Post Office (6 page)

In the car, they were all laughing. They thought it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Joyce was laughing louder than any of them.

The stupid beasts circled, then loped off.

I got out of the ditch and climbed in the car.

“I’ve seen the buffalo,” I said, “now let’s go catch a drink.”

They laughed all the way in. They’d stop and then somebody would start and then they all would start. Wally had to stop the car once. He couldn’t drive anymore. He opened the door and rolled out on the ground and laughed. Even grandma was getting hers, along with Joyce.

Later the story got around in town and there was a bit of swagger missing from my walk. I needed a haircut. I told Joyce.

She said, “Go to a barbershop. “

And I said, “I can’t. It’s the buffalo.”

“Are you afraid of those men in the barbershop?”

“It’s the buffalo,” I said.

Joyce cut my hair.

She did a terrible job.

Then Joyce wanted to go back to the city. For all the drawbacks, that little town, haircuts or not, beat city life. It was quiet. We had our own house. Joyce fed me well. Plenty of meat. Rich, good, well-cooked meat. I’ll say one thing for that bitch. She could cook. She could cook better than any woman I had ever known. Food is good for the nerves and the spirit. Courage comes from the belly-all else is desperation.

But no, she wanted to go. Granny was always climbing her and she was pissed. Me, I rather enjoyed playing the villain. I had made her cousin, the town bully, back down. It had never been done before. On blue jean day everybody in town was supposed to wear blue jeans or get thrown in the lake. I put on my only suit and necktie and slowly, like Billy the Kid, with all eyes on me, I walked slowly through the town, looking in windows, stopping for cigars. I broke that town in half like a wooden match.

Later, I met the town doctor in the street. I liked him. He was always high on drugs. I was not a drug man, but in case I had to hide from myself for a few days, I knew I could get anything I wanted from him.

“We’ve got to leave,” I told him.

“You ought to stay here,” he said, “it’s a good life. Plenty of hunting and fishing. The air’s good. And no pressure. You own this town,” he said.

“I know, doc, but she wears the pants.”

So gramps wrote Joyce a big check and there we were. We rented a little house up on a hill, and then Joyce got this stupid moralistic thing.

“We both ought to get jobs,” Joyce said, “to prove to them that you are not after their money. To prove to them that we are self-sufficient.”

“Baby, that’s grammar school. Any damn fool can beg up some kind of job; it takes a wise man to make it without working. Out here we call it ‘hustling.’ I’d like to be a good hustler. “

She didn’t want it.

Then I explained that a man couldn’t find a job unless he had a car to drive around in. Joyce got on the phone and gramps sent the money on in. Next thing I knew I was sitting in a new Plymouth. She sent me out on the streets dressed in a fine new suit, forty-dollar shoes, and I thought, what the hell, I’ll try to stretch it out. Shipping clerk, that’s what I was. When you didn’t know how to do anything that’s what you became—a shipping clerk, receiving clerk, stock boy. I checked two ads, went to two places and both of the places hired me. The first place smelled like work, so I took the second.

So there I was with my gummed tape machine working in an art store. It was easy. There was only an hour or two of work a day. I listened to the radio, built a little office out of plywood, put an old desk in there, the telephone, and I sat around reading the Racing Form. I’d get bored sometimes and walk down the alley to the coffee shop and sit in there, drinking coffee, eating pie and flirting with the waitresses.

The truck drivers would come in:

“Where’s Chinaski?”

“He’s down at the coffee shop.”

They’d come down there, have a coffee, and then we’d walk up the alley and do our bit, take a few cartons off the truck or throw them on. Something about a bill of lading.

They wouldn’t fire me. Even the salesmen liked me. They were robbing the boss out the back door but I didn’t say anything. That was their little game. It didn’t interest me. I wasn’t much of a petty thief. I wanted the whole world or nothing.

There was death in that place on the hill. I knew it the first day I walked out the screen door and into the backyard. A zinging binging buzzing whining sound came right at me: 10,000 flies rose straight up into the air at once. All the backyards had these flies—there was this tall green grass and they nested in it, they loved it.

