Charles Bukowski - Post Office

So I stood in the tour superintendent’s office. There he was behind his desk. I had a cigar in my mouth and whiskey on my breath. I felt like money. I looked like money.

“Mr. Winters,” I said, “the post office has treated me well. But I have outside business interests that simply must be taken care of. If you can’t give me a leave of absence, I must resign.”

“Didn’t I give you a leave of absence earlier in the year, Chinaski?”

“No, Mr. Winters, you turned down my request for a leave of absence. This time there can’t be any turndown. Or I will resign.”

“All right, fill out the form and I’ll sign it. But I can only give you 90 working days off.”

“I’ll take ’em,” I said, exhaling a long trail of blue smoke from my expensive cigar.

The track had moved down the coast a hundred miles or so. I kept paying the rent on my apartment in town, got in my car and drove down. Once or twice a week I would drive back to the apartment, check the mail, maybe sleep overnight, then drive back down.

It was a good life, and I started winning. After the last race each night I would have one or two easy drinks at the bar, tipping the bartender well. It looked like a new life. I could do no wrong.

One night I didn’t even watch the last race. I went to the bar. $50 to win was my standard bet. After you bet 50 win a while it feels like betting 5 win or 10 win. “Scotch and water,” I told the barkeep. “Think I’ll listen to this one over the speaker.”

“Who you got?”

“Blue Stocking,” I told him. “50 win.”

“Too much weight.”

“Are you kidding? A good horse can pack 122 pounds in a 6 thousand dollar claimer. That means, according to the conditions, that the horse has done something that no other horse in that race has done.”

Of course, that wasn’t the reason I had bet Blue Stocking. I was always giving out misinformation. I didn’t want anybody else on board.

At the time, they didn’t have closed circuit t.v. You just listened to the calls. I was $380 ahead. A loss on the last race would give me a $330 profit. A good day’s work.

We listened. The caller mentioned every horse in the race but Blue Stocking.

My horse must have fallen down, I thought.

They were in the stretch, coming down toward the wire. That track was notorious for its short stretch.

Then right before the race ended the announcer screamed, “AND HERE COMES BLUE STOCKING ON THE OUTSIDE! BLUE STOCKING IS GETTING UP! IT’S… BLUE STOCKING!”

“Pardon me,” I told the bartender, “I’ll be right back. Fix me a scotch and water, double shot.”

“Yes, sir!” he said.

I went put back where they had a small tote board near the walking ring. Blue Stocking read 9/2. Well it wasn’t 8 or 10 to one. But you played the winner, not the price. I’d take the $250 profit plus change. I went back to the bar.

“Who do you like tomorrow, sir?” asked the barkeep.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off,” I told him.

I finished my drink, tipped him a dollar and walked off.

Every night was about the same. I’d drive along the coast looking for a place to have dinner. I wanted an expensive place that wasn’t too crowded. I developed a nose for those places. I could tell by looking at them from the outside. You couldn’t always get a table directly overlooking the ocean unless you wanted to wait. But you could still see the ocean out there and the moon, and let yourself get romantic. Let yourself enjoy life. I always asked for a small salad and a big steak. The waitresses smiled deliciously and stood very close to you. I had come a long way from a guy who had worked in slaughterhouses, who had crossed the country with a railroad track gang, who had worked in a dog biscuit factory, who had slept on park benches, who had worked the nickle and dime jobs in a dozen cities across the nation.

After dinner I would look for a motel. This also took a bit of driving. First I’d stop somewhere for whiskey and beer. I avoided the places with t.v. sets. It was clean sheets, a hot shower, luxury. It was a magic life. And I did not tire of it.

One day I was at the bar between races and I saw this woman. God or somebody keeps creating women and tossing them out on the streets, and this one’s ass is too big and that one’s tits are too small and this one is mad and that one is crazy and that one is a religionist and that one reads tea leaves and this one can’t control her farts, and that one has this big nose, and that one has boney legs…

But now and then, a woman walks up, full blossom, a woman just bursting out of her dress… a sex creature, a curse, the end of it all. I looked up and there she was, down at the end of the bar. She was about drunk and the bartender wouldn’t serve her and she began to bitch and they called one of the track cops and the track cop had her by the arm, leading her off, and they were talking.

I finished my drink and followed them.

“Officer! Officer!”

He stopped and looked at me.

“Has my wife done something wrong?” I asked.

“We believe that she is intoxicated, sir. I was going to escort her to the gate.”

“The starting gate?”

He laughed. “No, sir. The exit gate.”

“I’ll take over here, officer.”

“All right, sir. But see that she doesn’t drink anymore.”

I didn’t answer. I took her by the arm and led her back in.

“Thank god, you saved my life,” she said.

Her flank bumped against me.

“It’s all right. My name’s Hank.”

“I’m Mary Lou,” she said.

“Mary Lou,” I said, “I love you.”

She laughed.

“By the way, you don’t hide behind pillars at the opera house, do you?”

“I don’t hide behind anything,” she said, sticking her breasts out.

“Want another drink?”

“Sure, but he won’t serve me.”

“There’s more than one bar at this track, Mary Lou. Let’s take a run upstairs. And keep quiet. Stand back and I will bring your drink to you. What’re you drinking?”

“Anything,” she said.

“Scotch and water do?”

“Sure.”

We drank the rest of the card. She brought me luck. I hit two of the last three. “Did you bring a car?” I asked her. “I came with some damn fool,” she said. “Forget him.”

“If you can, I can,” I told her. We wrapped up in the car and her tongue flicked in and out of my mouth like a tiny lost snake. We unwrapped and I drove down the coast. It was a lucky night. I got a table overlooking the ocean and we ordered drinks and waited for the steaks. Everybody in the place looked at her. I leaned forward and lit her cigarette, thinking, this one’s going to be a good one. Everybody in the place knew what I was thinking and Mary Lou knew what 1 was thinking, and I smiled at her over the flame.

“The ocean,” I said, “look at it out there, battering, crawling up and down. And underneath all that, the fish, the poor fish fighting each other, eating each other. We’re like those fish, only we’re up here. One bad move and you’re finished. It’s nice to be a champion. It’s nice to know your moves.”

I took out a cigar and lit it.

“’nother drink, Mary Lou?”

“All right, Hank.”

There was this place. It stretched over the sea, it was built over the sea. An old place, but with a touch of class. We got a room on the first floor. You could hear the ocean running down there, you could hear the waves, you could smell the ocean, you could feel the tide going in and out, in and out.

I took my time with her as we talked and drank. Then I went over to the couch and sat next to her. We worked something up, laughing and talking and listening to the ocean. I stripped down but made her keep her clothes on. Then I carried her over to the bed and while crawling all over her, I finally worked her clothing off and I was in. It was hard getting in. Then she gave way.