Free Post Office by Charles Bukowski Page A

a good one for old time’s sake.
    She got the place, the dog, the flies, the geraniums.
    She even helped me pack. Folding my pants neatly into suitcases. Packing in my shorts and razor. When I was ready to leave she started crying again. I bit her on the ear, the right one, then went down the stairway with my stuff. I got into the car and began cruising up and down the streets looking for a For Rent sign.
    It didn’t seem to be an unusual thing to do.

1
    I didn’t contest the divorce, didn’t go to court. Joyce gave me the car. She didn’t drive. All I had lost was three or four million. But I still had the post office.
    I met Betty on the street.
    “I saw you with that bitch a while back. She’s not your kind of woman.”
    “None of them are.”
    I told her it was over. We went for a beer. Betty had gotten old, fast. Heavier. The lines had come in. Flesh hung under the throat. It was sad. But I had gotten old too.
    Betty had lost her job. The dog had been run over and killed. She got a job as a waitress, then lost that when they tore down the cafe to erect an office building. Now she lived in a small room in a loser’s hotel. She changed the sheets there and cleaned the bathrooms. She was on wine. She suggested that we might get together again. I suggested that we might wait awhile. I was just getting over a bad one.
    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.
    We got a fifth of whiskey and some beer, went up to my place on the fourth floor of an old apartment house. I picked up the phone and called in sick. I sat across from Betty. She crossed her legs, kicked her heels, laughed a little. It was like old times. Almost. Something was missing.
    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. My place was close to the central office, so it was convenient for them to check up on me. Betty and I had been there about two hours when there was a knock on the door.
    “What’s that?”
    “All right,” I whispered, “shut up! Take off those high heels, go into the kitchen and don’t make a sound.”
    “JUST A MOMENT!” I answered the knocker.
    I lit a cigarette to kill my breath, then went to the door and opened it a notch. It was the nurse. The same one. She knew me.
    “Now what’s your trouble?” she asked. I blew out a little roll of smoke. “Upset stomach.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “It’s my stomach.”
    “Will you sign this form to show that I called here and that you were at home?”
    “Surely.”
    The nurse slipped the form in sideways. I signed it. Slipped it back out.
    “Will you be in to work tomorrow?”
    “I have no way of knowing. If I’m well, I’ll come in. If not, I’ll stay out.”
    She gave me a dirty look and walked off. I knew she had smelled whiskey on my breath. Proof enough? Probably not, too many technicalities, or maybe she was laughing as she got into her car with her little black bag.
    “All right,” I said, “get on your shoes and come on out.”
    “Who was it?”
    “A post office nurse.”
    “Is she gone?”
    “Yeh.”
    “Do they do that all the time?”
    “They haven’t missed yet. Now let’s each have a good tall drink to celebrate!”
    I walked into the kitchen and poured two good ones. I came out and handed Betty her drink.
    “Salud!” I said.
    We raised our glasses high, clicked them.
    Then the
alarm
clock went off and it was a loud one.
    I jerked as if I had been shot in the back. Betty leaped a foot into the air, straight up. I ran over to the clock and shut off the alarm.
    “Jesus,” she said, “I almost shit myself!”
    We both started laughing. Then we sat down. Had the good drink.
    “I had a boyfriend who worked for the county,” she said. “They used to send out an inspector, a guy, but not everytime, maybe one time in five. So this night I am drinking with