Post Office: A Novel Read online

  POST OFFICE

  A NOVEL BY

  CHARLES BUKOWSKI

  This is presented as a work of fiction

  and dedicated to nobody

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  TWO

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  THREE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  17

  18

  19

  20

  FOUR

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  FIVE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  SIX

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  About the Author

  BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI AVAILABLE FROM ECCO

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  1

  It began as a mistake.

  It was Christmas season and I learned from the drunk up the hill, who did the trick every Christmas, that they would hire damned near anybody, and so I went and the next thing I knew I had this leather sack on my back and was hiking around at my leisure. What a job, I thought. Soft! They only gave you a block or two and if you managed to finish, the regular carrier would give you another block to carry, or maybe you’d go back in and the soup would give you another, but you just took your time and shoved those Xmas cards in the slots.

  I think it was my second day as a Christmas temp that this big woman came out and walked around with me as I delivered letters. What I mean by big was that her ass was big and her tits were big and that she was big in all the right places. She seemed a bit crazy but I kept looking at her body and I didn’t care.

  She talked and talked and talked. Then it came out. Her husband was an officer on an island far away and she got lonely, you know, and lived in this little house in back all by herself.

  “What little house?” I asked.

  She wrote the address on a piece of paper.

  “I’m lonely too,” I said, “I’ll come by and we’ll talk tonight.”

  I was shacked but the shackjob was gone half the time, off somewhere, and I was lonely all right. I was lonely for that big ass standing beside me.

  “All right,” she said, “see you tonight.”

  She was a good one all right, she was a good lay but like all lays after the third or fourth night I began to lose interest and didn’t go back.

  But I couldn’t help thinking, god, all these mailmen do is drop in their letters and get laid. This is the job for me, oh yes yes yes.

  2

  So I took the exam, passed it, took the physical, passed it, and there I was—a substitute mail carrier. It began easy. I was sent to West Avon Station and it was just like Christmas except I didn’t get laid. Every day I expected to get laid but I didn’t. But the soup was easy and I strolled around doing a block here and there. I didn’t even have a uniform, just a cap. I wore my regular clothes. The way my shackjob Betty and I drank there was hardly money for clothes.

  Then I was transferred to Oakford Station.

  The soup was a bullneck named Jonstone. Help was needed there and I understood why. Jonstone liked to wear dark-red shirts—that meant danger and blood. There were seven subs—Tom Moto, Nick Pelligrini, Herman Stratford, Rosey Anderson, Bobby Hansen, Harold Wiley and me, Henry Chinaski. Reporting time was 5 a.m. and I was the only drunk there. I always drank until past midnight, and there we’d sit, at 5 a.m., waiting to get on the clock, waiting for some regular to call in sick. The regulars usually called in sick when it rained or during a heatwave or the day after a holiday when the mail load was doubled.

  There were 40 or 50 different routes, maybe more, each case was different, you were never able to learn any of them, you had to get your mail up and ready before 8 a.m. for the truck dispatches, and Jonstone would take no excuses. The subs routed their magazines on corners, went without lunch, and died in the streets. Jonstone would have us start casing the routes 30 minutes late—spinning in his chair in his red shirt—”Chinaski take route 539!” We’d start a half hour short but were still expected to get the mail up and out and be back on time. And once or twice a week, already beaten, fagged and fucked we had to make the night pickups, and the schedule on the board was impossible—the truck wouldn’t go that fast. You had to skip four or five boxes on the first run and the next time around they were stacked with mail and you stank, you ran with sweat jamming it into the sacks. I got laid all right. Jonstone saw to that.

  3

  The subs themselves made Jonstone possible by obeying his impossible orders. I couldn’t see how a man of such obvious cruelty could be allowed to have his position. The regulars didn’t care, the union man was worthless, so I filled out a thirty page report on one of my days off, mailed one copy to Jonstone and took the other down to the Federal Building. The clerk told me to wait. I waited and waited and waited. I waited an hour and thirty minutes, then was taken in to see a little grey-haired man with eyes like cigarette ash. He didn’t even ask me to sit down. He began screaming at me as I entered the door.

