Charles Bukowski - Post Office

“How did it happen, Henry?”

“Cigar. I was standing next to a truck of 4th class. Ash must have gotten in there. Flames came up.”

The breast was up against me again.

“Hold your hands still, please! ”

Then she laid her whole flank against me as she spread some ointment on my hands. I was sitting on a stool.

“What’s the matter, Henry? You seem nervous.”

“Well… you know how it is, Martha.”

“My name is not Martha. It’s Helen.”

“Let’s get married, Helen.”

“What?”

“I mean, how soon will I be able to use my hands again?”

“You can use them right now if you feel like it.”

“What?”

“I mean, on the work floor.”

She wrapped on some gauze.

“It does feel better,” I told her.

“You mustn’t burn the mails.”

“It was junk.”

“All mail is important.”

“All right, Helen.”

She walked over to her desk and I followed her. She filled out the travel form. She looked very cute in her little white hat. I’d have to find a way to get back there.

She saw me looking at her body.

“All right, Mr. Chinaski, I think you better leave now.”

“Oh yes… Well, thanks for everything.”

“It’s just part of the job.”

“Sure.”

A week later there were NO SMOKING IN THIS AREA signs all around. The clerks were not allowed to smoke unless they used ashtrays. Somebody had been contracted to manufacture all these ashtrays. They were nice. And said PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT. The clerks stole most of them.

NO SMOKING.

I had all by myself, Henry Chinaski, revolutionized the postal system.

Then some men came around and ripped out every other water-fountain.

“Hey, look, what the hell are they doing?” I asked.

Nobody seemed interested.

I was in the 3rd class flat section. I walked over to another clerk.

“Look!” I said. “They are taking away our water!”

He glanced at the waterfountain, then went back to sticking his 3rd class.

I tried other clerks. They showed the same disinterest. I couldn’t understand it.

I asked to have my union representative paged to my area.

After a long delay, here he came—Parker Anderson. Parker used to sleep in an old used car and freshen up and shave and shit at gas stations that didn’t lock their restrooms. Parker had tried to be a hustler but had failed. And had come to the central post office, joined the union, and went to the union meetings where he became sarge-at-arms. He was soon a union representative, and then he was elected vice president.

“What’s the matter, Hank? I know you don’t need me to handle these soups!”

“Don’t butter me, babe. Now I’ve paying union dues for almost 12 years and haven’t asked for a damn thing.”

“All right, what’s wrong?”

“It’s the waterfountains.”

“The waterfountains are wrong?”

“No, god damn it, the waterfountains are right. It’s what they are doing to them. Look.”

“Look? Where?”

“There!”

“I don’t see anything.”

“That’s the exact nature of my bitch. There used to be a waterfountain there.”

“So they took it out. What the hell?”

“Look, Parker, I wouldn’t mind one. But they are yanking out every other waterfountain in the building. If we don’t stop them here, they will soon be closing down every other crapper… and then, what next, I don’t know…”

“All right,” said Parker, “what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to get off your ass and find out why these water-fountains are being removed.”

“All right, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See that you do. 12 years worth of union dues is $312.”

The next day I had to look for Parker. He didn’t have the answer. Or the next or the next. I told Parker that I was tired of waiting. He had one more day.

The next day he came up to me in the coffee break area.

“All right, Chinaski, I found out.”

“Yes?”

“In 1912 when this building was built…”

“1912? That’s over a half century ago! No wonder this place looks like the Kaiser’s whorehouse!”

“All right, stop it. Now, in 1912 when this place was built, the contract called for a certain number of waterfountains. In checking, the p.o. found that there had been twice as many waterfountains installed as were called for in the original contract.”

“Well, o.k.,” I said, “what harm can twice as many water-fountains do? The clerks will only drink so much water.”

“Right. But the waterfountains happen to jut out a bit. They get in the way.”

“So?”

“All right. Supposing a clerk with a sharp lawyer was injured against a waterfountain? Say he was pinned against that fountain by a handtruck loaded with heavy sacks of magazines?”

“I see it now. The fountain isn’t supposed to be there. The post office is sued for negligence.”

“Right!”

“All right. Thanks, Parker.”

“My service.”

If he had made up the story, it was damn near worth $312. I’d seen a lot worse printed in Playboy.

I found that the only way I could keep from dizzy-spelling into my case was to get up and take a walk now and then. Fazzio, a supervisor who had the station at the time, saw me walking up to one of the rare waterfountains.

“Look, Chinaski, everytime I see you, you’re walking!”

“That’s nothing,” I said, “everytime I see you, you’re walking.”

“But that’s part of my job. Walking is part of my job. I have to do it.”

“Look,” I said, “it’s part of my job too. I have to do it. If I stay on that stool much longer I am going to leap up on top of those tin cases and start running around whistling Dixie from my asshole and Mammy’s Little Children Love Shortnin’ Bread through the frontal orifice.”

“All right, Chinaski, forget it.”

One night I was coming around the corner after sneaking down to the cafeteria for a pack of smokes. And there was a face I knew.

It was Tom Moto! The guy I had subbed with under The Stone!

“Moto, you motherfuck!” I said.

“Hank!” he said.

We shook hands.

“Hey, I was thinking of you! Jonstone is retiring this month. Some of us are holding a farewell party for him. You know, he always liked to fish. We’re going to take him out in a rowboat. Maybe you’d like to come along and throw him overboard, drown him. We’ve got a nice deep lake.”

“No, shit, I just don’t even want to look at him.”

“But you’re invited. ”

Moto was grinning from asshole to eyebrow. Then I looked at his shirt: a supervisor’s badge.

“Oh no, Tom.”

“Hank, I’ve got 4 kids. They need me for bread and butter.”

“All right, Tom,” I said.

Then I walked off.

I don’t know how it happens to people. I had child support, need for something to drink, rent, shoes, shirts, socks, all that stuff. Like everyone else I needed an old car, something to eat, all the little intangibles.

Like women.

Or a day at the track.

With everything on the line and no way out, you don’t even think about it.

I parked across the street from the Federal Building and stood waiting for the signal to change. I walked across. Pushed through the swinging doors. It was as if I were a piece of iron drawn to the magnet. There was nothing I could do.

It was on the 2nd floor. I opened the door and they were in there. The clerks of the Federal Building. I noticed one girl, poor thing, only one arm. She’d be there forever. It was like being an old wino like me. Well, as the boys said, you had to work somewhere. So they accepted what there was. This was the wisdom of the slave.