Run With the Hunted (29 page)

It was an average residential neighborhood. No apartment houses. Just house after house with well-kept lawns. But it was a
new
route and I walked along wondering where the trap was. Even the weather was nice.

By god, I thought, I'm going to make it! Lunch, and back in on schedule! Life, at last, was bearable.

These people didn't even own dogs. Nobody stood outside waiting for their mail. I hadn't heard a human voice in hours. Perhaps I had reached my postal maturity, whatever that was. I strolled along, efficient, almost dedicated.

I remembered one of the older carriers pointing to his heart and telling me, “Chinaski, someday it will get you, it will get you right
here!
”

“Heart attack?”

“Dedication to service. You'll see. You'll be proud of it.”

“Balls!”

But the man had been sincere.

I thought about him as I walked along.

Then I had a registered letter with return attached.

I walked up and rang the doorbell. A little window opened in the door. I couldn't see the face.

“Registered letter!”

“Stand back!” said a woman's voice. “Stand back so I can see your face!”

Well, there it was, I thought, another nut.

“Look lady, you don't
have
to see my face. I'll just leave this slip in the mailbox and you can pick your letter up at the station. Bring proper identification.”

I put the slip in the mailbox and began to walk off the porch.

The door opened and she ran out. She had on one of those see-through negligees and no brassiere. Just dark blue panties. Her hair was uncombed and stuck out as if it were trying to run away from her. There seemed to be some type of cream on her face, most of it under the eyes. The skin on her body was white as if it never saw sunlight and her face had an unhealthy look. Her mouth hung open. She had on a touch of lipstick, and she was
built
all the way …

I caught all this as she rushed at me. I was sliding the registered letter back into the pouch.

She screamed, “Give me my letter!”

I said, “Lady, you'll have to …”

She grabbed the letter and ran to the door, opened it and ran in.

God damn! You couldn't come back without either the registered letter or a signature! You even had to sign in and out with the things.

“HEY!”

I went after her and jammed my foot into the door just in time.

“HEY. GOD DAMN YOU!”

“Go away! Go away! You are an evil man!”

“Look, lady! Try to understand! You've got to sign for that letter! I can't let you have it that way! You are robbing the United States mails!”

“Go away, evil man!”

I put all my weight against the door and pushed into the room. It was dark in there. All the shades were down. All the shades in the house were down.

“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT IN MY HOUSE! GET OUT!”

“And you have no right to rob the mails! Either give me the letter back or sign for it. Then I'll leave.”

“All right! All right! I'll sign.”

I showed her where to sign and gave her a pen. I looked at her breasts and the rest of her and I thought, what a shame she's crazy, what a shame, what a shame.

She handed back the pen and her signature—it was just scrawled. She opened the letter, began to read it as I turned to leave.

Then she was in front of the door, arms spread across. The letter was on the floor.

“Evil evil evil man! You came here to rape me!”

“Look lady, let me by.”

“THERE IS EVIL WRITTEN ALL OVER YOUR FACE!”

“Don't you think I know that? Now let me out of here!”

With one hand I tried to push her aside. She clawed one side of my face, good. I dropped my bag, my cap fell off, and as I held a handkerchief to the blood she came up and raked the other side.

“YOU CUNT! WHAT THE HELL'S WRONG WITH YOU!”

“See there? See there? You're evil!”

She was right up against me. I grabbed her by the ass and got my mouth on hers. Those breasts were against me, she was all up against me. She pulled her head back, away from me—”

“Rapist! Rapist! Evil rapist!”

I reached down with my mouth, got one of her tits, then switched to the other.

“Rape! Rape! I'm being raped!”

She was right. I got her pants down, unzipped my fly, got it in, then walked her backwards to the couch. We fell down on top of it.

She lifted her legs high.

“RAPE!” she screamed.

I finished her off, zipped my fly, picked up my mail pouch and walked out leaving her staring quietly at the ceiling …

I missed lunch but still couldn't make the schedule.

“You're 15 minutes late,” said The Stone.

I didn't say anything.

The Stone looked at me. “God o mighty, what happened to your face?” he asked.

“What happened to yours?” I asked him.

“Whadda you mean?”

“Forget it.”

—
P
OST
O
FFICE

I had to take a shit

but instead I went

into this shop to

have a key made.

the woman was dressed

in gingham and smelled

like a muskrat.

“Ralph,” she hollered

and an old swine in a

flowered shirt and

size 6 shoes, her

husband, came out and

she said, “this man

wants a key.”

he started grinding

as if he really didn't

want to.

there were slinking

shadows and urine

in the air.

I moved along the

glass counter,

pointed and called

to her,

“here, I want this

one.”

she handed it to

me: a switchblade

in a light purple

case.

