Post Office: A Novel

by Charles Bukowski

  A big Italiano got up on the lecture platform to tell us where it was.

  “… now there’s nothing like the smell of good clean sweat but there’s nothing worse than the smell of stale sweat …”

  Good god, I thought, am I hearing right? This thing is government sanctioned, surely. This big oaf is telling me to wash under the armpits. They wouldn’t do this to an engineer or a concertmaster. He’s downgrading us.

  “… so take a bath everyday. You will be graded upon appearance as well as production.”

  I think he wanted to use the word “hygienics” somewhere but it simply wasn’t in him.

  Then he went to the back of the lecture platform and pulled down a big map. And I mean big. It covered half the stage. A light was shone upon the map. And the big Italiano took a pointer with the little rubber nipple on the end of it like they used in grammar school and he pointed to the map:

  “Now, you see all this GREEN? Well, there’s a hell of a lot of it. Look!”

  He took the pointer and rubbed it back and forth along the green.

  There was quite a bit more anti-Russian feeling then than there is now. China had not yet begun to flex her muscles. Vietnam was just a little firecracker party. But I still thought, I must be crazy! I can’t be hearing right? But nobody in the audience protested. They needed jobs. And according to Joyce, I needed a job.

  Then he said, “Look here. That’s Alaska! And there they are! Looks almost as if they could jump across, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” said some brainwash job in the front row.

  The Italiano flipped the map. It leaped crisply up into itself, crackling in war fury.

  Then he walked to the front of the stage, pointed his rubber-titted pointer at us.

  “I want you to understand that we’ve got to hold down the budget! I want you to understand that EACH LETTER YOU STICK—EACH SECOND, EACH MINUTE, EACH HOUR, EACH DAY, EACH WEEK-EACH EXTRA LETTER YOU STICK BEYOND DUTY HELPS DEFEAT THE RUSSIANS! Now, that’s all for today. Before you leave, each of you will receive your scheme assignment. “

  Scheme assignment. What was that?

  Somebody came along handing out these sheets.

  “Chinaski?” he said.

  “Yeh?”

  “You have zone 9.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I didn’t realize what I was saying. Zone 9 was the largest station in the city. Some guys got tiny zones. It was the same as the two-foot tray in 23 minutes—they just rammed it into you.

  19

  The next night as they moved the group from the main building to the training building, I stopped to talk to Gus the old newsboy. Gus had once been third-ranked welterweight contender but he never got a look at the champ. He swung from the left side, and, as you know, nobody ever likes to fight a lefty—you’ve got to train your boy all over again. Why bother? Gus took me inside and we had a little nip from his bottle. Then I tried to catch the group.

  The Italiano was waiting in the doorway. He saw me coming. He met me halfway in the yard. “Chinaski?”

  “Yeh?”

  “You’re late.”

  I didn’t say anything. We walked toward the building together.

  “I’ve got half a mind to slap your wrist with a warning slip,” he said.

  “Oh, please don’t do that, sir! Please don’t!” I said as we walked along.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll let you go this time.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, and we walked in together.

  Want to know something? The son of a bitch had body odor.

  20

  Our 30 minutes was now devoted to scheme training. They gave us each a deck of cards to learn and stick into our cases. To pass the scheme you had to throw 100 cards in eight minutes or less with at least 95 percent accuracy. You were given three chances to pass, and if you failed the third time, they let you go. I mean, you were fired.

  “Some of you won’t make it,” the Italiano said. “So maybe you were meant for something else. Maybe you will end up President of General Motors.”

  Then we were rid of Italiano and we had our nice little scheme instructor who encouraged us.

  “You can do it, fellows, it’s not as hard as it looks.”

  Each group had its own scheme instructor and they were graded too, upon the percentage of their group that passed. We had the guy with the lowest percentage. He was worried.

  “There’s nothing to it, fellows, just put your minds to it.”

  Some of the fellows had thin decks. I had the fattest deck of them all.

