Post Office (9 page)

“Salud!” I said.

We raised our glasses high, clicked them.

Then the
alarm
clock went off and it was a loud one.

I jerked as if I had been shot in the back. Betty leaped a foot into the air, straight up. I ran over to the clock and shut off the alarm.

“Jesus,” she said, “I almost shit myself!”

We both started laughing. Then we sat down. Had the good drink.

“I had a boyfriend who worked for the county,” she said. “They used to send out an inspector, a guy, but not everytime, maybe one time in five. So this night I am drinking with Harry—that was his name: Harry. This night I am drinking with Harry and there’s a knock on the door. Harry’s sitting on the couch with all his clothes on. ‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ he says, and he leaps into bed with all his clothes on and pulls the covers up. I put the bottles and glasses under the bed and open the door. This guy comes in and sits on the couch. Harry even has his shoes and stockings on but he is completely under the covers. The guy says, ‘How you feeling, Harry?’ And Harry says, ‘Not so good. She’s over to take care of me.’ He points at me. I was sitting there drunk. ‘Well, I hope you get well, Harry,’ the guy says, and then he leaves. I’m sure he saw those bottles and glasses under the bed, and I’m sure he knew that Harry’s feet weren’t
that
big. It was a jumpy time.”

“Damn, they won’t let a man live at all, will they? They always want him at the wheel.”

“Of course.”

We drank a little longer and then we went to bed, but it wasn’t the same, it never is—there was space between us, things had happened. I watched her walk to the bathroom, saw the wrinkles and folds under the cheeks of her ass. Poor thing. Poor poor thing. Joyce had been firm and hard—you grabbed a handful and it felt good. Betty didn’t feel so good. It was sad, it was sad, it was sad. When Betty came back we didn’t sing or laugh, or even argue. We sat drinking in the dark, smoking cigarettes, and when we went to sleep, I didn’t put my feet on her body or she on mine like we used to. We slept without touching.

We had both been robbed.

I phoned Joyce.

“How’s it working with Purple Stickpin?”

“I can’t understand it,” she said. “What did he do when you told him you were divorced?”

“We were sitting across from each other in the employees’ cafeteria when I told him.”

“What happened?”

“He dropped his fork. His mouth fell open. He said, ‘What?’ “

“He knew you meant business then.”

“I can’t understand it. He’s been avoiding me ever since. When I see him in the hall he runs away. He doesn’t sit across from me anymore when we eat. He seems … well, almost … cold.”

“Baby, there are other men. Forget that guy. Set your sails for a new one.”

“It’s hard to forget him. I mean, the way he was.”

“Does he know that you have money?”

“No, I have never told him, he doesn’t know.”

“Well, if you want him …”

“No, no! I don’t want him that way!”

“All right, then. Goodbye Joyce.”

“Goodbye, Hank.”

It wasn’t long after that, I got a letter from her. She was back in Texas. Grandma was very sick, she wasn’t expected to live long. People were asking about me. So forth. Love, Joyce.

I put the letter down and I could see that midget wondering how I had missed out. Little shaking freak, thinking I was such a clever bastard. It was hard to let him down like that.

Then I was called down to personnel at the old Federal Building. They let me sit the usual 45 minutes or hour and one half.

Then. “Mr. Chinaski?” this voice said. “Yeh,” I said. “Step in.”

The man walked me back to a desk. There sat this woman. She looked a bit sexy, melting into 38 or 39, but she looked as if her sexual ambition had either been laid aside for other things or as if it had been ignored. “Sit down, Mr. Chinaski.” I sat down.

Baby, I thought, I could really give you a ride. “Mr. Chinaski,” she said, “we have been wondering if you have filled out this application properly.”

“Uh?”

“We mean, the arrest record.”

She handed me the sheet. There wasn’t any sex in her eyes.

I had listed eight orten common drunk raps. It was only an estimate. I had no idea of the dates.

“Now, have you listed
everything?”
she asked me.

“Hmmm, hmmm, let me think …”

I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to say “yes” and then she had me.

“Let me see … Hmmm. Hmmm.”

“Yes?” she said.

“Oh oh! My god!”

“What is it?”

“It’s either drunk in auto or drunk driving. About four years ago or so. I don’t know the exact date.”

“And this was a slip of the mind?”

