Post Office (3 page)

“Which way you going in?” Moto asked.

“The shortest distance between two points, I was taught, is a straight line,” I answered him.

“You better not,” he told me. “I know that area. It’s an ocean through there.”

“Bullshit,” I said, “all it takes is a little guts. Got a match?”

I lit up and left him at the signal. Betty, baby, I’m coming! Yeah.

The water got higher and higher but mail trucks are built high off the ground. I took the shortcut through the residential neighborhood, full speed, and water flew up all around me. It continued to rain, hard. There weren’t any cars around. I was the only moving object.

Betty baby. Yeah.

Some guy standing on his front porch laughed at me and yelled, “THE MAIL MUST GO THROUGH!”

I cursed him and gave him the finger.

I noticed that the water was rising above the floorboards, whirling around my shoes, but I kept driving. Only three blocks to go!

Then the truck stopped.

Oh. Oh. Shit.

I sat there and tried to kick it over. It started once, then stalled. Then it wouldn’t respond. I sat there looking at the water. It must have been two feet deep. What was I supposed to do? Sit there until they sent a rescue squad?

What did the Postal Manual say? Where
was
it? I had never known anybody who had seen one. Balls.

I locked the truck, put the ignition keys in my pocket and stepped into the water—nearly up to my waist—and began wading toward West Garage. It was still raining. Suddenly the water rose another three or four inches. I had been walking across a lawn and had stepped off the curbing. The truck was parked on somebody’s front lawn.

For a moment I thought that swimming might be faster, then I thought, no, that would look ridiculous. I made it to the garage and walked up to the dispatcher. There I was, wet as wet could get and he looked at me.

I threw him the truck keys and the ignition keys.

Then I wrote on a piece of paper: 3435 Mountview Place.

“Your truck’s at this address. Go get it.”

“You mean you left it out there?”

“I mean I left it out there.”

I walked over, punched out, then stripped to my shorts and stood in front of a heater. I hung my clothes over the heater. Then I looked across the room and there by another heater stood Tom Moto in
his
shorts.

We both laughed.

“It’s hell, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Unbelievable.”

“Do you think The Stone planned it?”

“Hell yes! He even made it rain!”

“Did you get stalled out there?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I did too.”

“Listen, baby,” I said, “my car is 12 years old. You’ve got a new one. I’m sure I’m stalled out there. How about a push to get me started?”

“O.K.”

We got dressed and went out. Moto had bought a new model car about three weeks before. I waited for his engine to start. Not a sound. Oh Christ, I thought.

The rain was up to the floorboards.

Moto got out.

“No good. It’s dead.”

I tried mine without any hope. There was some action from the battery, some spark, though feeble. I pumped the gas, hit it again. It started up. I really let it roar. VICTORY! I warmed it good. Then I backed up and began to push Moto’s new car. I pushed him for a mile. The thing wouldn’t even fart. I pushed him into a garage, left him there, and picking the highland and the drier streets, made it back to Betty’s ass.

The Stone’s favorite carrier was Matthew Battles. Battles never came in with a wrinkled shirt on. In fact, everything he wore was new, looked new. The shoes, the shirts, the pants, the cap. His shoes really shined and none of his clothing appeared to have ever been laundered even once. Once a shirt or a pair of pants became the least bit soiled he threw them away.

The Stone often said to us as Matthew walked by:

“Now,
there
goes a carrier!”

And The Stone meant it. His eyes damn near shimmered with love.

And Matthew would stand at his case, erect and clean, scrubbed and well-slept, shoes gleaming victoriously, and he would fan those letters into the case with joy. “You’re a real carrier, Matthew!”

“Thank you, Mr. Jonstone!”

   One 5 a.m. I walked in and sat down to wait behind The Stone. He looked a bit slumped under that red shirt.

Moto was next to me. He told me: “They picked up Matthew yesterday.”

“Picked him up?”

“Yeah, for stealing from the mails. He’d been opening letters for the Nekalayla Temple and taking money out. After 15 years on the job.”

“How’d they get him, how’d they find out?”

