Post Office

1

Then I developed a new system at the racetrack. I pulled in $3,000 in a month and a half while only going to the track two or three times a week. I began to dream. I saw a little house down by the sea. I saw myself in fine clothing, calm, getting up mornings, getting into my imported car, making the slow easy drive to the track. I saw leisurely steak dinners, preceded and followed by good chilled drinks in colored glasses. The big tip. The cigar. And women as you wanted them. It’s easy to fall into this kind of thinking when men handed you large bills at the cashier’s window. When in one six furlong race, say in a minute and 9 seconds, you make a month’s pay.

So I stood in the tour superintendent’s office. There he was behind his desk. I had a cigar in my mouth and whiskey on my breath. I felt like money. I looked like money.

“Mr. Winters,” I said, “the post office has treated me well. But I have outside business interests that simply must be taken care of. If you can’t give me a leave of absence, I must resign.”

“Didn’t I give you a leave of absence earlier in the year, Chinaski?”

“No, Mr. Winters, you turned down my request for a leave of absence. This time there can’t be any turndown. Or I will resign.”

“All right, fill out the form and I’ll sign it. But I can only give you 90 working days off.”

“I’ll take ’em,” I said, exhaling a long trail of blue smoke from my expensive cigar.

2

The track had moved down the coast a hundred miles or so. I kept paying the rent on my apartment in town, got in my car and drove down. Once or twice a week I would drive back to the apartment, check the mail, maybe sleep overnight, then drive back down.

It was a good life, and I started winning. After the last race each night I would have one or two easy drinks at the bar, tipping the bartender well. It looked like a new life. I could do no wrong.

One night I didn’t even watch the last race. I went to the bar. $50 to win was my standard bet. After you bet 50 win a while it feels like betting 5 win or 10 win. “Scotch and water,” I told the barkeep. “Think I’ll listen to this one over the speaker.”

“Who you got?”

“Blue Stocking,” I told him. “50 win.”

“Too much weight.”

“Are you kidding? A good horse can pack 122 pounds in a 6 thousand dollar claimer. That means, according to the conditions, that the horse has done something that no other horse in that race has done.”

Of course, that wasn’t the reason I had bet Blue Stocking. I was always giving out misinformation. I didn’t want anybody else on board.

At the time, they didn’t have closed circuit t.v. You just listened to the calls. I was $380 ahead. A loss on the last race would give me a $330 profit. A good day’s work.

We listened. The caller mentioned every horse in the race but Blue Stocking.

My horse must have fallen down, I thought.

They were in the stretch, coming down toward the wire. That track was notorious for its short stretch.

Then right before the race ended the announcer screamed, “AND HERE COMES BLUE STOCKING ON THE OUTSIDE! BLUE STOCKING IS GETTING UP! IT’S… BLUE STOCKING!”

“Pardon me,” I told the bartender, “I’ll be right back. Fix me a scotch and water, double shot.”

“Yes, sir!” he said.

I went put back where they had a small tote board near the walking ring. Blue Stocking read 9/2. Well it wasn’t 8 or 10 to one. But you played the winner, not the price. I’d take the $250 profit plus change. I went back to the bar.

“Who do you like tomorrow, sir?” asked the barkeep.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off,” I told him.

I finished my drink, tipped him a dollar and walked off.

3

Every night was about the same. I’d drive along the coast looking for a place to have dinner. I wanted an expensive place that wasn’t too crowded. I developed a nose for those places. I could tell by looking at them from the outside. You couldn’t always get a table directly overlooking the ocean unless you wanted to wait. But you could still see the ocean out there and the moon, and let yourself get romantic. Let yourself enjoy life. I always asked for a small salad and a big steak. The waitresses smiled deliciously and stood very close to you. I had come a long way from a guy who had worked in slaughterhouses, who had crossed the country with a railroad track gang, who had worked in a dog biscuit factory, who had slept on park benches, who had worked the nickle and dime jobs in a dozen cities across the nation.