“Yes, really, I meant to put it down.”

“All right. Put it down.” I wrote it down.

“Mr. Chinaski. This is a terrible record. I want you to explain these charges and if possible justify your present employment with us.”

“All right.”

“You have 10 days to reply.”

I didn’t want the job that badly. But she irritated me. I phoned in sick that night after buying some ruled and numbered legal paper and a blue, very official-looking folder. I got a fifth of whiskey and a six-pack, then sat down and typed it out. I had the dictionary at my elbow. Every now and then I would flip a page, find a large incomprehensible word and build a sentence or a paragraph out of the idea. It ran 42 pages. I finished up with, “Copies of this statement have been retained for distribution to the press, television, and other mass communication media.”

I was full of shit.

She
got up from her desk and got it personally. “Mr. Chinaski?”

“Yes?”

It was 9 a.m. One day after her request to answer charges. “Just a moment.”

She took the 42 pages back to her desk. She read and read and read. There was somebody reading over her shoulder. Then there were 2, 3, 4, 5. All reading. 6, 7, 8, 9. All reading.

What the hell? I thought.

Then I heard a voice from the crowd, “Well, all geniuses are drunkards!” As if that explained away the matter. Too many movies again.

She got up from the desk with the 42 pages in her hand.

“Mr. Chinaski?”

“Yes?”

“Your case will be continued. You will hear from us.”

“Meanwhile, continue working?”

“Meanwhile, continue working.”

“Good morning,” I said.

One night I was assigned to the stool next to Butchner. He didn’t stick any mail. He just sat there. And talked.

A young girl came in and sat down at the end of the aisle. I heard Butchner. “Yeah, you cunt! You want my cock in your pussy, don’t you? That’s what you want, you cunt, don’t you?”

I went on sticking mail. The soup walked past. Butchner said, “You’re on my list, mother! I’m going to get you, you dirty mother! You rotten bastard! Cocksucker!”

The supervisors never bothered Butchner. Nobody ever bothered Butchner.

Then I heard him again. “All right, baby! I don’t like that look on your face! You’re on my list, mother! You’re right there on top of my list! I’m going to get your ass! Hey, I’m talking to you! You hear me?”

It was too much. I threw my mail down.

“All right,” I told him, “I’m calling your card! I’m calling your whole stinking deck! You wanna go right here or outside?”

I looked at Butchner. He was talking to the ceiling, insane:

“I told you, you’re on top of my list! I’m going to get you and I’m going to get you good!”

O for Christ’s sake, I thought, I really sucked into that one! The clerks were very quiet. I couldn’t blame them. I got up, went to get a drink of water. Then came back. Twenty minutes later I got up to take my 10 minute break. When I got back, the supervisor was waiting.

A fat black man in his early fifties. He screamed at me: “CHTNASKI!”

“What’s the matter, man?” I asked.

“You’ve left your seat twice in 30 minutes!”

“Yeah, I got a drink of water the first time. Thirty seconds. Then later I took my break.”

“Suppose you worked at a machine? You couldn’t leave your machine twice in 30 minutes!”

His whole face glistened in fury. It was astounding. I couldn’t understand it.

“I’M WRITING YOU UP!”

“All right,” I said.

I went down and sat next to Butchner. The supervisor came running down with the write-up. It was written in longhand. I couldn’t even read it. He had written in such fury that it had all come out in blots and slants.

I folded the write-up into a neat package, slipped it in my rear pocket.

“I’m going to kill that son of a bitch!” Butchner said.

“I wish you would, fat boy,” I said, “I wish you would.”

It was 12 hours a night, plus supervisors, plus clerks, plus the fact that you could hardly breathe in that pack of flesh, plus stale baked food in the “non-profit” cafeteria.

Plus the CP1. City Primary 1. That station scheme was nothing compared to the City Primary 1. Which contained about one-third of the streets in the city and how they were broken up into zone numbers. I lived in one of the largest cities in the U.S. That was a lot of streets. After that there was CP2. And CP3. You had to pass each test in 90 days, three shots at it, 95 percent or better, 100 cards in a glass cage, eight minutes, fail and they let you try for President of General Motors, as the man said. For those who got through, the schemes would get a little easier, the second or third time around. But with the 12-hour night and canceled days off, it was too much for most. Already, out of our original group of 150 to 200, there were only 17 or 18 of us left.

