Post Office

And he was a big powerful brute. Using the same muscles over and over again was quite tiring. I ached all over. And at the end of the aisle stood a supervisor, another Stone, and he had this look on his face—they must practice it in front of mirrors, all the supervisors had this look on their faces—they looked at you as if you were a hunk of human shit. Yet they had come in through the same door. They had once been clerks or carriers. I couldn’t understand it. They were handpicked screws.

You had to keep one foot on the floor at all times. One notch up on the rest-bar. What they called a “rest- bar” was a little round cushion set up on a stilt. No talking allowed. Two 10 minute breaks in 8 hours. They wrote down the time when you left and the time when you came back. If you stayed 12 or 13 minutes, you heard about it.

But the pay was better than at the art store. And, I thought, I might get used to it. I never got used to it.

12

Then the supervisor moved us to a new aisle. We had been there ten hours.

“Before you begin,” the soup said, “I want to tell you something. Each tray of this type of mail must be stuck in 23 minutes. That’s the production schedule. Now, just for fun, let’s see if each of us can meet the production schedule! Now, one, two, three… GO!”

What the hell is this? I thought. I’m tired.

Each tray was two feet long. But each tray held different amounts of letters. Some trays had 2 or 3 times as much mail in them as others, depending upon the size of the letters.

Arms started flying. Fear of failure.

I took my time.

“When you finish your first tray, grab another!”

They really worked at it. Then they jumped up and grabbed another tray.

The supervisor walked up behind me. “Now,” he said, pointing at me, “this man is making production. He’s halfway through his second tray!”

It was my first tray. I didn’t know if he were trying to con me or not, but since I was that far ahead of them I slowed down a little more.

13

At 3:30 a.m. my twelve hours were up. At that time they did not pay the subs time and one half for overtime. You just got straight time. And you hired in as a “temporary indefinite substitute clerk.”

I set the alarm so that I would be at the art store at 8 a.m.

“What happened, Hank? We thought maybe you had been in an auto accident. We kept waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m quitting.”

“Quitting?”

“Yes, you can’t blame a man for wanting to better himself.”

I walked into the office and got my check. I was back in the post office again.

14

Meanwhile, there was still Joyce, and her geraniums, and a couple of million if I could hang on. Joyce and the flies and the geraniums. I worked the night shift, 12 hours, and she pawed me during the day, trying to get me to perform. I’d be asleep and I’d awaken with this hand stroking me. Then I’d have to do it. The poor dear was mad.

Then I came in one morning and she said, “Hank, don’t be mad.”

I was too tired to be mad.

“What izzit, baby?”

“I got us a dog. A little pup dog.”

“O.K. That’s nice. There’s nothing wrong with dogs. Where is he?”

“He’s in the kitchen. I named him ‘Picasso.’”

I walked in and looked at the dog. He couldn’t see. Hair covered his eyes. I watched him walk. Then I picked him up and looked at his eyes. Poor Picasso!

“Baby, you know what you’ve gone and done?”

“You don’t like him?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him. But he’s a subnormal. He has an I.Q. of about 12. You’ve gone out and gotten us an idiot of a dog.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can tell just by looking at him.”

Just then Picasso started to piss. Picasso was full of piss. It ran in long yellow fat rivulets along the kitchen floor. Then Picasso finished, ran and looked at it.

I picked him up.

“Mop it up.”

So Picasso was just one more problem.

I’d awaken after a 12 hour night with Joyce strumming me under the geraniums and I’d say, “Where’s Picasso?”

“Oh god damn Picasso!” she’d say. I’d get out of bed, naked, with this big thing in front of me. “Look, you’ve left him out in the yard again! I told you not to leave him out in the yard in the daytime!” Then I’d go out into the backyard, naked, too tired to dress. It was fairly well sheltered. And there would be poor Picasso, over run with 500 flies, flies crawling all over him in circles. I’d run out with the thing (going down then) and curse those flies. They were in his eyes, under the hair, in his ears, on his privates, in his mouth… everywhere. And he’d just sit there and smile at me. Laugh at me, while the flies ate him up. Maybe he knew more than any of us. I’d pick him up and carry him into the house.

“The little dog laughed
To see such sport;
And the dish ran away with the spoon.”

“God damn it, Joyce! I’ve told you and told you and told you.”

“Well, you were the one who housebroke him. He’s got to go out there to crap!”

“Yes, but when he’s through, bring him in. He doesn’t have sense enough to come in himself. And wash away the crap when he’s finished. You’re creating a fly-paradise out there.”

Then as soon as I fell asleep, Joyce would begin stroking me again. That couple of million was a long time coming.