5
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
“All right, Chinaski, forget it.”
6
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
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.
7
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.
A young black girl walked up. She was well-dressed and pleased with her surroundings. I was happy for her. I would have gone mad with the same job.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I’m a postal clerk,” I said, “I want to resign.”
She reached under the counter and came up with a stack of papers. “All these?”
She smiled, “Sure you can do it?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I can do it.”
8
You had to fill out more papers to get out than to get in.
The first page they gave you was a personalized mimeo affair from the postmaster of the city.
It began:
“I am sorry you are terminating your position with the post office and… etc., etc., etc., etc.”
How could he be sorry? He didn’t even know me.
There was a list of questions.
“Did you find our supervisors understanding? Were you able to relate to them?”
Yes, I answered.
“Did you find the supervisors in any manner prejudiced toward race, religion, background or any related factor?”
No, I answered.
Then there was one—“Would you advise your friends to seek employment in the post office?” Of course, I answered.
“If you have any grievances or complaints about the post office please list them in detail on the reverse side of this page.”
No grievances, I answered.
Then my black girl was back.
“Finished already?”
“Finished.”
“I’ve never seen anybody fill out their papers that fast.”
“Quickly,” I said.
“Quickly?” she asked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what do we do next?”
“Please step in.”
I followed her ass between desks to a place almost to the back.
“Sit down,” the man said.
He took some time reading through the papers. Then he looked at me. “May I ask why you are resigning? Is it because of disciplinary procedures against you?”
“No.”
“Then what is the reason for your resignation?”
“To pursue a career.”
“To pursue a career?”
He looked at me. I was less than 8 months from my 50th birthday. I knew what he was thinking. “May I ask what your ‘career’ will be?”
“Well, sir, I’ll tell you. The trapping season in the bayou only lasts from December through February. I’ve