“How can I work 12 hours a night, sleep, eat, bathe, travel back and forth, get the laundry and the gas, the rent, change tires, do all the little things that have to be done and still study the scheme?” I asked one of the instructors in the scheme room.

“Do without sleep,” he told me.

I looked at him. He wasn’t playing
Dixie
on the harmonica. The damn fool was serious.

I found that the only time to study was before sleeping. I was always too tired to make and eat breakfast, so I would go out and buy a tall six-pack, put it on the chair beside the bed, rip open a can, take a good pull and then open the scheme sheet. About the time I got to the third can of beer I had to drop the sheet. You could only inject so much. Then I’d drink the rest of the beer, sitting up in bed, staring at the walls. With the last can I’d be asleep. And when I awakened, there was just time to toilet, bathe, eat, and drive back on in.

And you didn’t adjust, you simply got more and more tired. I always picked up my six-pack on the way in, and one morning I was really done. I climbed the stairway (there was no elevator) and put the key in. The door swung open. Somebody had changed all the furniture around, put in a new rug. No, the furniture was new too.

There was a woman on the couch. She looked all right. Young. Good legs. Blonde.

“Hello,” I said, “care for a beer?”

“Hi!” she said. “All right, I’ll have one.”

“I like the way this place is fixed up,” I told her.

“I did it myself.”

“But
why?”

“I just felt like it,” she said. We each drank at the beer.

“You’re all right,” I said. I put my beercan down and gave her a kiss. I put my hand on one of her knees. It was a nice knee.

Then I had another swallow of beer.

“Yes,” I said, “I really like the way this place looks. It’s really going to lift my spirits.”

“That’s nice. My husband likes it too.”

“Now why would your husband … What? Your husband? Look, what’s this apartment number?”

“309.”

“309? Great Christ! I’m on the wrong floor! I live in 409. My key opened your door.”

“Sit down, sweetie,” she said. “No, no …”

I picked up the four remaining beers.

“Why rush right off?” she asked.

“Some men are crazy,” I said, moving toward the door.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, some men are in love with their wives.”

She laughed. “Don’t forget where I’m at.”

I closed the door and walked up one more flight. Then I opened my door. There was nobody in there. The furniture was old and ripped, the rug almost colorless. Empty beercans on the floor. I was in the right place.

I took off my clothes, climbed into bed alone and cracked another beer.

While working Dorsey Station I heard some of the old timers needling Big Daddy Greystone about how he’d had to buy a tape recorder in order to learn his schemes. Big Daddy had read the scheme sheet breaks onto the tape and listened to it as it played back. Big Daddy was called Big Daddy for obvious reasons. He’d put three women in the hospital with that thing. Now he’d found some roundeye. A fag named Carter. He’d even ripped Carter up. Carter had gone to a hospital in Boston. The joke was that Carter had to go all the way to Boston because there wasn’t enough string on the West Coast to sew him up after Big Daddy finished with him. True or not, I decided to try the tape recorder. My worries were over. I could leave it on while I was sleeping. I had read somewhere that you could learn with your subconscious while sleeping. That seemed the easiest way out. I bought a machine and some tape.

I read the scheme sheet onto the tape, got into bed with my beer and listened:

“NOW, HIGGINS BREAKS 42 HUNTER, 67 MARKLEY, 71 HUDSON, 84 EVERGLADES! AND NOW, LISTEN, LISTEN, CHINASKI, PITTSFIELD BREAKS 21 ASHGROVE, 33 SIMMONS, 46 NEEDLES! LISTEN, CHINASKI, LISTEN, WESTHAVEN BREAKS 11 EVERGREEN, 24 MARKHAM, 55 WOODTREE!

CHINASKI, ATTENTION, CHINASKI! PARCHBLEAK BREAKS …”

It didn’t work. My voice put me to sleep. I couldn’t get past the third beer.

After a while I didn’t play the recorder or study the scheme sheet. I just drank my six tall cans of beer and went to sleep. I couldn’t understand it. I even thought about going to see a psychiatrist. I envisioned the thing in my mind:

“Yes, my boy?”

“Well, it’s like this.”

“Go ahead. You need the couch?”

“No, thanks. I’d fall asleep.”