Post Office

by Charles Bukowski

I was tired and wet and hungover, but I was usually that way and I waded through the weariness like I did the water.

And when he croaked, he didn’t say much. He was neither liked nor disliked. He was just there.

But each time he faltered, something tugged at me. It was like a faithful horse who just couldn’t go anymore.

Food is good for the nerves and the spirit. Courage comes from the belly-all else is desperation.

Any damn fool can beg up some kind of job; it takes a wise man to make it without working.

When you didn’t know how to do anything that’s what you became—a shipping clerk, receiving clerk, stock boy.

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

Security? You could get security in jail. Three squares and no rent to pay, no utilities, no income tax, no child support. No license plate fees. No traffic tickets. No drunk driving raps. No losses at the race track. Free medical attention. Comradeship with those with similar interests. Church. Roundeye. Free burial.

“They can’t, they can’t. They don’t know how! They’ll die!” “Let ’em learn or let ‘em die,”

She went back to her room and put on her best dress, high heels, tried to fix up. But there was a terrible sadness about her.

At that time, when you called in sick the post office sent out a nurse to spot check, to make sure you weren’t night-clubbing or sitting in a poker parlor.

“Damn, they won’t let a man live at all, will they? They always want him at the wheel.” “Of course.”

We slept without touching. We had both been robbed.

I got a fifth of whiskey and a six-pack, then sat down and typed it out.

“Your case will be continued. You will hear from us.” “Meanwhile, continue working?” “Meanwhile, continue working.” “Good morning,” I said.

“Do without sleep,” he told me. I looked at him. He wasn’t playing Dixie on the harmonica. The damn fool was serious.

“Some men are crazy,” I said, moving toward the door. “What do you mean?” “I mean, some men are in love with their wives.”

She had two children who never came to see her, never wrote her. She was a scrubwoman in a cheap hotel. When I had first met her her clothes had been expensive, trim ankles fitting into expensive shoes. She had been firm-fleshed, almost beautiful.

Why do you just let them die? What’s the sin in being poor?” “I’ve told you, sir, that we’ve done ALL we can.”

After you bet 50 win awhile it feels like betting five or 10 win.

Well it wasn’t eight or 10 to one. But you played the winner, not the price.

God or somebody keeps creating women and tossing them out on the streets, and this one’s ass is too big and that one’s tits are too small, and this one is mad and that one is crazy and that one is a religionist and that one reads tea leaves and this one can’t control her farts, and that one has this big nose, and that one has boney legs … But now and then, a woman walks up, full blossom, a woman just bursting out of her dress … a sex creature, a curse, the end of it all.

Eleven years. Although each night had been long, the years had gone fast. Perhaps it was the night work.

And there I was, dizzy spells and pains in the arms, neck, chest, everywhere. I slept all day resting up for the job. On weekends I had to drink in order to forget it. I had come in weighing 185 pounds. Now I weighed 223 pounds. All you moved was your right arm.

With everything on the line and no way out, you don’t even think about it.

Well, as the boys said, you had to work somewhere. So they accepted what there was. This was the wisdom of the slave.

As long as the money lasted, you lasted.

In the morning it was morning and I was still alive. Maybe I’ll write a novel, I thought. And then I did.