Post Office

A few of the regulars came around and shook my hand.

“Congratulations,” they said.

“Yeh,” I said.

Congratulations for what? I hadn’t done anything. Now I was a member of the club. I was one of the boys. I could be there for years, eventually bid for my own route. Get Xmas presents from my people. And when I phoned in sick, they would say to some poor bastard sub, “Where’s the regular man today? You’re late. The regular man is never late.”

So there I was. Then a bulletin came out that no caps or equipment were to be placed on top of the carrier’s case. Most of the boys put their caps up there. It didn’t hurt anything and saved a trip to the locker room. Now after 3 years of putting my cap up there I was ordered not to do so.

Well, I was still coming in hungover and I didn’t have things like caps on my mind. So my cap was up there, the day after the order came out.

The Stone came running with his write-up. It said that it was against rules and regulations to have any equipment on top of the case. I put the write-up in my pocket and went on sticking letters. The Stone sat swiveled in his chair, watching me. All the other carriers had put their caps in their lockers. Except me and one other—one Marty. And The Stone had gone up to Marty and said, “Now, Marty, you read the order. Your cap isn’t supposed to be on top of the case.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. Habit, you know. Sorry.” Marty took his cap off the case and ran upstairs to his locker with it. The next morning I forgot again. The Stone came with his write-up. It said that it was against rules and regulations to have any equipment on top of the case. I put the write-up in my pocket and went on sticking letters.

The next morning, as I walked in, I could see The Stone watching me. He was very deliberate about watching me. He was waiting to see what I would do with the cap. I let him wait awhile. Then I took the cap off my head and placed it on top of the case.

The Stone ran up with his write-up.

I didn’t read it. I threw it in the wastebasket, left my cap up there and went on sticking mail.

I could hear The Stone at his typewriter. There was anger in the sound of the keys.

I wondered how he managed to learn how to type? I thought.

He came again. Handed me a 2nd write-up.

I looked at him.

“I don’t have to read it. I know what it says. It says that I didn’t read the first write-up.”

I threw the 2nd write-up in the wastebasket.

The Stone ran back to his typewriter.

He handed me a 3rd write-up.

“Look,” I said, “I know what all these things say. The first write-up was for having my cap on top of the case. The 2nd was for not reading the first. This 3rd one is for not reading the first or 2nd write-ups.”

I looked at him, and then dropped the write-up into the wastebasket without reading it.

“Now I can throw these away as fast as you can type them. It can go on for hours, and soon one of us is going to begin looking ridiculous. It’s up to you.”

The Stone went back to his chair and sat down. He didn’t type anymore. He just sat looking at me.

I didn’t go in the next day. I slept until noon. I didn’t phone. Then I went down to the Federal Building. I told them my mission. They put me in front of the desk of a thin old woman. Her hair was grey and she had a very thin neck that suddenly bent in the middle. It pushed her head forward and she looked up over the top of her glasses at me.

“Yes?”

“I want to resign.”

“To resign?”

“Yes, resign.”

“And you’re a regular carrier?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk,” she went, making this sound with her dry lips. She gave me the proper papers and I sat there filling them out.

“How long have you been with the post office?”

“Three and one half years.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk,” she went, “tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.” And so there it was. I drove home to Betty and we uncapped the bottle.

Little did I know that in a couple of years I would be back as a clerk and that I would clerk, all hunched-up on a stool, for nearly 12 years.

Part II

1

Meanwhile, things went on. I had a long run of luck at the racetrack. I began to feel confident out there. You went for a certain profit each day, somewhere between 15 and 40 bucks. You didn’t ask too much. If you didn’t hit early, you bet a little more, enough so that if the horse came in, you had your profit margin. I kept coming back, day after day, winners, giving Betty the thumb-up as I drove in the driveway.

Then Betty got a job as a typist, and when one of those shack-jobs gets a job, you notice the difference right away. We kept drinking each night and she left before I did in the morning, all hungover. Now she’d know what it was like. I got up around 10:30 a.m., had a leisurely cup of coffee and a couple of eggs, played with the dog, flirted with the young wife of a mechanic who lived in the back, got friendly with a stripteaser who lived in the front. I’d be at the track by one p.m., then back with my profit, and out with the dog at the bus stop to wait for Betty to come home. It was a good life.

Then, one night, Betty, my love, let me have it, over the first drink:

“Hank, I can’t stand it!”

“You can’t stand what, baby?”

“The situation.”

“What situation, babe?”

“Me working and you laying around. All the neighbors think I am supporting you.”

“Hell, I worked and you laid around.”

“That’s different. You’re a man, I’m a woman.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that. I thought you bitches were always screaming for equal rights?”

“I know what’s going on with little butterball in back, walking around in front of you with her tits hanging out…”

“Her tits hanging out?”

“Yes, her TITS! Those big white cow-tits!”

“Hmm… They are big at that.”

“There! You see!”

“Now what the hell?”

“I’ve got friends around here. They see what’s going on!”

“These aren’t friends. Those are just mealy-mouthed gossips.”

“And that whore up front who poses as a dancer.”

“She’s a whore?”

“She’ll screw anything with a cock.”