Oh Jesus Christ, I thought, and not a spider within five miles!

As I stood there, the 10,000 flies began to come back down out of the sky, settling down in the grass, along the fence, the ground, in my hair, on my arms, everywhere. One of the bolder ones bit me.

I cursed, ran out and bought the biggest fly sprayer you ever saw. I fought them for hours, raging we were, the flies and I, and hours later, coughing and sick from breathing the fly killer, I looked around and there was as many flies as ever. I think for each one I killed they got down in the grass and bred two. I gave it up.

The bedroom had this room-break encircling the bed. There were pots and the pots had geraniums in them. When I went to bed with Joyce the first time and we worked out, I noticed the boards begin to wave and shake.

Then plop.

“Oh oh!” I said.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Joyce. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

“Baby, a pot of geraniums just fell on my ass.”

“Don’t stop! Go ahead!”

“All right, all right!”

I stoked up again, was going fairly well, then—”Oh, shit!”

“What is it? What is it?”

“Another pot of geraniums, baby, hit me in the small of the back, rolled down my back to my ass, then dropped off.”

“God
damn
the geraniums! Go ahead! Go ahead!”

“Oh, all right …”

All through the workout these pots kept falling down on me. It was like trying to screw during an aerial attack. I finally made it.

Later I said, “Look, baby, we’ve got to do something about those geraniums. “

“No, you leave them there!”

“Why, baby, why?”

“It adds to it.”

“It adds to it?”

“Yes.”

She just giggled. But the pots stayed up there. Most of the time.

Then I started coming home unhappy.

“What’s the matter, Hank?”

I had to get drunk every night.

“It’s the manager, Freddy. He has started whistling this song. He’s whistling it when I come in in the morning and he never stops, and he’s whistling it when I go home at night. It’s been going on for two weeks!”

“What’s the name of the song?”

“Around the World In Eighty Days
. I never did like that song.”

“Well, get another job.”

“I will.”

“But keep working there until you find another job. We’ve got to prove to them that …”

“All right. All right!”

I met an old drunk on the street one afternoon. I used to know him from the days with Betty when we made the rounds of the bars. He told me that he was now a postal clerk and that there was nothing to the job.

It was one of the biggest fattest lies of the century. I’ve been looking for that guy for years but I’m afraid somebody else has gotten to him first.

So there I was taking the civil service exam again. Only this time I marked the paper “clerk” instead of “carrier.”

By the time I got the notice to report for the swearing-in ceremonies, Freddy had stopped whistling
Around the World in Eighty Days
, but I was looking forward to that soft job with “Uncle Sam.”

I told Freddy, “I’ve got a little business to take care of, so I may take an hour or an hour and a half for lunch.”

“O.K., Hank.”

Little did I know how long that lunch would be.

There was a gang of us down there. 150 or 200. There were tedious papers to fill out. Then we all stood up and faced the flag. The guy who swore us in was the same guy who had sworn me in before.

After swearing us in, the guy told us:

“All right now, you’ve got a good job. Keep your nose clean and you’ve got the security the rest of your life.”

Security? You could get security in jail. Three squares and no rent to pay, no utilities, no income tax, no child support. No license plate fees. No traffic tickets. No drunk driving raps. No losses at the race track. Free medical attention. Comradeship with those with similar interests. Church. Roundeye. Free burial.

Nearly 12 years later, out of those 150 or 200, there would only be two of us left. Just like some guys can’t taxi or pimp or hustle dope, most guys, and gals too, can’t be postal clerks. And I don’t blame them. As the years went by, I saw them continue to march in in their squads of 150 or 200 and two, three, four remain out of each group-just enough to replace those who were retiring.

The guide took us all over the building. There were so many of us that they had to break us up into groups. We used the elevator in shifts. We were shown the employees’ cafeteria, the basement, all those dull things.

God o mighty, I thought, I wish he’d hurry up. My lunch is over two hours late now.

