Post Office. Chapter I: 6
I forget the beginning time. 6 or 7 p.m. Something like that.
All you did was sit with a handful of letters, take a streetmap and figure your run. It was easy. All the drivers took much more time than was needed to figure their runs and I played right along with them. I left when everybody left and came back when everybody came back.
Then you made another run. There was time to sit around in coffeeshops, read newspapers, feel decent. You even had time for lunch. Whenever I wanted a day off, I took one. On one of the routes there was this big young gal who got a special every night. She was a manufacturer of sexy dresses and nightgowns and
wore them. You’d run up her steep stairway about 11 p.m., ring the bell and give her the special. She’d let out a bit of a gasp, like, “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhHHHH!”, and she’d stand close, very, and she wouldn’t let you leave while she read it, and then she’d say, “OOOOOoopoh, goodnight, thank YOU!”
“Yes, mam,” you’d say, trotting off with a dick like a bull’s.
But it was not to last. It came in the mail after about a week and a half of freedom.
“Dear Mr. Chinaski:
You are to report to Oakford Station immediately. Refusal to do so will result in possible disciplinary action or dismissal.
A. E. Jonstone, Supt., Oakford Station.”
I was back on the cross again.
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