After dinner I would look for a motel. This also took a bit of driving. First I’d stop somewhere for whiskey and beer. I avoided the places with t.v. sets. It was clean sheets, a hot shower, luxury. It was a magic life. And I did not tire of it.

4

One day I was at the bar between races and I saw this woman. God or somebody keeps creating women and tossing them out on the streets, and this one’s ass is too big and that one’s tits are too small and this one is mad and that one is crazy and that one is a religionist and that one reads tea leaves and this one can’t control her farts, and that one has this big nose, and that one has boney legs…

But now and then, a woman walks up, full blossom, a woman just bursting out of her dress… a sex creature, a curse, the end of it all. I looked up and there she was, down at the end of the bar. She was about drunk and the bartender wouldn’t serve her and she began to bitch and they called one of the track cops and the track cop had her by the arm, leading her off, and they were talking.

I finished my drink and followed them.

“Officer! Officer!”

He stopped and looked at me.

“Has my wife done something wrong?” I asked.

“We believe that she is intoxicated, sir. I was going to escort her to the gate.”

“The starting gate?”

He laughed. “No, sir. The exit gate.”

“I’ll take over here, officer.”

“All right, sir. But see that she doesn’t drink anymore.”

I didn’t answer. I took her by the arm and led her back in.

“Thank god, you saved my life,” she said.

Her flank bumped against me.

“It’s all right. My name’s Hank.”

“I’m Mary Lou,” she said.

“Mary Lou,” I said, “I love you.”

She laughed.

“By the way, you don’t hide behind pillars at the opera house, do you?”

“I don’t hide behind anything,” she said, sticking her breasts out.

“Want another drink?”

“Sure, but he won’t serve me.”

“There’s more than one bar at this track, Mary Lou. Let’s take a run upstairs. And keep quiet. Stand back and I will bring your drink to you. What’re you drinking?”

“Anything,” she said.

“Scotch and water do?”

“Sure.”

We drank the rest of the card. She brought me luck. I hit two of the last three. “Did you bring a car?” I asked her. “I came with some damn fool,” she said. “Forget him.”

“If you can, I can,” I told her. We wrapped up in the car and her tongue flicked in and out of my mouth like a tiny lost snake. We unwrapped and I drove down the coast. It was a lucky night. I got a table overlooking the ocean and we ordered drinks and waited for the steaks. Everybody in the place looked at her. I leaned forward and lit her cigarette, thinking, this one’s going to be a good one. Everybody in the place knew what I was thinking and Mary Lou knew what 1 was thinking, and I smiled at her over the flame.

“The ocean,” I said, “look at it out there, battering, crawling up and down. And underneath all that, the fish, the poor fish fighting each other, eating each other. We’re like those fish, only we’re up here. One bad move and you’re finished. It’s nice to be a champion. It’s nice to know your moves.”

I took out a cigar and lit it.

“’nother drink, Mary Lou?”

“All right, Hank.”

5

There was this place. It stretched over the sea, it was built over the sea. An old place, but with a touch of class. We got a room on the first floor. You could hear the ocean running down there, you could hear the waves, you could smell the ocean, you could feel the tide going in and out, in and out.

I took my time with her as we talked and drank. Then I went over to the couch and sat next to her. We worked something up, laughing and talking and listening to the ocean. I stripped down but made her keep her clothes on. Then I carried her over to the bed and while crawling all over her, I finally worked her clothing off and I was in. It was hard getting in. Then she gave way.

It was one of the best. I heard the water, I heard the tide going in and out. It was as if I were coming with the whole ocean. It seemed to last and last. Then I rolled off.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” I said, “Oh Jesus Christ!”

I don’t know how Jesus Christ always got into such things.

6

The next day we picked up some of her stuff at this motel. There was a little dark guy in there with a wart on the side of his nose. He looked dangerous.

“You going with him?” he asked Mary Lou.

