Run With the Hunted (28 page)

“You're a wise son of a bitch, aren't you?”

“I'd rather you didn't curse me, sir!”

“Wise son of a bitch, you're one of those sons of bitches with a vocabulary and you like to lay it around!”

He waved my papers at me. And screamed: “MR. JONSTONE IS A FINE MAN!”

“Don't be silly. He's an obvious sadist,” I said.

“How long have you been in the Post Office?”

“Three weeks.”

“MR. JONSTONE HAS BEEN WITH THE POST OFFICE FOR 30 YEARS!”

“What does
that
have to do with it?”

“I said, MR. JONSTONE IS A FINE MAN!”

I believe the poor fellow actually wanted to kill me. He and Jonstone must have slept together.

“All right,” I said, “Jonstone is a fine man. Forget the whole fucking thing.” Then I walked out and took the next day off. Without pay, of course.

—
P
OST
O
FFICE

she was hot, she was so hot

I didn't want anybody else to have her,

and if I didn't get home on time

she'd be gone, and I couldn't bear that—

I'd go mad …

it was foolish I know, childish,

but I was caught in it, I was caught.

I delivered all the mail

and then Henderson put me on the night pickup run

in an old army truck,

the damn thing began to heat halfway through the run

and the night went on

me thinking about my hot Miriam

and jumping in and out of the truck

filling mailsacks

the engine continuing to heat up

the temperature needle was at the top

HOT HOT

like Miriam.

I leaped in and out

3 more pickups and into the station

I'd be, my car

waiting to get me to Miriam who sat on my blue couch

with scotch on the rocks

crossing her legs and swinging her ankles

like she did,

2 more stops …

the truck stalled at a traffic light, it was hell

kicking it over

again …

I had to be home by 8, 8 was the deadline for Miriam.

I made the last pickup and the truck stalled at a signal

½ block from the station …

it wouldn't start, it couldn't start …

I locked the doors, pulled the key and ran down to the

station …

I threw the keys down.... signed out …

your god damned truck is stalled at the signal,

I shouted,

Pico and Western …

… I ran down the hall, put the key into the door,

opened it.... her drinking glass was there, and a note:

sun of a bitch:
I wated until 5 after ate
you don't love me
you sun of a bitch
somebody will love me
I been wateing all day

Miriam

I poured a drink and let the water run into the tub

there were 5,000 bars in town

and I'd make 25 of them

looking for Miriam

her purple teddy bear held the note

as he leaned against a pillow

I gave the bear a drink, myself a drink

and got into the hot

water.

 

“Chinaski! Take route 539!”

The toughest in the station. Apartment houses with boxes that had scrubbed-out names or no names at all, under tiny lightbulbs in dark halls. Old ladies standing in halls, up and down the streets, asking the same question as if they were one person with one voice:

“Mailman, you got any mail for me?”

And you felt like screaming, “Lady, how the
hell
do I know who
you
are or I am or anybody is?”

The sweat dripping, the hangover, the impossibility of the schedule, and Jonstone back there in his red shirt, knowing it, enjoying it, pretending he was doing it to keep costs down. But everybody knew why he was doing it. Oh, what a fine man he was!

The people. The people. And the dogs.

Let me tell you about the dogs. It was one of those 100 degree days and I was running along, sweating, sick, delirious, hungover. I stopped at a small apartment house with the box downstairs along the front pavement. I popped it open with my key. There wasn't a sound. Then I felt something jamming its way into my crotch. It moved way up there. I looked around and there was a German shepherd, full-grown, with his nose halfway up my ass. With one snap of his jaws he could rip off my balls. I decided that those people were not going to get their mail that day, and maybe never get any mail again. Man, I mean he worked that nose in there. SNUFF! SNUFF! SNUFF!

I put the mail back into the leather pouch, and then very slowly, very, I took a half step forward. The nose followed. I took another half step with the other foot. The nose followed. Then I took a slow, very slow full step. Then another. Then stood still. The nose was out. And he just stood there looking at me. Maybe he'd never smelled anything like it and didn't quite know what to do.

I walked quietly away.

—
P
OST
O
FFICE

in the hospitals and jails

it's the worst

in madhouses

it's the worst

in penthouses

it's the worst

in skid row flophouses

it's the worst

at poetry readings

at rock concerts

at benefits for the disabled

it's the worst

at funerals

at weddings

it's the worst

at parades

at skating rinks

at sexual orgies

it's the worst

at midnight

at 3 a.m.

at 5:45 p.m.

it's the worst

falling through the sky

firing squads

that's the best

thinking of India

looking at popcorn stands

watching the bull get the matador

that's the best

boxed lightbulbs

an old dog scratching

peanuts in a celluloid bag

that's the best

spraying roaches

a clean pair of stockings

natural guts defeating natural talent

that's the best

in front of firing squads

throwing crusts to seagulls

slicing tomatoes

that's the best

rugs with cigarette burns

cracks in sidewalks

waitresses still sane

that's the best

my hands dead

my heart dead

silence

adagio of rocks

the world ablaze

that's the best

for me.

 

 

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 sinned 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 Grandad 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.