“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 40 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, two 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 second floor. I was on the fourth. There was a doorway down by the men’s crapper. I looked at the sign.
WARNING!
DO NOT USE THIS
STAIRWAY!
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 third 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 fourth 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. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes! Didn’t ANYBODY want to shit, piss or goof-off? Twenty-five minutes. Then I saw a face. I tapped on the glass.
“Hey, buddy! HEY, BUDDY!”
He didn’t hear me, or pretended not to hear me. He marched into the crapper. Five minutes. Then another face came by.
I rapped hard. “HEY, BUDDY! HEY. YOU COCK-SUCKER!”
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 five 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 third 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 two 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 five minutes late!”
“I don’t know. The clock must have been wron
g.”
“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 five minutes difference or what. But the dizzy spells got worse. I began to clock out after four 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 two or three 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 our 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 pregnacy. 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 10 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, ma’am,” 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. Nine pounds, three 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 m
e.
“Jesus,” said a coal black guy, “it’s really something. These guys walking around the streets drunk with fifths 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 fourth 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 10-minute break.
Post Office: A Novel Page 11