“It’s the 6 horse,” I told Vi.
“No, that horse is a quitter,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, then walked over and put 10 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 four-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. Third 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 minute wait between races. All they can think of is what had just happened.
The third race was six furlongs. Now the speed horse, the early foot was the favorite. It had lost its last race by a nose at seven 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 third, a length and a half behind the favorite, closing two lengths in the stretch. The crowd figured that if the 8 hadn’t caught the favorite at seven 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 seven-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 10 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 fifth, 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 two lengths halfway down the stretch. Then the 8 horse just blew by, breezing, and won by two and a half 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 three of the last five races. They only ran eight races in those days instead of nine. Anyhow, eight 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 fifth, 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. Earrings, 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?”
“Six.”
“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’d 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 two years. I bet it merely because it was 5/1 when it should have been 20. The horse had won by
six lengths, eased up. They had that baby fixed from asshole 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. Fifteen 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 you!”
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 from 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.
One morning about 10:00 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 three 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 five minutes.
And got a form letter of congratulations from the City Postmaster.
18
Soon after that I made regular and that gave me an eight-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 two 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 Third Symphony, and a generalized (if confused) idea of what the critics said about the Third.
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 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, eight minutes before my ninth 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 eight minutes before my 10th hour:
“Your attention, please! All regular clerks who reported at 6:18 p.m., are required to work three 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.
Post Office: A Novel Page 9