“Yes.”

“All right. Luck.” He lit a cigarette.

“Thanks, Hector.”

Hector? What the hell kind of name was that?

“Care for a beer?” he asked me.

“Sure,” I said.

Hector was sitting on the edge of the bed. He went into the kitchen and got three beers. It was good beer, imported from Germany. He opened Mary Lou’s bottle, poured some of the bottle into a glass for her. Then he asked me:

“Glass?”

“No, thanks.”

I got up and switched bottles with him.

We sat drinking the beer in silence.

Then he said, “You’re man enough to take her away from me?”

“Hell, I don’t know. It’s her choice. If she wants to stay with you, she’ll stay. Why don’t you ask her?”

“Mary Lou, will you stay with me?”

“No,” she said, “I’m going with him.” She pointed at me. I felt important. I had lost so many women to so many other guys that it felt good for the thing to be working the other way around. I lit a cigar. Then I looked around for an ashtray. I saw one on the dresser.

I happened to look into the mirror to see how hungover I was and I saw him coming at me like a dart toward a dartboard. I still had the beerbottle in my hand. I swung and he walked right into it. I got him in the mouth. His whole mouth was broken teeth and blood. Hector dropped to his knees, crying, holding his mouth with both hands. I saw the stiletto. I kicked the stiletto away from him with my foot, picked it up, looked at it. 9 inches. I hit the button and the blade dropped back in. I put the thing in my pocket.

Then as Hector was crying I walked up and booted him in the ass. He sprawled flat on the floor, still crying. I walked over, took a pull at his beer.

Then I walked over and slapped Mary Lou. She screamed.

“Cunt! You set this up, didn’t you? You’d let this monkey kill me for the lousy 4 or 5 hundred bucks in my wallet!”

“No, no!” she said. She was crying. They both were crying. I slapped her again. “Is that how you make it, cunt? Killing men for a couple hundred?”

“No, no, I LOVE you, Hank, I LOVE you!”

I grabbed that blue dress by the neck and ripped one side of it down to her waist. She didn’t wear a brassiere. The bitch didn’t need one.

I walked out of there, got outside and drove toward the track. For two or three weeks I was looking over my shoulder. I was jumpy. Nothing happened. I never saw Mary Lou at the racetrack again. Or Hector.

7

Somehow the money slipped away after that and soon I left the track and sat around in my apartment waiting for the 90 days’ leave to run out. My nerves were raw from the drinking and the action. It’s not a new story about how women descend upon a man. You think you have space to breathe, then you look up and there’s another one. A few days after returning to work, there was another one. Fay. Fay had grey hair and always dressed in black. She said she was protesting the war. But if Fay wanted to protest the war, that was all right with me. She was a writer of some sort and went to a couple of writers’ workshops. She had ideas about Saving the World. If she could Save it for me, that would be all right too. She had been living off alimony checks from a former husband—they had had 3 children—and her mother also sent money now and then. Fay had not had more than one or two jobs in her life.

Meanwhile Janko had a new load of bullshit. He sent me home each morning with my head aching. At the time I was getting numerous traffic citations. It seemed that everytime I looked into the rear view mirror there were the red lights. A squad car or a bike.

I got to my place late one night. I was really beat. Getting that key out and into the door was about the last of me. I walked into the bedroom and there was Fay in bed reading the New Yorker and eating chocolates. She didn’t even say hello.

I walked into the kitchen and looked for something to eat. There was nothing in the refrigerator. I decided to pour myself a glass of water. I walked to the sink. It was stopped-up with garbage. Fay liked to save empty jars and jar lids. The dirty dishes filled half the sink and on top of the water, along with a few paper plates, floated these jars and jar lids.

I walked back into the bedroom just as Fay was putting a chocolate in her mouth. “Look, Fay,” I said, “I know you want to save the world. But can’t you start in the kitchen?”

“Kitchens aren’t important,” she said.