Then the guide handed us all timecards. He showed us the timeclocks.

“Now here is how you punch in.”

He showed us how. Then he said, “Now, you punch in. “

Twelve and one half hours later we punched out. That was one hell of a swearing-in ceremony.

After nine or ten hours people began getting sleepy and falling into their cases, catching themselves just in time. We were working the zoned mail. If a letter read zone 28 you stuck it to hole no. 28. It was simple.

One big black guy leaped up and began swinging his arms to keep awake. He staggered about the floor.

“God damn! I can’t
stand
it!” he said.

And he was a big powerful brute. Using the same muscles over and over again was quite tiring. I ached all over. And at the end of the aisle stood a supervisor, another Stone, and he had this
look
on his face—they must practice it in front of mirrors, all the supervisors had this
look
on their faces—they looked at you as if you were a hunk of human shit. Yet they had come in through the same door. They had once been clerks or carriers. I couldn’t understand it. They were handpicked screws.

You had to keep one foot on the floor at all times. One notch up on the restbar. What they called a “restbar” was a little round cushion set up on a stilt. No talking allowed. Two 10 minute breaks in eight hours. They wrote down the time when you left and the time when you came back. If you stayed 12 or 13 minutes, you heard about it.

But the pay was better than at the art store. And, I thought, I might get used to it. I never got used to it.

Then the supervisor moved us to a new aisle. We had been there 10 hours.

“Before you begin,” the soup said, “I want to tell you something. Each tray of this type of mail must be stuck in 23 minutes. That’s the production schedule. Now, just for fun, let’s see if each of us can meet the production schedule! Now, one, two, three … GO!”

What the hell is this? I thought. I’m tired.

Each tray was two feet long. But each tray held different amounts of letters. Some trays had two or three times as much mail in them as others, depending upon the size of the letters.

Arms started flying. Fear of failure.

I took my time.

“When you finish your first tray, grab another! “

They really worked at it. Then they jumped up and grabbed another tray.

The supervisor walked up behind me. “Now,” he said, pointing at me,
“this
man is making production. He’s halfway through his second tray!”

It was my first tray. I didn’t know if he were trying to con me or not, but since I was that far ahead of them I slowed down a little more.

At 3:30 a.m. my 12 hours were up. At that time they did not pay the subs time and one half for overtime. You just got straight time. And you hired in as a “temporary indefinite substitute clerk.”

I set the alarm so that I would be at the art store at 8 a.m.

“What happened, Hank? We thought maybe you had been in an auto accident. We kept waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m quitting.”

“Quitting?”

“Yes, you can’t blame a man for wanting to better himself. “

I walked into the office and got my check. I was back in the post office again.

Meanwhile, there was still Joyce, and her geraniums, and a couple of million if I could hang on. Joyce and the flies and the geraniums. I worked the night shift, 12 hours, and she pawed me during the day, trying to get me to perform. I’d be asleep and I’d awaken with this hand stroking me. Then I’d have to do it. The poor dear was mad.

Then I came in one morning and she said, “Hank, don’t be mad.”

I was too tired to be mad.

“What izzit, baby?”

“I got us a dog. A little pup dog.”

“O.K. That’s nice. There’s nothing wrong with dogs. Where is he?”

“He’s in the kitchen. I named him ‘Picasso.’”

I walked in and looked at the dog. He couldn’t see. Hair covered his eyes. I watched him walk. Then I picked him up and looked at his eyes. Poor Picasso!

“Baby, you know what you’ve gone and done?”

“You don’t like him?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him. But he’s a subnormal. He has an I.Q. of about 12. You’ve gone out and gotten us an idiot of a dog.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can tell just by looking at him.”

Just then Picasso started to piss. Picasso was full of piss. It ran in long yellow fat rivulets along the kitchen floor. Then Picasso finished, ran and looked at it.

I picked him up.

“Mop it up.”

So Picasso was just one more problem.

I’d awaken after a 12-hour night with Joyce strumming me under the geraniums and I’d say, “Where’s Picasso?”