“Well, get another job.”
“I will.”
“But keep working there until you find another job. We’ve got to prove to them that…”
“All right. All right!”
8
I met an old drunk on the street one afternoon. I used to know him from the days with Betty when we made the rounds of the bars. He told me that he was now a postal clerk and that there was nothing to the job.
It was one of the biggest fattest lies of the century. I’ve been looking for that guy for years but I’m afraid somebody else has gotten to him first.
So there I was taking the civil service exam again. Only this time I marked the paper “clerk” instead of “carrier.” By the time I got the notice to report for the swearing-in ceremonies, Freddy had stopped whistling Around The World In Eighty Days, but I was looking forward to that soft job with “Uncle Sam.” I told Freddy, “I’ve got a little business to take care of, so I may take an hour or an hour and a half for lunch.”
“O.K., Hank.”
Little did I know how long that lunch would be.
9
There was a gang of us down there. 150 or 200. There were tedious papers to fill out. Then we all stood up and faced the flag. The guy who swore us in was the same guy who had sworn me in before.
After swearing us in, the guy told us: “All right now, you’ve got a good job. Keep your nose clean and you’ve got the security the rest of your life.”
Security? You could get security in jail. 3 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.
Nearly 12 years later, out of these 150 or 200, there would only be 2 of us left. Just like some guys can’t taxi or pimp or hustle dope, most guys, and gals too, can’t be postal clerks. And I don’t blame them. As the years went by, I saw them continue to march in in their squads of 150 or 200 and two, three, or four remain out of each group—just enough to replace those who were retiring.
10
The guide took us all over the building. There were so many of us that they had to break us up into groups. We used the elevator in shifts. We were shown the employee’s cafeteria, the basement, all those dull things.
God o mighty, I thought, I wish he’d hurry up. My lunch is over two hours late now. Then the guide handed us all timecards. He showed us the timeclocks.
“Now here is how you punch in.”
He showed us how. Then he said, “Now, you punch in.”
Twelve and one half hours later we punched out. That was one hell of a swearing-in ceremony.
11
After nine or ten hours people began getting sleepy and falling into their cases, catching themselves just in time. We were working the zoned mail. If a letter read zone 28 you stuck it to hole no. 28. It was simple.
One big black guy leaped up and began swinging his arms to keep awake. He staggered about the floor.
“God damn! I can’t stand it!” he said.
And he was a big powerful brute. Using the same muscles over and over again was quite tiring. I ached all over. And at the end of the aisle stood a supervisor, another Stone, and he had this look on his face—they must practice it in front of mirrors, all the supervisors had this look on their faces—they looked at you as if you were a hunk of human shit. Yet they had come in through the same door. They had once been clerks or carriers. I couldn’t understand it. They were handpicked screws.
You had to keep one foot on the floor at all times. One notch up on the rest-bar. What they called a “rest-bar” was a little round cushion set up on a stilt. No talking allowed. Two 10 minute breaks in 8 hours. They wrote down the time when you left and the time when you came back. If you stayed 12 or 13 minutes, you heard about it.
But the pay was better than at the art store. And, I thought, I might get used to it. I never got used to it.
12
Then the supervisor moved us to a new aisle. We had been there ten hours.
“Before you begin,” the soup said, “I want to tell you something. Each tray of this type of mail must be stuck in 23 minutes. That’s the production schedule. Now, just for fun, let’s see if each of us can meet the production schedule! Now, one, two, three… GO!”
What the hell is this? I thought. I’m tired.
Each tray was two feet long. But each tray held different amounts of letters. Some trays had 2 or 3 times as much mail in them as others, depending upon the size of the letters.
Arms started flying. Fear of failure.
I took my time.
“When you finish your first tray, grab another!”
They really worked at it. Then they jumped up and grabbed another tray.
The supervisor walked up behind me. “Now,” he said, pointing at me, “this man is making production. He’s halfway through his second tray!”
It was my first tray. I didn’t know if he were trying to con me or not, but since I was that far ahead of them I slowed down a little more.
13
At 3:30 a.m. my twelve hours were up. At that time they did not pay the subs time and one half for overtime. You just got straight time. And you hired in as a “temporary indefinite substitute clerk.”
I set the alarm so that I would be at the art store at 8 a.m.
“What happened, Hank? We thought maybe you had been in an auto accident. We kept waiting for you to come back.”
“I’m quitting.”
“Quitting?”
“Yes, you can’t blame a man for wanting to better himself.”
I walked into the office and got my check. I was back in the post office again.
14
Meanwhile, there was still Joyce, and her geraniums, and a couple of million if I could hang on. Joyce and the flies and the geraniums. I worked the night shift, 12 hours, and she pawed me during the day, trying to get me to perform. I’d be asleep and I’d awaken with this hand stroking me. Then I’d have to do it. The poor dear was mad.
Then I came in one morning and she said, “Hank, don’t be mad.”
I was too tired to be mad.
“What izzit, baby?”
“I got us a dog. A little pup dog.”
“O.K. That’s nice. There’s nothing wrong with dogs. Where is he?”
“He’s in the kitchen. I named him ‘Picasso.’”
I walked in and looked at the dog. He couldn’t see. Hair covered his eyes. I watched him walk. Then I picked him up and looked at his eyes. Poor Picasso!
“Baby, you know what you’ve gone and done?”
“You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like him. But he’s a subnormal. He has an I.Q. of about 12. You’ve gone out and gotten us an idiot of a dog.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can tell just by looking at him.”
Just then Picasso started to piss. Picasso was full of piss. It ran in long yellow fat rivulets along the kitchen floor. Then Picasso finished, ran and looked at it.
I picked him up.
“Mop it up.”
So Picasso was just one more problem.
I’d awaken after a 12 hour night with Joyce strumming me under the geraniums and I’d say, “Where’s Picasso?”