It was difficult to hit a woman with grey hair so I just went into the bathroom and let the water run into the tub. A burning bath might cool the nerves. When the tub was full I was afraid to get into it. My sore body had, by then, stiffened to such an extent that I was afraid I might drown in there.

I went into the front room and after an effort I managed to get out of my shirt, pants, shoes, stockings. I walked into the bedroom and climbed into bed next to Fay. I couldn’t get settled. Every time I moved, it cost me.

The only time you are alone, Chinaski, I thought, is when you are driving to work or driving back.

I finally worked my way to a position on my stomach. I ached all over. Soon I’d be back on the job. If I could manage to sleep, it would help. Every now and then I could hear a page turn, the sound of chocolates being eaten. It had been one of her writers’ workshop nights. If she would only turn out the lights.

“How was the workshop?” I asked from my belly.

“I’m worried about Robby.”

“Oh,” I asked, “what’s wrong?”

Robby was a guy nearing forty who had lived with his mother all his life. All he wrote, I was told, were terribly funny stories about the Catholic Church. Robby really laid it to the Catholics. The magazines just weren’t ready for Robby, although he had been printed once in a Canadian journal. I had seen Robby once on one of my nights off. I drove Fay up to this mansion where they all read their stuff to each other. “Oh! There’s Robby!” Fay had said, “he writes these very funny stories about the Catholic Church!”

She had pointed. Robby had his back to us. His ass was wide and big and soft; it hung in his slacks. Can’t they see that? I thought.

“Won’t you come in?” Fay had asked.

“Maybe next week…”

Fay put another chocolate into her mouth.

“Robby’s worried. He lost his job on the delivery truck. He says he can’t write without a job. He needs a feeling of security. He says he won’t be able to write until he finds another job.”

“Oh hell,” I said, “I can get him another job.”

“Where? How?”

“They are hiring down at the post office, right and left. The pay’s not bad.”

“THE POST OFFICE! ROBBY’S TOO SENSITIVE TO WORK AT THE POST OFFICE!”

“Sorry,” I said, “thought it was worth a try. Good night.”

Fay didn’t answer me. She was angry.

8

I had Fridays and Saturdays off, which made Sunday the roughest day. Plus the fact that on Sunday they made me report at 3:30 p.m. instead of my usual 6:18 p.m.

This Sunday I went in and they put me in the station papers section, as usual per Sundays, and this meant at least eight hours on my feet.

Besides the pains, I was beginning to suffer from dizzy spells. Everything would whirl, I would come very close to blacking out, then I would grab myself.

It had been a brutal Sunday. Some friends of Fay’s had come over and sat on the couch and chirped, how they were really great writers, really the best in the nation. The only reason they didn’t get published was that they didn’t—they said—send their stuff out.

I had looked at them. If they wrote the way they looked, drinking their coffee and giggling and dipping their doughnuts, it didn’t matter if they sent it out or jammed it.

I was sticking in the magazines this Sunday. I needed coffee, 2 coffees, a bite to eat. But all the soups were standing out front. I hit out the back way. I had to get straight. The cafeteria was on the 2nd floor. I was on the 4th. There was a doorway down by the men’s crapper. I looked at the sign.

It was a con. I was wiser than those mothers. They just put the sign up to keep clever guys like Chinaski from going down to the cafeteria. I opened the door and went on down. The door closed behind me. I walked down to the second floor. Turned the knob. What the fuck! The door wouldn’t open! It was locked. I walked back up. Past the 3rd floor door. I didn’t try it. I knew it was locked. As the first floor door was locked. I knew the post office well enough by then. When they laid a trap, they were thorough. I had one slim chance. I was at the 4th floor. I tried the knob. It was locked.

At least the door was near the men’s crapper. There was always somebody going in and out of the men’s crapper. I waited. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. 20 minutes! Didn’t ANYBODY want to shit, piss or goof-off? 25 minutes. Then I saw a face. I tapped on the glass.

