get out of here!"
"God damn you, then," I screamed, "GET OUT!"
The flames were burning my hands. I had to save the United
States mail, 4th class junkmail!
Finally, I got it under control. I took my foot and pushed the
whole pile of papers onto the floor and stepped on the last bit
of red ash.
The supervisor walked up to say something to me. I stood
there with the burned catalogue in my hand and waited. He
looked at me and walked off.
Then I resumed casing the 4th class junkmail. Anything
burned, I put to one side.
My cigar had gone out. I didn't light it again.
My hands began to hurt and I walked over to the water fountain,
put them under water. It didn't help.
I found the supervisor and asked him for a travel slip to the
nurse's office.
It was the same one who used to come to my door and ask me,
"Now what's the matter, Mr. Chinaski?"
When I walked in, she said the same thing again.
"You remember me, eh?" I asked.
"Oh yes, I know you've had some real sick nights."
106
"Yeh," I said.
"Do you still have women up at your apartment?" she asked.
"Yeh. Do you still have men up at yours?"
"All right, Mr. Chinaski, now what's your problem?"
"I burned my hands."
"Come over here. How did you burn your hands?"
"Does it matter? They're burned."
She was dabbing my hands with something. One of her breasts
brushed me.
"How did it happen, Henry?"
"Cigar. I was standing next to a truck of 4th class. Ash must
have gotten in there. Flames came up."
The breast was up against me again.
"Hold your hands still, please!"
Then she laid her whole flank against me as she spread some
ointment on my hands. I was sitting on a stool.
"What's the matter, Henry? You seem nervous."
"Well . . . you know how it is, Martha."
"My name is not Martha. It's Helen."
"Let's get married, Helen."
"What?"
"I mean, how soon will I be able to use my hands again?"
"You can use them right now if you feel like it."
"What?"
"I mean, on the work floor."
She wrapped on some gauze.
"It does feel better," I told her.
"You mustn't burn the mails."
"It was junk."
"All mail is important."
"All right, Helen."
She walked over to her desk and I followed her. She filled out
the travel form. She looked very cute in her little white hat. I'd
have to find a way to get back there.
She saw me looking at her body.
"All right, Mr. Chinaski, I think you better leave now."
"Oh yes . . . Well, thanks for everything."
"It's just part of the job."
"Sure."
A week later there were NO SMOKING IN THIS AREA
signs all around. The clerks were not allowed to smoke unless
they used ashtrays. Somebody had been contracted to manufacture
all these ashtrays. They were nice. And said PROPERTY
OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT. The clerks stole
most of them.
NO SMOKING.
I had all by myself, Henry Chinaski, revolutionized the postal
system.
107
4
Then some men came around and ripped out every other waterfountain.
"Hey, look, what the hell are they doing?" I asked.
Nobody seemed interested.
I was in the 3rd class flat section. I walked over to another
clerk.
"Look!" I said. "They are taking away our water!"
He glanced at the waterfountain, then went back to sticking
his 3rd class.
I tried other clerks. They showed the same disinterest. I
couldn't understand it.
I asked to have my union representative paged to my area.
After a long delay, here he came—Parker Anderson. Parker
used to sleep in an old used car and freshen up and shave and
shit at gas stations that didn't lock their restrooms. Parker had
tried to be a hustler but had failed. And had come to the central
post office, joined the union, and went to the union meetings
where he became sarge-at-arms. He was soon a union representative,
and then he was elected vice president.
"What's the matter, Hank? I know you don't need me to
handle these soups!"
"Don't butter me, babe. Now I've paying union dues for almost
12 years and haven't asked for a damn thing."
"All right, what's wrong?"
"It's the waterfountains."
"The waterfountains are wrong?"
"No, god damn it, the waterfountains are right. It's what
they are doing to them. Look."
"Look? Where?"
"Therel"
"I don't see anything."
"That's the exact nature of my bitch. There used to be a
waterfountain there."
"So they took it out. What the hell?"
"Look, Parker, I wouldn't mind one. But they are yanking
out every other waterfountain in the building. If we don't stop
them here, they will soon be closing down every other crapper
. . . and then, what next, I don't know . . . "
"All right," said Parker, "what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to get off your ass and find out why these waterfountains
are being removed."
