Charles Bukowski - Post Office

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 stick pin 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?”

“Whatchamean?”

“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 past-time, like bowling or t.v. or a New Year’s eye 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 bath room. 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 STICK PIN 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 suit cases. 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.