“Hey, buddy! HEY, BUDDY!”

He didn’t hear me, or he pretended not to hear me. He marched into the crapper. 5 minutes. Then another face came by. I rapped hard. “HEY, BUDDY! HEY. YOU COCKSUCKER!” I guess he heard me. He looked at me from behind the wired glass. I said, “OPEN THE DOOR! CAN’T YOU SEE ME IN HERE? I’M LOCKED IN, YOU FOOL! OPEN THE DOOR!” He opened the door. I went in. The guy was in a trance-like state.

I squeezed his elbow.

“Thanks, kid.”

I walked back to the magazine case.

Then the soup walked past. He stopped and looked at me. I slowed down.

“How are you doing, Mr. Chinaski?”

I growled at him, waved a magazine in the air as if I were going insane, said something to myself, and he walked on.

9

Fay was pregnant. But it didn’t change her and it didn’t change the post office either.

The same clerks did all the work while the miscellaneous crew stood around and argued about sports. They were all big black dudes—built like professional wrestlers. Whenever a new one came into the service he was tossed into the miscellaneous crew.

This kept them from murdering the supervisors. If the miscellaneous crew had a supervisor you never saw him. The crew brought in truckloads of mail that arrived via freight elevator.

This was a 5 minute on the hour job. Sometimes they counted the mail, or pretended to. They looked very calm and intellectual, making their counts with long pencils behind one ear. But most of the time they argued the sports scene violently. They were all experts—they read the same sports writers.

“All right, man, what’s your all time outfield?”

“Well, Willie Mays, Ted Williams, Cobb.”

“What? What?”

“That’s right, baby!”

“What about the Babe? Whatta ya gonna do with the Babe?”

“O.K., O.K., who’s your all star outfield?”

“All time, not all star!”

“O.K., O.K., you know what I mean, baby, you know what I mean!”

“Well, I’ll take Mays, Ruth and Di Maj!”

“Both you guys are nuts! How about Hank Aaron, Baby? How about Hank?”

At one time, all miscellaneous jobs were put on bid. Bids were filled mostly on a basis of seniority. The miscellaneous crew went about and ripped the bids out of the order books. Then they had nothing to do. Nobody filed a complaint. It was a long dark walk to the parking lot at night.

10

I began getting dizzy spells. I could feel them coming. The case would begin to whirl. The spells lasted about a minute. I couldn’t understand it. Each letter was getting heavier and heavier. The clerks began to have that dead grey look. I began to slide off my stool. My legs would barely hold me up. The job was killing me.

I went to my doctor and told him about it. He took my blood pressure.

“No, no, your blood pressure is all right.”

Then he put the stethoscope to me and weighed me.

“I can find nothing wrong.”

Then he gave me a special blood test. He took blood from my arm three times at intervals, each time lapse longer than the last.

“Do you care to wait in the other room?”

“No, no, I’ll go out and walk around and come back in time.”

“All right but come back in time.”

I was on time for the second blood extraction. Then there was a longer wait for the 3rd one, 20 or 25 minutes. I walked out on the street. Nothing much was happening. I went into a drugstore and read a magazine. I put it down, looked at the clock and went outside. I saw this woman sitting at the bus stop. She was one of those rare ones. She was showing plenty of leg. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. I crossed the street and stood about 20 yards away.

Then she got up. I had to follow her. That big ass beckoned me. I was hypnotized. She walked into a post office and I walked in behind her. She stood in a long line and I stood behind her. She got 2 postcards. I bought 12 airmail postcards and two dollars worth of stamps.

When I came out she was getting on the bus. I saw the last of that delicious leg and ass get on the bus and the bus carried her away.

The doctor was waiting.

“What happened? You’re 5 minutes late!”

“I don’t know. The clock must have been wrong.”

“THIS THING MUST BE EXACT!”

“Go ahead. Take the blood anyhow.”