“The old ladies. The old ladies had been sending in letters to Nekalayla filled with money and they weren’t getting any thank-you notes or response. Nekalayla told the P.O. and the P.O. put the Eye on Matthew. They found him opening letters down at the soak-box, taking money out.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. They caught him in cold daylight.” I leaned back.

Nekalayla had built this large temple and painted it a sickening green, I guess it reminded him of money, and he had an office staff of 30 or 40 people who did nothing but open envelopes, take out checks and money, record the amount, the sender, date received and so on. Others were busy mailing out books and pamphlets written by Nekalayla, and his photo was on the wall, a large one of N. in priestly robes and beard, and a painting of N., very large too, looked over the office, watching.

Nekalayla claimed he had once been walking through the desert when he met Jesus Christ and Jesus Christ told him everything. They sat on a rock together and J.C. laid it on him. Now he was passing the secrets on to those who could afford it. He also held a service every Sunday. His help, who were also his followers, rang in and out on timeclocks.

Imagine Matthew Battles trying to outwit Nekalayla who had met Christ in the desert!

“Has anybody said anything to The Stone?” I asked. “Are you
kidding?”

We sat an hour or so. A sub was assigned to Matthew’s case. The other subs were given other jobs. I sat alone behind The Stone. Then I got up and walked to his desk.

“Mr. Jonstone?”

“Yes, Chinaski?”

“Where’s Matthew today? Sick?”

The Stone’s head dropped. He looked at the paper in his hand and pretended to continue reading it. I walked back and sat down.

At 7 a.m. The Stone turned:

“There’s nothing for you today, Chinaski.”

I stood up and walked to the doorway. I stood in the doorway. “Good morning, Mr. Jonstone. Have a good day.”

He didn’t answer. I walked down to the liquor store and bought a half pint of Grand Dad for my breakfast.

The voices of the people were the same, no matter where you carried the mail you heard the same things over and over again.

“You’re late, aren’t you?”

“Where’s the regular carrier?”

“Hello, Uncle Sam!”

“Mailman! Mailman! This doesn’t go here!”

The streets were full of insane and dull people. Most of them lived in nice houses and didn’t seem to work, and you wondered how they did it. There was one guy who wouldn’t let you put the mail in his box. He’d stand in the driveway and watch you coming for two or three blocks and he’d stand there and hold his hand out.

I asked some of the others who had carried the route:

“What’s wrong with that guy who stands there and holds his hand out?”

“What guy who stands there and holds his hand out?” they asked.

They all had the same voice too.

One day when I had the route, the man-who-holds-his-hand-out was a half a block up the street. He was talking to a neighbor, looked back at me more than a block away and knew he had time to walk back and meet me. When he turned his back to me, I began running. I don’t believe I ever delivered mail that fast, all stride and motion, never stopping or pausing, I was going to kill him. I had the letter half in the slot of his box when he turned and saw me.

“OH NO NO NO!” he screamed, “DON’T PUT IT IN THE BOX!”

He ran down the street toward me. All I saw was the blur of his feet. He must have run a hundred yards in 9.2.

I put the letter in his hand. I watched him open it, walk across the porch, open the door and go into his house. What it meant somebody else will have to tell me.

Again I was on a new route. The Stone always put me on hard routes, but now and then, due to the circumstances of things, he was forced to place me on one less murderous. Route 511 was peeling off quite nicely, and there I was thinking about
lunch
again, the lunch that never came.

It was an average residential neighborhood. No apartment houses. Just house after house with well-kept lawns. But it was a
new
route and I walked along wondering where the trap was. Even the weather was nice.

By god, I thought, I’m going to make it! Lunch, and back in on schedule! Life, at last, was bearable.

These people didn’t even own dogs. Nobody stood outside waiting for their mail. I hadn’t heard a human voice in hours. Perhaps I had reached my postal maturity, whatever that was. I strolled along, efficient, almost dedicated.

I remembered one of the older carriers pointing to his heart and telling me, “Chinaski, someday it will get to you, it will get you right
here!”

“Heart attack?”

“Dedication to service. You’ll see. You’ll be proud of it.”

