Free Post Office by Charles Bukowski

and so forth. The clerk gave me a strange look and began ringing it up.
    When Joyce came home that night, I had it all on the table, ready. Cooked seaweed mixed with a dash of sea-spider, and piles of little golden, fried-in-butter snails.
    I took her into the kitchen and showed her the stuff on the table.
    “I’ve cooked this in your honor,” I said, “In dedication of our love. “
    “What the hell’s that shit?” she asked.
    “Snails. “
    “Snails?”
    “Yes, don’t you realize that for many centuries Orientals have thrived upon this and the like? Let us honor them and honor ourselves. It’s fried in butter.”
    Joyce came in and sat down.
    I started snapping snails into my mouth.
    “God damn, they are good, baby! TRY ONE!”
    Joyce reached down and forked one into her mouth while looking at the others on her plate.
    I jammed in a big mouthful of delicious seaweed.
    “Good, huh, baby?”
    She chewed the snail in her mouth.
    “Fried in golden butter!”
    I picked up a few with my hand, tossed them into my mouth.
    “The centuries are on our side, babe. We can’t go wrong!”
    She finally swallowed hers. Then examined the others on her plate.
    “They all have tiny little
assholes!
It’s horrible! Horrible!”
    “What’s horrible about assholes, baby?”
    She held a napkin to her mouth. Got up and ran to the bathroom. She began vomiting. I hollered in from the kitchen:
    “WHAT’S WRONG WITH ASSHOLES, BABY? YOU’VE GOT AN ASSHOLE, I’VE GOT AN ASSHOLE! YOU GO TO THE STORE AND BUY A PORTERHOUSE STEAK, THAT HAD AN ASSHOLE! ASSHOLES COVER THE EARTH! IN A WAY TREES HAVE ASSHOLES BUT YOU CAN’T FIND THEM, THEY JUST DROP THEIR LEAVES. YOUR ASSHOLE, MY ASSHOLE, THE WORLD IS FULL OF BILLIONS OF ASSHOLES. THE PRESIDENT HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE CARWASH BOY HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE JUDGE AND THE MURDERER HAVE ASSHOLES … EVEN PURPLE STICKPIN HAS AN ASSHOLE!”
    “Oh stop it! STOP IT!”
    She heaved again. Small town. I opened the bottle of sake and had a drink.

24
    It was about a week later around 7 a.m. I had lucked into another day off and after a double workout, I was up against Joyce’s ass, her asshole, sleeping, verily sleeping, and then the doorbell rang and I got out of bed and answered the thing.
    There was a small man in a necktie. He jammed some papers into my hand and ran away.
    It was a summons, for divorce. There went my millions. But I wasn’t angry because I had never expected her millions anyhow.
    I awakened Joyce.
    “What?”
    “Couldn’t you have had me awakened at a more decent hour?”
    I showed her the papers. “I’m sorry, Hank.”
    “That’s O.K. All you had to do was tell me. I would have agreed. We just made love twice and laughed and had fun. I don’t understand it. And you knew all along. God damn if I can understand a woman. “
    “Look, I filed when we had an argument. I thought, if I wait until I cool off I’ll never do it.”
    “O.K., babe, I admire an honest woman. Is it Purple Stickpin?”
    “It’s Purple Stickpin,” she said.
    I laughed. It was a rather sad laugh, I’ll admit. But it came out.
    “It’s easy to second guess. But you’re going to have trouble with him. I wish you luck, babe. You know there’s a lot of you I’ve loved and it hasn’t been entirely your money.”
    She began to cry into the pillow, on her stomach, shaking all over. She was just a small-town girl, spoiled and mixed-up. There she shook, crying, nothing fake about it. It was terrible.
    The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.
    I got into bed, stroked her back, stroked her, stroked her, calmed her—then she’d break down again:
    “Oh Hank, I love you, I love you, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry sorry so sorry!”
    She was really on the rack.
    After a while, I began to feel as if I were the one who was divorcing
her
.
    Then we knocked off