Free Post Office by Charles Bukowski Page B

Harry—that was his name: Harry. This night I am drinking with Harry and there’s a knock on the door. Harry’s sitting on the couch with all his clothes on. ‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ he says, and he leaps into bed with all his clothes on and pulls the covers up. I put the bottles and glasses under the bed and open the door. This guy comes in and sits on the couch. Harry even has his shoes and stockings on but he is completely under the covers. The guy says, ‘How you feeling, Harry?’ And Harry says, ‘Not so good. She’s over to take care of me.’ He points at me. I was sitting there drunk. ‘Well, I hope you get well, Harry,’ the guy says, and then he leaves. I’m sure he saw those bottles and glasses under the bed, and I’m sure he knew that Harry’s feet weren’t
that
big. It was a jumpy time.”
    “Damn, they won’t let a man live at all, will they? They always want him at the wheel.”
    “Of course.”
    We drank a little longer and then we went to bed, but it wasn’t the same, it never is—there was space between us, things had happened. I watched her walk to the bathroom, saw the wrinkles and folds under the cheeks of her ass. Poor thing. Poor poor thing. Joyce had been firm and hard—you grabbed a handful and it felt good. Betty didn’t feel so good. It was sad, it was sad, it was sad. When Betty came back we didn’t sing or laugh, or even argue. We sat drinking in the dark, smoking cigarettes, and when we went to sleep, I didn’t put my feet on her body or she on mine like we used to. We slept without touching.
    We had both been robbed.

2
    I phoned Joyce.
    “How’s it working with Purple Stickpin?”
    “I can’t understand it,” she said. “What did he do when you told him you were divorced?”
    “We were sitting across from each other in the employees’ cafeteria when I told him.”
    “What happened?”
    “He dropped his fork. His mouth fell open. He said, ‘What?’ “
    “He knew you meant business then.”
    “I can’t understand it. He’s been avoiding me ever since. When I see him in the hall he runs away. He doesn’t sit across from me anymore when we eat. He seems … well, almost … cold.”
    “Baby, there are other men. Forget that guy. Set your sails for a new one.”
    “It’s hard to forget him. I mean, the way he was.”
    “Does he know that you have money?”
    “No, I have never told him, he doesn’t know.”
    “Well, if you want him …”
    “No, no! I don’t want him that way!”
    “All right, then. Goodbye Joyce.”
    “Goodbye, Hank.”
    It wasn’t long after that, I got a letter from her. She was back in Texas. Grandma was very sick, she wasn’t expected to live long. People were asking about me. So forth. Love, Joyce.
    I put the letter down and I could see that midget wondering how I had missed out. Little shaking freak, thinking I was such a clever bastard. It was hard to let him down like that.

3
    Then I was called down to personnel at the old Federal Building. They let me sit the usual 45 minutes or hour and one half.
    Then. “Mr. Chinaski?” this voice said. “Yeh,” I said. “Step in.”
    The man walked me back to a desk. There sat this woman. She looked a bit sexy, melting into 38 or 39, but she looked as if her sexual ambition had either been laid aside for other things or as if it had been ignored. “Sit down, Mr. Chinaski.” I sat down.
    Baby, I thought, I could really give you a ride. “Mr. Chinaski,” she said, “we have been wondering if you have filled out this application properly.”
    “Uh?”
    “We mean, the arrest record.”
    She handed me the sheet. There wasn’t any sex in her eyes.
    I had listed eight orten common drunk raps. It was only an estimate. I had no idea of the dates.
    “Now, have you listed
everything?”
she asked me.
    “Hmmm, hmmm, let me think …”
    I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to say “yes” and then she had me.
    “Let me see … Hmmm. Hmmm.”
    “Yes?” she said.
    “Oh oh! My