“Balls!”

But the man had been sincere. I thought about him as I walked along. Then I had a registered letter with return attached. I walked up and rang the doorbell. A little window opened in the door. I couldn’t see the face. “Registered letter!”

“Stand back!” said a woman’s voice. “Stand back so I can see your face!”

Well, there it was, I thought, another nut.

“Look lady, you don’t h
ave to
see my face. I’ll just leave this slip in the mailbox and you can pick your letter up at the station. Bring proper identification.”

I put the slip in the mailbox and began to walk off the porch.

The door opened and she ran out. She had on one of those see-through negligees and no brassiere. Just dark blue panties. Her hair was uncombed and stuck out as if it were trying to run away from her. There seemed to be some type of cream on her face, most of it under the eyes. The skin on her body was white as if it never saw sunlight and her face had an unhealthy look. Her mouth hung open. She had on a touch of lipstick, and she was
built
all the way …

I caught all this as she rushed at me. I was sliding the registered letter back into the pouch.

She screamed, “Give me my letter!”

I said, “Lady, you’ll have to …”

She grabbed the letter and ran to the door, opened it and ran in.

God damn! You couldn’t come back without either the registered letter or a signature! You even had to sign in and out with the things.

“HEY!”

I went after her and jammed my foot into the door just in time.

“HEY. GOD DAMN YOU!”

“Go away! Go away! You are an evil man!”

“Look, lady! Try to understand! You’ve got to sign for that letter! I can’t let you have it that way! You are robbing the United States mails! “

“Go away, evil man!

I put all my weight against the door and pushed into the room. It was dark in there. All the shades were down. All the shades in the house were down.

“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT IN MY HOUSE! GET OUT!”

“And you have no right to rob the mails! Either give me the letter back or sign for it. Then I’ll leave.”

“All right! All right! I’ll sign.”

I showed her where to sign and gave her a pen. I looked at her breasts and the rest of her and I thought, what a shame she’s crazy, what a shame, what a shame.

She handed back the pen and her signature—it was just scrawled. She opened the letter, began to read it as I turned to leave.

Then she was in front of the door, arms spread across. The letter was on the floor.

“Evil evil evil man! You came here to rape me!”

“Look lady, let me by.”

“THERE IS EVIL WRITTEN ALL OVER YOUR FACE!”

“Don’t you think I know that? Now let me out of here!”

With one hand I tried to push her aside. She clawed one side of my face, good. I dropped my bag, my cap fell off, and as I held a handkerchief to the blood she came up and raked the other side.

“YOU CUNT! WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG WITH YOU!”

“See there? See there? You’re evil!”

She was right up against me. I grabbed her by the ass and got my mouth on hers. Those breasts were against me, she was all up against me. She pulled her head back, away from me—

“Rapist! Rapist! Evil rapist!”

I reached down with my mouth, got one of her tits, then switched to the other.

“Rape! Rape! I’m being raped!”

She was right. I got her pants down, unzipped my fly, got it in, then walked her backwards to the couch. We fell down on top of it.

She lifted her legs high.

“RAPE!” she screamed.

I finished her off, zipped my fly, picked up my mail pouch and walked out leaving her staring quietly at the ceiling …

   I missed lunch but still couldn’t make the schedule.

“You’re 15 minutes late,” said The Stone. I didn’t say anything.

The Stone looked at me. “God o mighty, what happened to your face?” he asked.

“What happened to yours?” I asked him.

“Whadda you mean?”

“Forget it.”

I was hungover again, another heat spell was on—a week of 100-degree days. The drinking went on each night, and in the early mornings and days there was The Stone and the impossibility of everything.

Some of the boys wore African sun helmets and shades, but me, I was about the same, rain or shine—ragged clothing, and the shoes so old that the nails were always driving into my feet. I put pieces of cardboard in the shoes. But it only helped temporarily—soon the nails would be eating into my heels again.

The whiskey and beer ran out of me, fountained from the armpits, and I drove along with this load on my back like a cross, pulling out magazines, delivering thousands of letters, staggering, welded to the side of the sun.