"All right, I'll see you tomorrow."
"See that you do. 12 years worth of union dues is $312."
The next day I had to look for Parker. He didn't have the
answer. Or the next or the next. I told Parker that I was tired
of waiting. He had one more day.
The next day he came up to me in the coffee break area.
108
"All right, Chinaski, I found out."
"Yes?"
"In 1912 when this building was built . . . "
"1912? That's over a half century ago! No wonder this place
looks like the Kaiser's whorehouse!"
"All right, stop it. Now, in 1912 when this place was built,
the contract called for a certain number of waterfountains. In
checking, the p.o. found that there had been twice as many
waterfountains installed as were called for in the original contract."
"Well, o.k.," I said, "what harm can twice as many waterfountains
do? The clerks will only drink so much water."
"Right. But the waterfountains happen to jut out a bit. They
get in the way."
"So?"
"All right. Supposing a clerk with a sharp lawyer was injured
against a waterfountain ? Say he was pinned against that fountain
by a handtruck loaded with heavy sacks of magazines?"
"I see it now. The fountain isn't supposed to be there. The
post office is sued for negligence."
"Right!"
"All right. Thanks, Parker."
"My service."
If he had made up the story, it was damn near worth $312.
I'd seen a lot worse printed in Playboy.
5
I found that the only way I could keep from dizzy-spelling
into my case was to get up and take a walk now and then.
Fazzio, a supervisor who had the station at the time, saw
me walking up to one of the rare waterfountains.
"Look, Chinaski, everytime I see you, you're walking!"
"That's nothing," 1 said, "everytime I see you, you're walking."
"But that's part of my job. Walking is part of my job. I have
to do it."
"Look," I said, "it's part of my job too. I have to do it. If I
stay on that stool much longer I am going to leap up on top of
those tin cases and start running around whistling Dixie from
my asshole and Mammy's Little Children Love Shortnin' Bread
through the frontal orifice."
"All right, Chinaski, forget it."
6
One night I was coming around the corner after sneaking
down to the cafeteria for a pack of smokes. And there was a
face I knew.
109
It was Tom Moto! The guy I had subbed with under The
Stone!
"Moto, you motherfuck!" I said.
"Hank!" he said.
We shook hands.
"Hey, I was thinking of you! Jonstone is retiring this month.
Some of us are holding a farewell party for him. You know,
he always liked to fish. We're going to take him out in a rowboat.
Maybe you'd like to come along and throw him overboard, drown
him. We've got a nice deep lake."
"No, shit, I just don't even want to look at him."
"But you're invited."
Moto was grinning from asshole to eyebrow. Then I looked
at his shirt: a supervisor's badge.
"Oh no, Tom."
"Hank, I've got 4 kids. They need me for bread and butter."
"All right, Tom," I said.
Then I walked off.
7
I don't know how it happens to people. I had child support,
need for something to drink, rent, shoes, shirts, socks, all that
stuff. Like everyone else I needed an old car, something to eat,
all the little intangibles.
Like women.
Or a day at the track.
With everything on the line and no way out, you don't even
think about it.
I parked across the street from the Federal Building and stood
waiting for the signal to change. I walked across. Pushed through
the swinging doors. It was as if I were a piece of iron drawn to
the magnet. There was nothing I could do.
It was on the 2nd floor. I opened the door and they were in
there. The clerks of the Federal Building. I noticed one girl,
poor thing, only one arm. She'd be there forever. It was like
being an old wino like me. Well, as the boys said, you had to
work somewhere. So they accepted what there was. This was
the wisdom of the slave.
A young black girl walked up. She was well-dressed and
pleased with her surroundings. I was happy for her. I would
have gone mad with the same job.
"Yes?" she asked.
"I'm a postal clerk," I said, "I want to resign."
She reached under the counter and came up with a stack of
papers.
"All these?"
110
She smiled, "Sure you can do it?"
"Don't worry," I said, "I can do it."
8
You had to fill out more papers to get out than to get in.
The first page they gave you was a personalized mimeo affair
from the postmaster of the city.
It began:
"I am sorry you are terminating your position
with the post office and ... etc., etc., etc., etc."