  “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.

  4

  When Jonstone saw me the next 5 a.m. he spun in his swivel and his face and his shirt were the same color. But he said nothing. I didn’t care. I had been up to 2 a.m. drinking and screwing with Betty. I leaned back and closed my eyes.

  At 7 a.m. Jonstone swiveled again. All the other subs had been assigned jobs or been sent to other statio
ns that needed help.

  “That’s all, Chinaski. Nothing for you today.”

  He watched my face. Hell, I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was to go to bed and get some sleep.

  “O.K., Stone,” I said. Among the carriers he was known as “The Stone,” but I was the only one who addressed him that way.

  I walked out, the old car started and soon I was back in bed with Betty.

  “Oh, Hank! How nice!”

  “Damn right, baby!” I pushed up against her warm tail and was asleep in 45 seconds.

  5

  But the next morning it was the same thing:

  “That’s all, Chinaski. Nothing for you today.”

  It went on for a week. I sat there each morning from 5 a.m. to 7 a.m. and didn’t get paid. My name was even taken off the night collection run.

  Then Bobby Hansen, one of the older subs—in length of service—told me, “He did that to me once. He tried to starve me.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not kissing his ass. I’ll quit or starve, anything.”

  “You don’t have to. Report to Prell Station each night. Tell the soup you aren’t getting any work and you can sit in as a special delivery sub.”

  “I can do that? No rules against it?”

  “I got a paycheck every two weeks.”

  “Thanks, Bobby.”

  6

  I forget the beginning time. Six or 7 p.m. Something like that.

  All you did was sit with a handful of letters, take a streetmap and figure your run. It was easy. All the drivers took much more time than was needed to figure their runs and I played right along with them. I left when everybody left and came back when everybody came back.

  Then you made another run. There was time to sit around in coffee shops, read newspapers, feel decent. You even had time for lunch. Whenever I wanted a day off, I took one. On one of the routes there was this big young gal who got a special every night. She was a manufacturer of sexy dresses and nightgowns and wore them. You’d run up her steep stairway about 11 p.m., ring the bell and give her the special. She’d let out a bit of a gasp, like, “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhHHHH!” and she’d stand close, very, and she wouldn’t let you leave while she read it, and then she’d say, “OOOOOoooh, goodnight, thank YOU!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” you’d say, trotting off with a dick like a bull’s.

  But it was not to last. It came in the mail after about a week and a half of freedom.

  “Dear Mr. Chinaski:

  You are to report to Oakford Station immediately. Refusal to do so will result in possible disciplinary action or dismissal.

  A. E. Jonstone, Supt., Oakford Station.”

  I was back on the cross again.

  7

  “Chinaski! Take route 539!”

  The toughtest 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.

  8

  There was another German Shepherd. It was hot summer and he came BOUNDING out of a back yard and then LEAPED through the air. His teeth snapped, just missing my jugular vein.

  “OH JESUS!” I hollered, “OH JESUS CHRIST! MURDER! MURDER! HELP! MURDER!”

  The beast turned and leaped again. I socked his head good in mid-air with the mail sack, letters and magazines flying out. He was ready to leap again when two guys, the owners, came out and grabbed him. Then, as he watched and growled, I reached down and picked up the letters and magazines that I would have to re-route on the front porch of the next house.

  “You sons of bitches are crazy,” I told the two guys, “that dog’s a killer. Get rid of him or keep him off the street!”

  I would have fought them both but there was that dog growling and lunging between them. I went over to the next porch and re-routed my mail on hands and knees.

  As usual, I didn’t have time for lunch, but I was still 40 minutes late getting in.

  The Stone looked at his watch. “You’re 40 minutes late.”