  I just stood there in my fancy new clothes. Stood there with my hands in my pockets.

  “Chinaski, what’s the matter?” the instructor asked. “I know you can do it.”

  “Yeh. Yeh. I’m thinking right now.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  And then I walked away.

  A week later I was still standing there with my hands in my pockets and a sub walked up to me.

  “Sir, I think that I am ready to throw my scheme now.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked him.

  “I’ve been throwing 97, 98, 99 and a couple of 100s in my practice schemes.”

  “You must understand that we spend a great deal of money training you. We want you to have this thing down to the ace!”

  “Sir, I truly believe that I am ready!”

  “All right,” I reached out and shook his hand, “go to it then, my boy, and the best of luck.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  He ran off towards the scheme room, a glass-enclosed fishbowl they put you in to see if you could swim their waters. Poor fish. What a comedown from being a smalltown villain. I walked into the practice room, took the rubber band off of the cards and looked at them for the first time.

  “Oh, shit!” I said.

  A couple of the guys laughed. Then the scheme instructor said, “Your 30 minutes are up. You will now return to the workfloor.”

  Which meant back to the 12 hours.

  They couldn’t keep enough help to get the mail out, so those who did remain had to do it all. On the schedule board they had us working two weeks straight but then we would get four days off. That kept us going. Four days rest. The last night before our four days off, the intercom came on.

  “ATTENTION! ALL SUBS IN GROUP 409! …” I was in group 409.

  “… YOUR FOUR OFF DAYS HAVE BEEN CANCELED. YOU ARE SCHEDULED TO REPORT FOR WORK ON THOSE FOUR DAYS!”

  21

  Joyce found a job with the county, the county Police Department, of all things. I was living with a cop! But at least it was during the day, which gave me a little rest from those fondling hands except—Joyce bought two parakeets, and the damn things didn’t talk, they just made these sounds all day.

  Joyce and I met over breakfast and dinner—it was all very brisk—nice that way. Though she still managed to rape me now and then, it beat the other, except—the parakeets.

  “Look, baby …”

  “Now what is it?”

  “All right. I’ve gotten used to the geraniums and the flies and Picasso, but you’ve got to realize that I am working 12 hours a night and studying a scheme on the side, and you molest my remaining energy …”

  “Molest?”

  “All right. I’m not saying it right. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you mean, ‘molest’?”

  “I said, forget it! Now look, it’s the parakeets.”

  “So now it’s the parakeets! Are they molesting you too?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Who’s on top?”

  “Look, don’t get funny. Don’t get dirty. I’m trying to tell you something. “

  “Now you’re trying to tell me how to get!”

  “All right! Shit! You’re the one with the money! Are you going to let me talk or not? Answer me, yes or no?”

  “All right, little baby: yes.”

  “All right. little b
aby says this: ‘Mama! Mama! Those fucking parakeets are driving me nuts!’ “

  “All right, tell mama how the parakeets are driving you nuts.”

  “Well, it’s like this, mama, the things chatter all day, they never stop, and I keep waiting for them to say something but they never say anything and I can’t sleep all day from listening to the idiots!”

  “All right, little baby. If they keep you awake, put them out.”

  “Put them out, mama?”

  “Yes, put them out.”

  “All right, mama.”

  She gave me a kiss and then wiggled down the stairway on her way to her cop job.

  I got in bed and tried to sleep. How they chattered! Every muscle in my body ached. If I lay on this side, if I lay on that side, if I lay on my back, I ached. I found the easiest way was on my stomach, but that grew tiresome. It took a good two or three minutes to get from one position to another.

  I tossed and turned, cursing, screaming a little, and laughing a little too, at the ridiculousness of it. On they chattered. They got to me. What did they know of pain in their little cage? Eggheads yakking! Just feathers; brains the size of a pinhead.

  I managed to get out of bed, go into the kitchen, fill a cup with water and then I walked up to the cage and threw the water all over them.

  “Motherfuckers!” I cursed them.