He stuck the needle into me…

A couple of days later, the tests said there was nothing wrong with me. I didn’t know if it was the 5 minutes difference or what. But the dizzy spells got worse. I began to clock out after 4 hours work without filling out the proper forms.

I’d walk in around 11 p.m. and there would be Fay. Poor pregnant Fay.

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t take any more,” I’d say, “too sensitive…”

11

The boys on Dorsey station didn’t know my problems.

I’d enter through the back way each night, hide my sweater in a tray and walk in to get my timecard:

“Brothers and sisters!” I’d say.

“Brother, Hank!”

“Hello, Brother Hank!”

We had a game going, the black-white game and they liked to play it. Boyer would walk up to me, touch me on the arm and say, “Man, if I had your paint job I’d be a millionaire!”

“Sure you would, Boyer. That’s all it takes: a white skin.”

Then round little Hadley would walk up to us.

“There used to be this black cook on this ship. He was the only black man aboard. He cooked tapioca pudding 2 or 3 times a week and then jacked-off into it. Those white boys really liked his tapioca pudding, hehehehe! They asked him how he made it and he said he had his own secret recipe, hehehehehehe!”

We all laughed. I don’t know how many times I had to hear the tapioca pudding story…

“Hey, poor white trash! Hey, boy!”

“Look, man, if I called you ‘boy’ you might draw steel on me. So don’t call me ‘boy.’”

“Look, white man, what do you say we go out together this Saturday night? I got me a nice white gal with blonde hair.”

“And I got myself a nice black gal. And you know what color her hair is.”

“You guys been fucking pur women for centuries. We’re trying to catch up. You don’t mind if I stick my big black dick into your white gal?”

“If she wants it she can have it.”

“You stole the land from the Indians.”

“Sure I did.”

“You won’t invite me to your house. If you do, you’ll ask me to come in the back way, so no one will see my skin…”

“But I’ll leave a small light burning.” It got boring but there was no way out.

12

Fay was all right with the pregnancy. For an old gal, she was all right. We waited around at our place. Finally the time came. “It won’t be long,” she said. “I don’t want to get there too early.”

I went out and checked the car. Came back.

“Oooh, oh,” she said. “No, wait.”

Maybe she could save the world. I was proud of her calm. I forgave her for the dirty dishes and the New Yorker and her writers’ workshop. The old gal was only another lonely creature in a world that didn’t care.

“We better go now,” I said.

“No,” said Fay, “I don’t want to make you wait too long. I know you haven’t been feeling well.”

“To hell with me. Let’s make it.”

“No, please, Hank.” She just sat there. “What can I do for you?” I asked. “Nothing.” She sat there ten minutes. I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. When I came out she said, “You ready to drive?”

“Sure.”

“You know where the hospital is?”

“Of course.”

I helped her into the car. I had made two practice runs the week earlier. But when we got there I had no idea where to park. Fay pointed up a runway.

“Go in there. Park in there. We’ll go in from there.”

“Yes, mam,” I said…

She was in bed in a back room overlooking the street. Her face grimaced. “Hold my hand,” she said.

I did.

“Is it really going to happen?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You make it seem so easy,” I said.

“You’re so very nice. It helps.”

“I’d like to be nice. It’s that god damned post office…”

“I know. I know.”

We were looking out the back window.

I said, “Look at those people down there. They have no idea what is going on up here. They just walk on the sidewalk. Yet, it’s funny… they were once born themselves, each one of them.”

“Yes, it is funny.”

I could feel the movements of her body through her hand.

“Hold tighter,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’ll hate it when you go.”

“Where’s the doctor? Where is everybody? What the hell!”

“They’ll be here.”

Just then a nurse walked in. It was a Catholic hospital and she was a very handsome nurse, dark, Spanish or Portuguese. “You… must go… now,” she told me. I gave Fay crossed fingers and a twisted smile. I don’t think she saw. I took the elevator downstairs.