How could he be sorry? He didn't even know me.
There was a list of questions.
"Did you find our supervisors understanding? Were you
able to relate to them?"
Yes, I answered.
"Did you find the supervisors in any manner prejudiced toward
race, religion, background or any related factor?"
No, I answered.
Then there was one—"Would you advise your friends to seek
employment in the post office?" Of course, I answered.
"If you have any grievances or complaints about the post
office please list them in detail on the reverse side of this page."
No grievances, I answered.
Then my black girl was back.
"Finished already?"
"Finished."
"I've never seen anybody fill out their papers that fast." '
"Quickly,' " I said.
"Quickly'?" she asked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, what do we do next?"
"Please step in."
I followed her ass between desks to a place almost
to the back.
"Sit down," the man said.
He took some time reading through the papers. Then he
looked at me.
"May I ask why you are resigning? Is it because of disciplinary
procedures against you?"
"No."
"Then what is the reason for your resignation?"
"To pursue a career."
"To pursue a career?"
He looked at me. I was less than 8 months from my 50th
birthday. I knew what he was thinking.
"May I ask what your 'career' will be?"
"Well, sir, I'll tell you. The trapping season in the bayou only
lasts from December through February. I've already lost a
111
month."
"A month? But you've been here eleven years."
"All right, then, I've wasted eleven years. I can pick up 10
to 20 grand for 3 months trapping at Bayou La Fourche."
"What do you do?"
"Trap I Muskrats, nutria, mink, otter . . . coon. All I need is
a pirogue. I give 20 percent of my take for use of the land. I
get paid a buck and a quarter for muskrat skins, 3 bucks for
mink, 4 bucks for 'bo mink,' a buck and a half for nutria and
25 bucks for otter. I sell the muskrat carcass, which is about a
foot long, for 5 cents to a cat food factory. I get 25 cents for
the skinned body of the nutria. I raise pigs, chickens and ducks. I
catch catfish. There's nothing to it. I—"
"Never mind, Mr. Chinaski, that will be sufficient."
He put some papers in his typewriter and typed away.
Then I looked up and there was Parker Anderson my union
man, good old gas-station shaving and shitting Parker, giving
me his politician's grin.
"You resigning, Hank? I know you been threatenin' to for
eleven years . . . "
"Yeah, I'm going to Southern Louisiana and catch myself a
batch of goodies."
"They got a racetrack down there?"
"You kidding? The Fair Grounds is one of the oldest tracks
in the country!"
Parker had a young white boy with him—one of the neurotic
tribe of the lost—and the kid's eyes were filmed with wet layers
of tears. One big tear in each eye. They did not drop out. It
was fascinating. I had seen women sit and look at me with
those same eyes before they got mad and started screaming
about what a son of a bitch I was. Evidently the boy had fallen
into one of the many traps, and he had gone running for Parker.
Parker would save his job.
The man gave me one more paper to sign and then I got out
of there.
Parker said, "Luck, old man," as I walked by.
"Thanks, baby," I answered.
I didn't feel any different. But I knew that soon, like a man
lifted quickly out of the deep sea, I would be afflicted—with a
particular type of bends. I was like Joyce's damned parakeets.
After living in the cage I had taken the opening and flown out
—like a shot into the heavens. Heavens ?
9
I went into the bends. I got drunker and stayed drunker than
a shit skunk in Purgatory. I even had the butcher knife against
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my throat one night in the kitchen and then I thought, easy, old
boy, your little girl might want you to take her to the zoo. Ice
cream bars, chimpanzees, tigers, green and red birds, and the
sun coming down on top of her head, the sun coming down and
crawling into the hairs of your arms, easy, old boy.
When I came to I was in the front room of my apartment,
spitting into the rug, putting cigarettes out against my wrists,
laughing. Mad as a March Hare. I looked up and there sat this
pre-med student. A human heart sat in a homey fat jar between
us on the coffeetable. All around the human heart—which was
labeled after its former owner "Francis"—were half empty
fifths of whiskey and scotch, clutters of beerbottles, ashtrays,
garbage. I'd pick up a bottle and swallow a hellish mixture of
beer and ashes. I hadn't eaten for 2 weeks. An endless stream of
people had come and gone. There had been 7 or 8 wild parties
where I had kept demanding—"More to drink! More to drink!
