Post Office

by Charles Bukowski

There was something about funerals. It made you see things better. A funeral a day and I’d be rich.

I went to the bathroom and threw some water on my face, combed my hair. If I could only comb that face, I thought, but I can’t.

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 hand you large bills at the cashier’s window.

“Look, Fay,” I said, “I know you want to save the world. But can’t you start in the kitchen?” “Kitchens aren’t important,” she said.