Post Office

down.

The dialogue went like this:

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s quite all right…”

“I didn’t mean to… you know… I’m sorry…!”

“Oh, I assure you, it’s all right!”

“But I mean, I didn’t see you… I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s all right. It’s quite all right…”

The dialogue about the bumping went on for a page and a half.

The poor boy was truly mad.

It turned out this broad, although she’s wandering around among the pillars alone, well, she’s really married to this doctor, but the doc didn’t comprehend opera, or for that matter, didn’t even care for such simple things as Ravel’s Bolero. Or even he Three-Cornered Hat Dance by de Falla. I was with the doc there.

From the bumping of these two true sensitive souls, something developed. They met at concerts and had a quickie afterwards. (This was inferred rather than stated, for both of them were too delicate to simply fuck.)

Well, it ended. The poor beautiful creature loved her husband and she loved the hero (Janko). She didn’t know what to do, so, of course, she committed suicide. She left both the doc and Janko standing in their bathrooms alone.

I told the kid, “It starts well. But you’ll have to take out that bumping-around-the-pillar dialogue. It’s very bad…”

“NO I” he said. “EVERYTHING STAYS!”

The months went by and the novel kept coming back. “JESUS CHRIST!” he said, “I CAN’T GO TO NEW YORK AND SHAKE THE HANDS OF THE PUBLISHERS!”

“Look, kid, why don’t you quit this job? Go to a small room and write. Work it out.”

“A GUY LIKE YOU CAN DO THAT,” he said, “BECAUSE YOU LOOK LIKE A WINO. PEOPLE WILL HIRE YOU BECAUSE THEY FIGURE YOU CAN’T GET A JOB ANYWHERE ELSE AND YOU’LL STAY. THEY WON’T HIRE ME BECAUSE THEY LOOK AT ME AND THEY SEE HOW INTELLIGENT I AM AND THEY THINK, WELL, AN INTELLIGENT MAN LIKE HIM WON’T STAY WITH US, SO THERE’S NO USE HIRING HIM.”

“I still say, go to a small room and write.”

“BUT I NEED ASSURANCE.”

“It’s a good thing a few others didn’t think that way. It’s a good thing Van Gogh didn’t think that way.”

“VAN GOGH’S BROTHER GAVE HIM FREE PAINTS!” the kid said to me.

Part IV

1

Then I developed a new system at the racetrack. I pulled in $3,000 in a month and a half while only going to the track two or three times a week. I began to dream. I saw a little house down by the sea. I saw myself in fine clothing, calm, getting up mornings, getting into my imported car, making the slow easy drive to the track. I saw leisurely steak dinners, preceded and followed by good chilled drinks in colored glasses. The big tip. The cigar. And women as you wanted them. It’s easy to fall into this kind of thinking when men handed you large bills at the cashier’s window. When in one six furlong race, say in a minute and 9 seconds, you make a month’s pay.

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.

2

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.

3