Post Office

by Charles Bukowski

  “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.

  Part IV

  1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  2

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