Post Office. Chapter I: 5
But the next morning it was the same thing:
“That’s all, Chinaski. Nothing for you today.”
It went on for a week. I sat there each morning from 5 a.m. to 7 a.m. and didn’t get paid. My name was even taken off the night collection run.
Then Bobby Hansen, one of the older subs—in length of service—told me, “He did that to me once. He tried to starve me.”
“I don’t care. I’m not kissing his ass. I’ll quit or starve, any– thing.”
“You don’t have to. Report to Prell Station each night. Tell the soup you aren’t getting any work and you can sit in as a special delivery sub.”
“I can do that? No rules against it?”
“I got a paycheck every two weeks.”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
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