  They looked out at me balefully from under their wet feathers. They were silent! Nothing like the old water treatment. I had borrowed a page from the headshrinkers.

  Then the green one with the yellow breast reached down and bit himself on the chest. Then he looked up and started chattering to the red one with the green breast, and then they were going again.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to them. Picasso walked up and bit me on the ankle.

  That did it. I took the cage outside. Picasso followed me. 10,000 flies rose straight up into the air. I put the cage on the ground, opened the cage door and sat on the steps.

  Both birds looked at that cage door. They couldn’t understand it and they could. I could feel their tiny minds trying to function. They had their food and water right there, but what was that open space?

  The green one with the yellow breast went first. He leaped down to the opening from his rung. He sat gripping the wire. He looked down at the flies. He stood there 15 seconds, trying to decide. Then something clicked in his little head. Or her little head. He didn’t fly. He shot straight up into the sky. Up, up, up, up. Straight up! Straight as an arrow! Picasso and I sat there and watched. The damn thing was gone.

  Then it was the red one with the green breast’s turn.

  The red one was much more hesitant. He walked around in the bottom of the cage, nervously. It was a hell of a decision. Humans, birds, everything has to make these decisions. It was a hard game.

  So old red walked around thinking it over. Yellow sunlight. Buzzing flies. Man and dog looking on. All that sky, all that sky.

  It was too much. Old red leaped to the wire. Three seconds.

  ZOOP!

  The bird was gone.

  Picasso and I picked up the empty cage and walked back into the house.

  I had a good sleep for the first time in weeks. I even forgot to set the alarm. I was riding a white horse down Broadway, New York City. I had just been elected mayor. I had this big hard-on, and then somebody threw a hunk of mud at me … and Joyce shook me.

  “What happened to the birds?”

  “Damn the birds! I am the mayor of New York!”

  “I asked you about the birds! All I see is an empty cage! “

  “Birds? Birds? What birds?”

  “Wake up, damn you!”

  “Hard day at the office dear? You seem snappish.”

  “Where ARE the BIRDS?”

  “You said to put them out if they kept me awake.”

  “I meant to put them in the back porch or outside, you fool!”

  “Fool?”

  “Yes, you fool! Do you mean to say you let those birds out of the cage? Do you mean to say you really let them out of the cage?”

  “Well, all I can say is, they are not locked in the bathroom, they are not in the cupboard.”

  “They’ll starve out there!”

  “They can catch worms, eat berries, all that stuff.”

  “They can’t, they can’t. They don’t know how! They’ll die!”

  “Let ‘em learn or let ‘em die,” I said, and then I turned slowly over and went back to sleep. Vaguely, I could hear her cooking her dinner, dropping lids and spoons on the floor, cursing. But Picasso was on the bed with me, Picasso was safe from her sharp shoes. I put my hand out and he licked it and then I slept.

  That is, I did for a while. Next thing I knew I was being fondled. I looked up and she was staring into my eyes like a madwoman. She was naked, her breasts dangling in my eyes. Her hair tickling my nostrils. I thought of her millions, picked her up, flipped her on her back and stuck it in.

  22

  She wasn’t really a cop, she was a clerk-cop. And she started coming in and telling me about a guy who wore a purple stickpin and was a “real gentleman.”

  “Oh, he’s so kind!”

  I heard all about him each night.

  “Well,” I’d ask, “how was old Purple Stickpin tonight?”

  “Oh,” she said, “you know what happened?”

  “No, babe, that’s why I’m asking.”

  “Oh, he’s SUCH a gentleman!”

  “All right. All right. What happened?”

  “You know, he has suffered so much!”

  “Of course.”

  “His wife died, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Don’t be so flip. I’m telling you, his wife died and it cost him 15 thousand dollars in medical and burial bills.”

  “All right. So?”

  “I was walking down the hall. He was coming the other way. We met. He looked at me and with this Turkish accent he said, ‘Ah, you are so beautiful!’ And you know what he did?”

  “No, babe, tell me. Tell me quick.”