13

My German doctor walked up. The one who had given me the blood tests. “Congratulations,” he said, shaking my hand, “it’s a girl. 9 pounds, 3 ounces.”

“And the mother?”

“The mother will be all right. She was no trouble at all.”

“When can I see them?”

“They’ll let you know. Just sit there and they’ll call you.”

Then he was gone.

I looked through the glass. The nurse pointed down at my child. The child’s face was very red and it was screaming louder than any of the other children. The room was full of screaming babies. So many births! The nurse seemed very proud of my baby. At least, I hoped it was mine. She picked the girl up so I could see it better. I smiled through the glass, I didn’t know how to act. The girl just screamed at me. Poor thing, I thought, poor little damned thing. I didn’t know then that she would be a beautiful girl someday who would look just like me, hahaha. I motioned the nurse to put the child down, then waved goodbye to both of them. She was a nice nurse. Good legs, good hips. Fair breasts.

Fay had a spot of blood on the left side of her mouth and I took a wet cloth and wiped it off. Women were meant to suffer; no wonder they asked for constant declarations of love.

“I wish they’d give me my baby,” said Fay, “it’s not right to separate us like this.”

“I know. But I guess there’s some medical reason.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t seem right.

“No, it doesn’t. But the child looked fine. I’ll do what I can to make them send up the child as soon as possible. There must have been 40 babies down there. They’re making all the mothers wait. I guess it’s to let them get their strength back. Our baby looked very strong, I assure you. Please don’t worry.”

“I’d be so happy with my baby.”

“I know, I know. It won’t be long.”

“Sir,” a fat Mexican nurse walked up, “I’ll have to ask you to leave now.”

“But I’m the father.”

“We know. But your wife must rest.” I squeezed Fay’s hand, kissed her on the forehead. She closed her eyes and seemed to sleep then. She was not a young woman. Maybe she hadn’t saved the world but she had made a major improvement. Ring one up for Fay.

14

Marina Louise, Fay named the child. So there it was, Marina Louise Chinaski. In the crib by the window. Looking up at the tree leafs and bright designs whirling on the ceiling. Then she’d cry. Walk the baby, talk to the baby. The girl wanted mama’s breasts but mama wasn’t always ready and I didn’t have mama’s breasts. And the job was still there. And now riots. One tenth of the city was on fire…

15

On the elevator up, I was the only white man there. It seemed strange. They talked about the riots, not looking at me.

“Jesus,” said a coal black guy, “it’s really something. These guys walking around the streets drunk with 5ths of whiskey in their hands. Cops driving by but the cops don’t get out of their cars, they don’t bother the drunks. It’s daylight. People walking around with t.v. sets, vacuum cleaners, all that. It’s really something…”

“Yeah, man.”

“The black-owned places put up signs, ‘BLOOD BROTHERS.’ And the white-owned places too. But they can’t fool the people. They know which places belong to Whitey…”

“Yeah, brother.”

Then the elevator stopped at the 4th floor and we all got off together. I felt that it was best for me not to make any comment at that time.

Not much later the postmaster of the city came on over the intercoms:

“Attention! The southeast area has been barricaded. Only those with proper identification will be allowed through. There is a 7 p.m. curfew. After 7 p.m. nobody will be allowed to pass. The barricade extends from Indiana Street to Hoover Street, and from Washington Boulevard to 135th Place. Anybody living in this area is excused from work now.”

I got up and reached for my timecard.

“Hey! Where you going?” the supervisor asked me.

“You heard the announcement?”

“Yeah, but you’re not—”

I slipped my left hand into my pocket.

“I’m not WHAT? I’m not WHAT?”

He looked at me.

“What do you know, WHITEY?” I said.

I took my timecard, walked over and punched out.

16

The riots ended, the baby calmed down, and I found ways to avoid Janko. But the dizzy spells persisted. The doctor wrote me a standing order for the green-white librium capsules and they helped a bit.

