Post Office

by Charles Bukowski

The moment I decided to quit, I felt much better.

I was lost in the dark and the rain. Was I some kind of idiot, actually? Did I make things happen to myself? It was possible. It was possible that I was subnormal, that I was lucky just to be alive.

So I drove along, lighting matches, leaping into whirlpools of water and emptying collection boxes. I was tired and wet and hungover, but I was usually that way and I waded through the weariness like I did the water. I kept thinking of a hot bath, Betty’s fine legs, and—something to keep me going—a picture of myself in an easychair, drink in hand, the dog walking up, me patting his head. But that was a long way off. The stops on

The voices of the people were the same, no matter where you carried the mail you heard the same things over and over again. “You’re late, aren’t you?” “Where’s the regular carrier?” “Hello, Uncle Sam!” “Mailman! Mailman! This doesn’t go here!” The streets were full of insane and dull people. Most of them lived in nice houses and didn’t seem to work, and you wondered how they did it. There was one guy who wouldn’t let you put the mail in his box. He’d stand in the driveway and watch you coming for two or three blocks and he’d stand there and hold his hand out.

I remembered one of the older carriers pointing to his heart and telling me, “Chinaski, someday it will get to you, it will get you right here!” “Heart attack?” “Dedication to service. You’ll see. You’ll be proud of it.” “Balls!” But the man had been sincere.

It was a very small town, the population, I believe, was under 2,000. The town had been picked by experts, in a national article, as the last town in the USA any enemy would attack with an atomic bomb. I could see why.

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

At the time I was getting numerous traffic citations. It seemed that everytime I looked into the rear view mirror there were the red lights. A squad car or a bike.

Women were meant to suffer; no wonder they asked for constant declarations of love.