Post Office

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?”

“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 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.

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!”

“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.

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!”

“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 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 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?”

“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.”

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 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.

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.

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 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 distance 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.

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!”

“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 won by 6 lengths, eased up. They had that baby fixed from ass-hole 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?”

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 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 belt-whipped 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, something 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!”

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 wandering around 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 he 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.