  “He kissed me on the forehead, lightly, ever so lightly. And then he walked on.”

  “I can tell you something about him, babe. He’s seen too many movies.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Whatcha mean?”

  “He owns a drive-in theatre. He operates it after work each night.”

  “That figures,” I said. “But he’s such a gentleman!” she said. “Look, babe, I don’t want to hurt you, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Look, you’re small-town. I’ve had over 50 jobs, maybe a hundred. I’ve never stayed anywhere long. What I am trying to say is, there is a certain game played in offices all over America. The people are bored, they don’t know what to do, so they play the office-romance game. Most of the time it means nothing but the passing of time. Sometimes they do manage to work off a screw or two on the side. But even then, it is just an offhand pastime, like bowling or t.v. or a New Year’s Eve party. You’ve got to understand that it doesn’t mean anything and then you won’t get hurt. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “I think that Mr. Partisian is sincere.”

  “You’re going to get stuck with that pin, babe, don’t forget I told you. Watch those slicks. They are as phony as a lead dime.”

  “He’s not phony. He’s a gentleman. He’s a real gentleman. I wish you were a gentleman. “

  I gave it up. I sat on the couch and took my scheme sheet and tried to memorize Babcock Boulevard. Babcock broke: 14, 39, 51, 62. What the hell? Couldn’t I remember that?

  23

  I finally got a day off, and you know what I did? I got up early before Joyce got back in and I went down to the market to do a little shopping, and maybe I was crazy. I walked through the market and instead of getting a nice red steak or even a bit of frying chicken, you know what I did? I hit snake-eyes and walked over to the Oriental section and began filling my basket fu
ll of octopi, sea-spiders, snails, seaweed and so forth. The clerk gave me a strange look and began ringing it up.

  When Joyce came home that night, I had it all on the table, ready. Cooked seaweed mixed with a dash of sea-spider, and piles of little golden, fried-in-butter snails.

  I took her into the kitchen and showed her the stuff on the table.

  “I’ve cooked this in your honor,” I said, “In dedication of our love. “

  “What the hell’s that shit?” she asked.

  “Snails. “

  “Snails?”

  “Yes, don’t you realize that for many centuries Orientals have thrived upon this and the like? Let us honor them and honor ourselves. It’s fried in butter.”

  Joyce came in and sat down.

  I started snapping snails into my mouth.

  “God damn, they are good, baby! TRY ONE!”

  Joyce reached down and forked one into her mouth while looking at the others on her plate.

  I jammed in a big mouthful of delicious seaweed.

  “Good, huh, baby?”

  She chewed the snail in her mouth.

  “Fried in golden butter!”

  I picked up a few with my hand, tossed them into my mouth.

  “The centuries are on our side, babe. We can’t go wrong!”

  She finally swallowed hers. Then examined the others on her plate.

  “They all have tiny little assholes! It’s horrible! Horrible!”

  “What’s horrible about assholes, baby?”

  She held a napkin to her mouth. Got up and ran to the bathroom. She began vomiting. I hollered in from the kitchen:

  “WHAT’S WRONG WITH ASSHOLES, BABY? YOU’VE GOT AN ASSHOLE, I’VE GOT AN ASSHOLE! YOU GO TO THE STORE AND BUY A PORTERHOUSE STEAK, THAT HAD AN ASSHOLE! ASSHOLES COVER THE EARTH! IN A WAY TREES HAVE ASSHOLES BUT YOU CAN’T FIND THEM, THEY JUST DROP THEIR LEAVES. YOUR ASSHOLE, MY ASSHOLE, THE WORLD IS FULL OF BILLIONS OF ASSHOLES. THE PRESIDENT HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE CARWASH BOY HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE JUDGE AND THE MURDERER HAVE ASSHOLES … EVEN PURPLE STICKPIN HAS AN ASSHOLE!”

  “Oh stop it! STOP IT!”

  She heaved again. Small town. I opened the bottle of sake and had a drink.