Post Office

by Charles Bukowski

We’re forced into absurd lives, against which the only sane response is to wage a guerrilla operation of humour and lust and madness.

“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?”

He was neither liked nor disliked. He was just there.

I wasn’t much of a petty thief. I wanted the whole world or nothing.

“I saw you with that bitch a while back. She’s not your kind of woman.” “None of them are.”

I could stay here, I thought, make money at the track while she nurses me over the bad moments, rubs oils on my body, cooks for me, talks to me, goes to bed with me. Of course, there would always be arguments. That is the nature of Woman. They like the mutual exchange of dirty laundry, a bit of screaming, a bit of dramatics. Then an exchange of vows. I wasn’t very good on the exchange of vows.

I took my time with her as we talked and drank. Then I went over to the couch and sat next to her. We worked something up, laughing and talking and listening to the ocean. I stripped down but made her keep her clothes on. Then I carried her over to the bed and while crawling all over her, I finally worked her clothing off and I was in. It was hard getting in. Then she gave way. It was one of the best. I heard the water, I heard the tide going in and out. It was as if I were coming with the whole ocean. It seemed to last and last. Then I rolled off. “Oh Jesus Christ,” I said, “Oh Jesus Christ!” I don’t know how Jesus Christ always got into such things.

Moto was grinning from asshole to eyebrow.