Post Office

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…”

“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

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 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.

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?” I 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.

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 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!”

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 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.

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 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 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.

“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 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.

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.

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.

“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 4DAYS!”

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 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.

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!”

“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 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!”

“What’s horrible about assholes, baby?”

She held a napkin to her mouth. Got up and ran to the bath room. 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 STICK PIN 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 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 suit cases. 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.