More to drink!" I was flying up to heaven; they were just talking—
and fingering each other.
"Yeh," I said to the pre-med student, "what do you want with
me?"
"I am going to be your own personal physician."
"All right, doctor, the first thing I want you to do is to take
that god damned human heart out of here!"
"Uh uh."
"What?"
"The heart stays here."
"Look, man, I don't know your name—"
"Wilbert."
"Well, Wilbert, I don't know who you are or how you got here
but you take 'Francis' with you!"
"No, it stays with you."
Then he got his little playbag and the rubber wrap-around
for the arm and he squeezed the ball and the rubber inflated.
"You've got the blood pressure of a 19 year old," he told me.
"Fuck that. Look, isn't it against the law to leave human hearts
laying around?"
"I'll be back to get it. Now, breathe in!"
"I thought the post office was driving me crazy. Now you
come along."
"Quiet! Breathe in!"
"I need a good young piece of ass, doctor. That's what's wrong
with me."
"Your backbone is put of place in 14 areas, Chinaski. That
breeds tension, imbecility, and, often, madness."
"Balls I" I said ...
I don't remember the gentleman leaving. I awakened on my
couch at 1:10 p.m. in the afternoon, death in the afternoon, and it
was hot, the sun ripping through my torn shades to rest on the
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jar in the center of the coffeetable. "Francis" had stayed with
me all night, stewing in alcoholic brine, swimming in the mucous
extension of the dead diastole. Sitting there in the jar.
It looked like fried chicken. I mean, before you fried it.
Exactly.
I picked it up and put it in my closet and covered it with a
torn shirt. Then I went to the bathroom and vomited. I finished,
stuck my face against the mirror. There were long black hairs
sticking out all over my face. Suddenly I had to sit down and
shit. It was a good hot one.
The doorbell rang. I finished wiping my ass, got into some old
clothes and went to the door.
"Hello?"
There was a young guy out there with long blonde hair hanging
down around his face and a black girl who just kept smiling as if
she were crazy.
"Hank?"
"Yeh. Who you 2 guys?"
"She is a woman. Don't you remember us? From the party?
We brought a flower."
"Oh balls, come on in."
They brought in the flower, some kind of red-orange thing on a
green stem. It made a lot more sense than many things, except
that it had been murdered. I found a bowl, put the flower in,
brought out a jug of wine and put it on the coffeetable.
"You don't remember her?" the kid asked. "You said you wanted
to fuck her."
She laughed.
"Very nice, but not now."
"Chinaski, how are you going to make it without the post
office?"
"I don't know. Maybe I'll fuck you. Or let you fuck me. Hell, I
don't know."
"You can sleep on our floor anytime."
"Can I watch while you fuck?"
"Sure."
We drank. I had forgotten their names. I showed them the
heart. I asked them to take the horrible thing with them. I
didn't dare throw it out in case the pre-med student needed it
back for an exam or at the expiration of the med-library loan or
whatever.
So we went down and saw a nude floor show, drinking and
hollering and laughing. I don't know who had the money but I
think he had most of it, which was nice for a change, and I kept
laughing and squeezing the girl's ass and her thighs and kissing
her, but nobody cared. As long as the money lasted, you lasted.
They drove me back and he left with her. I got into the door,
said goodbye, turned on the radio, found a half-pint of scotch,
drank that, laughing, feeling good, finally relaxed, free, burning
my fingers with short cigar butts, then made it to the bed, made
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it to the edge, tripped, fell down, fell down across the mattress,
slept, slept, slept...
* * *
In the morning it was morning and I was still alive.
Maybe I'll write a novel, I thought. And then I did.
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A major contemporary American writer, Charles Bukowski was
born in Andernach, Germany, in 1920, and brought to the United
States when he was two. He was raised in Los Angeles where he
continues to live. He began writing in his early twenties, published
his first poems at the age of thirty-five, and has now published more
than fifteen books of poetry and prose. Sartre and Genet have called
him "the best poet in America." Hundreds of his poems and stories
have appeared in magazines and newspapers. Post Office is his first
published novel.
Photo: Sam Cherry