  “You never arrived,” I told him.

  “That’s a write-up.”

  “Sure it is, Stone.”

  He already had the proper form in the typer and was at it. As I sat casing up the mail and doing the go-backs he walked up and threw the form in front of me. I was tired of reading his write-ups and knew from my trip downtown that any protest was useless. Without looking I threw it into the wastebasket.

  9

  Every route had its traps and only the regular carriers knew of them. Each day it was another god damned thing, and you were always ready for a rape, murder, dogs, or insanity of some sort. The regulars wouldn’t tell you their little secrets. That was the only advantage they had—except knowing their case by heart. It was gung ho for a new man, especially one who drank all night, went to bed at 2 a.m., rose at 4:30 a.m. after screwing and singing all night long, and, almost, getting away with it.

  One day I was out on the street and the route was going well, though it was a new one, and I thought, Jesus Christ, maybe for the first time in two years I’ll be able to eat lunch.

  I had a terrible hangover, but still all went well until I came to this handful of mail addressed to a church. The address had no street number, just the name of the church, and the boulevard it faced. I walked, hungover, up the steps. I couldn’t find a mailbox in there and no people in there. Some candles burning. Little bowls to dip your fingers in. And the empty pulpit looking at me, and all the statues, pale red and blue and yellow, the transoms shut, a stinking hot morning.

  Oh Jesus Christ, I thought. And walked out.

  I went around to the side of the church and found a stairway going down. I went in through an open door. Do you know what I saw? A row of toilets. And showers. But it was dark. All the lights were out. How in hell can they expect a man to find a mailbox in the dark? Then I saw the light switch. I threw the thing and the lights in the church went on, inside and out. I walked into the next room and there were priests’ robes spread out on a table. There was a bottle of wine.

  For Christ’s sake, I thought, who in hell but me would ever get caught in a scene like this?

  I picked up the bottle of wine, had a good drag, left the letters on the robes, and walked back to the showers and toilets. I turned off the lights and took a shit in the dark and smoked a cigarette. I thought about taking a shower but I could see the headlines: MAILMAN CAUGHT DRINKING THE BLOOD OF GOD AND TAKING A SHOWER, NAK
ED, IN ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH.

  So, finally, I didn’t have time for lunch and when I got in Jonstone wrote me up for being 23 minutes off schedule.

  I found out later that mail for the church was delivered to the parish house around the corner. But now, of course, I’ll know where to shit and shower when I’m down and out.

  10

  The rainy season began. Most of the money went for drink so my shoes had holes in the soles and my raincoat was torn and old. In any steady downpour I got quite wet, and I mean wet—down to soaked and soggy shorts and stockings. The regular carriers called in sick, they called in sick from stations all over the city, so there was work every day at Oakford Station, at all the stations. Even the subs were calling in sick. I didn’t call in sick because I was too tired to think properly. This particular morning I was sent to Wently Station. It was one of those five-day storms where the rain comes down in one continuous wall of water and the whole city gives up, everything gives up, the sewers can’t swallow the water fast enough, the water comes up over the curbings, and in some sections, up on the lawn and into the houses.

  I was sent off to Wently Station.

  “They said they need a good man,” the Stone called after me as I stepped out into a sheet of water.

  The door closed. If the old car started, and it did, I was off to Wently. But it didn’t matter—if the car didn’t run, they threw you on a bus. My feet were already wet.

  The Wently soup stood me in front of this case. It was already stuffed and I began stuffing more mail in with the help of another sub. I’d never seen such a case! It was a rotten joke of some sort. I counted 12 tie-outs on the case. That case must have covered half the city. I had yet to learn that the route was all steep hills. Whoever had conceived it was a madman.

  We got it up and out and just as I was about to leave the soup walked over and said, “I can’t give you any help on this.”

  “That’s all right,” I said.

  All right, hell. It wasn’t until later that I found out he was Jonstone’s best buddy.