Post Office (8 page)

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.

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?

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 full 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.

It was about a week later around 7 a.m. I had lucked into another day off and after a double workout, I was up against Joyce’s ass, her asshole, sleeping, verily sleeping, and then the doorbell rang and I got out of bed and answered the thing.

There was a small man in a necktie. He jammed some papers into my hand and ran away.

It was a summons, for divorce. There went my millions. But I wasn’t angry because I had never expected her millions anyhow.

I awakened Joyce.

“What?”

“Couldn’t you have had me awakened at a more decent hour?”

I showed her the papers. “I’m sorry, Hank.”

“That’s O.K. All you had to do was tell me. I would have agreed. We just made love twice and laughed and had fun. I don’t understand it. And you knew all along. God damn if I can understand a woman. “

“Look, I filed when we had an argument. I thought, if I wait until I cool off I’ll never do it.”

“O.K., babe, I admire an honest woman. Is it Purple Stickpin?”

“It’s Purple Stickpin,” she said.

I laughed. It was a rather sad laugh, I’ll admit. But it came out.

“It’s easy to second guess. But you’re going to have trouble with him. I wish you luck, babe. You know there’s a lot of you I’ve loved and it hasn’t been entirely your money.”

She began to cry into the pillow, on her stomach, shaking all over. She was just a small-town girl, spoiled and mixed-up. There she shook, crying, nothing fake about it. It was terrible.

The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.

I got into bed, stroked her back, stroked her, stroked her, calmed her—then she’d break down again:

“Oh Hank, I love you, I love you, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry sorry so sorry!”

She was really on the rack.

After a while, I began to feel as if I were the one who was divorcing
her
.

Then we knocked off a good one for old time’s sake.

She got the place, the dog, the flies, the geraniums.

She even helped me pack. Folding my pants neatly into suitcases. Packing in my shorts and razor. When I was ready to leave she started crying again. I bit her on the ear, the right one, then went down the stairway with my stuff. I got into the car and began cruising up and down the streets looking for a For Rent sign.

It didn’t seem to be an unusual thing to do.

I didn’t contest the divorce, didn’t go to court. Joyce gave me the car. She didn’t drive. All I had lost was three or four million. But I still had the post office.

I met Betty on the street.

“I saw you with that bitch a while back. She’s not your kind of woman.”

“None of them are.”

I told her it was over. We went for a beer. Betty had gotten old, fast. Heavier. The lines had come in. Flesh hung under the throat. It was sad. But I had gotten old too.

Betty had lost her job. The dog had been run over and killed. She got a job as a waitress, then lost that when they tore down the cafe to erect an office building. Now she lived in a small room in a loser’s hotel. She changed the sheets there and cleaned the bathrooms. She was on wine. She suggested that we might get together again. I suggested that we might wait awhile. I was just getting over a bad one.

She went back to her room and put on her best dress, high heels, tried to fix up. But there was a terrible sadness about her.

We got a fifth of whiskey and some beer, went up to my place on the fourth floor of an old apartment house. I picked up the phone and called in sick. I sat across from Betty. She crossed her legs, kicked her heels, laughed a little. It was like old times. Almost. Something was missing.

At that time, when you called in sick the post office sent out a nurse to spot check, to make sure you weren’t night-clubbing or sitting in a poker parlor. My place was close to the central office, so it was convenient for them to check up on me. Betty and I had been there about two hours when there was a knock on the door.

“What’s that?”

“All right,” I whispered, “shut up! Take off those high heels, go into the kitchen and don’t make a sound.”

“JUST A MOMENT!” I answered the knocker.

I lit a cigarette to kill my breath, then went to the door and opened it a notch. It was the nurse. The same one. She knew me.

“Now what’s your trouble?” she asked. I blew out a little roll of smoke. “Upset stomach.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s my stomach.”

“Will you sign this form to show that I called here and that you were at home?”

“Surely.”

The nurse slipped the form in sideways. I signed it. Slipped it back out.

“Will you be in to work tomorrow?”

“I have no way of knowing. If I’m well, I’ll come in. If not, I’ll stay out.”

She gave me a dirty look and walked off. I knew she had smelled whiskey on my breath. Proof enough? Probably not, too many technicalities, or maybe she was laughing as she got into her car with her little black bag.

“All right,” I said, “get on your shoes and come on out.”

“Who was it?”

“A post office nurse.”

“Is she gone?”

“Yeh.”

“Do they do that all the time?”

“They haven’t missed yet. Now let’s each have a good tall drink to celebrate!”

I walked into the kitchen and poured two good ones. I came out and handed Betty her drink.