One night I got up to get a drink of water. Then I came back, worked 30 minutes and took my ten minute break. When I sat down again, Chambers the supervisor, a high yellow came running up: “Chinaski! You’ve finally hung yourself! You’ve been gone 40 minutes!”

Chambers had fallen on the floor in a fit one night, frothing and twitching. They had carried him out on a stretcher. The next night he had come back, necktie, new shirt, as if nothing had happened. Now he was pulling the old water fountain game on me.

“Look, Chambers, try to be sensible. I got a drink of water, sat down, worked 30 minutes, then took my break. I was gone ten minutes.”

“You’ve hung yourself, Chinaski! You’ve been gone 40 minutes! I have 7 witnesses!”

“7 witnesses?”

“YES, 7!”

“I tell you, it was ten minutes.”

“No, we’ve got you, Chinaski! We’ve really got you this time!”

Then, I was tired of it. I didn’t want to look at him anymore:

“All right, then. I’ve been gone 40 minutes. Have your way. Write it up.”

Chambers ran off.

I stuck a few more letters, then the general foreman walked up. A thin white man with little tufts of grey hair hanging over each ear. I looked at him and then turned and stuck some more letters.

“Mr. Chinaski, I’m sure that you understand the rules and regulations of the post office. Each clerk is allowed 2 ten minute breaks, one before lunch, the other after lunch. The break privilege is granted by management: ten minutes. Ten minutes is—”

“GOD DAMN IT!” I threw my letters down. “Now I admitted to a 40 minute break just to satisfy you guys and get you off my ass. But you keep coming around! Now I take it back! I only took 10 minutes! I want to see your 7 witnesses! Trot them out!”

Two days later I was at the racetrack. I looked up and saw all these teeth, this big smile and the eyes shining, friendly. What was it—with all those teeth? I looked closer. It was Chambers looking at me, smiling and standing in a coffee line. I had a beer in my hand. I walked over to a trashcan, and still looking at him, I spit. Then I walked off. Chambers never bothered me again.

17

The baby was crawling, discovering the world. Marina slept in bed with us at night. There was Marina, Fay, the cat and myself. The cat slept on the bed too. Look here, I thought, I have 3 mouths depending on me. How very strange. I sat there and watched them sleeping.

Then two nights in a row when I came home in the mornings, the early mornings, Fay was sitting up reading the classified sections.

“All these rooms are so damned expensive,” she said.

“Sure,” I said.

The next night I asked her as she read the paper:

“Are you moving out?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll help you find a place tomorrow. I’ll drive you around.” I agreed to pay her a sum each month. She said, “All right.” Fay got the girl. I got the cat.

We found a place 8 or 10 blocks away. I helped her move in, said goodbye to the girl and drove on back.

I went over to see Marina 2 or 3 or 4 times a week. I knew as long as I could see the girl I would be all right.

Fay was still wearing black to protest the war. She attended local peace demonstrations, love-ins, went to poetry readings, workshops, communist party meetings, and sat in a hippie coffee house. She took the child with her. If she wasn’t out she was sitting in a chair smoking cigarette after cigarette and reading. She wore protest buttons on her black blouse. But she was usually off somewhere with the girl when I drove over to visit.

I finally found them in one day. Fay was eating sunflower seeds with yogurt. She baked her own bread but it wasn’t very good.

“I met Andy, this truckdriver,” she told me. “He paints on the side. That’s one of his paintings.” Fay pointed to the wall. I was playing with the girl. I looked at the painting. I didn’t say anything.

“He has a big cock,” said Fay. “He was over the other night and he asked me, ‘How would you like to be fucked with a big cock?’ and I told him, ‘I would rather be fucked with love!’”

“He sounds like a man of the world,” I told her.

I played with the girl a little more, then left. I had a scheme test coming up.

Soon after, I got a letter from Fay. She and the child were living in a hippie commune in New Mexico. It was a nice place, she said. Marina would be able to breathe there. She enclosed a little drawing the girl had made for me.