$6.50 plus tax.

the key cost

practically

nothing.

I got my change and

walked out on

the street.

sometimes you need

people like that.

 

 

After three years I made “regular.” That meant holiday pay (subs didn't get paid for holidays) and a 40 hour week with two days off. The Stone was also forced to assign me as relief man to five different routes. That's all I had to carry—five different routes. In time, I would learn the cases well plus the shortcuts and traps on each route. Each day would be easier. I could begin to cultivate that comfortable look.

Somehow, I was not too happy. I was not a man to deliberately seek pain, the job was still different enough, but somehow it lacked the old glamour of my sub days—the not-knowing-what-the-hell was going to happen next.

A few of the regulars came around and shook my hand.

“Congratulations,” they said.

“Yeh,” I said.

Congratulations for what? I hadn't done anything. Now I was a member of the club. I was one of the boys. I could be there for years, eventually bid for my own route. Get Xmas presents from my people. And when I phoned in sick, they would say to some poor bastard sub, “Where's the
regular
man today? You're late. The regular man is never late.”

So there I was. Then a bulletin came out that no caps or equipment were to be placed on top of the carrier's case. Most of the boys put their caps up there. It didn't hurt anything and saved a trip to the locker room. Now after three years of putting my cap up there I was ordered not to do so.

Well, I was still coming in hungover and I didn't have things like caps on my mind. So my cap was up there, the day after the order came out.

The Stone came running with his write-up. It said that it was against rules and regulations to have any equipment on top of the case. I put the write-up in my pocket and went on sticking letters. The Stone sat swiveled in his chair, watching me. All the other carriers had put their caps in their lockers. Except me and one other—one Marty. And The Stone had gone up to Marty and said, “Now, Marty, you read the order. Your cap isn't supposed to be on top of the case.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, sir. Habit, you know. Sorry.” Marty took his cap off the case and ran upstairs to his locker with it.

The next morning I forgot again. The Stone came with his write-up.

It said that it was against rules and regulations to have any equipment on top of the case.

I put the write-up in my pocket and went on sticking letters.

The next morning, as I walked in, I could see The Stone watching me. He was very deliberate about watching me. He was waiting to see what I would do with the cap. I let him wait awhile. Then I took the cap off my head and placed it on top of the case.

The Stone ran up with his write-up.

I didn't read it. I threw it in the wastebasket, left my cap up there and went on sticking mail.

I could hear The Stone at his typewriter. There was anger in the sound of the keys.

I wondered how he managed to learn how to type? I thought.

He came again. Handed me a 2nd write-up.

I looked at him.

“I don't have to read it. I know what it says. It says that I didn't read the first write-up.”

I threw the 2nd write-up in the wastebasket.

The Stone ran back to his typewriter.

He handed me a 3rd write-up.

“Look,” I said, “I know what all these things say. The first write-up was for having my cap on top of the case. The 2nd was for not reading the first. This 3rd one is for not reading the first or 2nd write-ups.”

I looked at him, and then dropped the write-up into the wastebasket without reading it.

“Now I can throw these away as fast as you can type them. It can go on for hours, and soon one of us is going to begin looking ridiculous. It's up to you.”

The Stone went back to his chair and sat down. He didn't type anymore. He just sat looking at me.

I didn't go in the next day. I slept until noon. I didn't phone. Then I went down to the Federal Building. I told them my mission. They put me in front of the desk of a thin old woman. Her hair was grey and she had a very thin neck that suddenly bent in the middle. It pushed her head forward and she looked up over the top of her glasses at me.

“Yes?”

“I want to resign.”

“To
resign?
”

“Yes, resign.”

“And you're a regular carrier?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk,” she went, making this sound with her dry lips.

She gave me the proper papers and I sat there filling them out.

“How long have you been with the post office?”

“Three and one half years.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk,” she went, “tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.”

And so there it was. I drove home to Betty and we uncapped the bottle.

Little did I know that in a couple of years I would be back as a clerk and that I would clerk, all hunched-up on a stool, for nearly 12 years.

—
P
OST
O
FFICE

and, I said, you can take your rich aunts and uncles

and grandfathers and fathers

and all their lousy oil

and their seven lakes

and their wild turkey

and buffalo

and the whole state of Texas,

meaning, your crow-blasts

and your Saturday night boardwalks,

and your 2-bit library

and your crooked councilmen

and your pansy artists—

you can take all these

and your weekly newspaper

and your famous tornadoes,

and your filthy floods

and all your yowling cats

and your subscription to
Time
,

and shove them, baby,

shove them.

I can handle a pick and ax again (I think)

and I can pick up

25 bucks for a 4-rounder (maybe);