Charles Bukowski

Post Office. Chapter III: 16

One morning about 10 a.m. the phone rang. “Mr. Chinaski?”
 
I recognized the voice and began to fondle myself. “Ummmm,” I said. It was Miss Graves, that bitch. “Were you asleep?”
 
“Yes, yes, Miss Graves, but go on. It’s all right, it’s all right.” “Well, you’ve made clearance.” “Ummm, ummm.”
 
“So therefore we have notified the scheme room.” “Ummhmm.”
 
“And you are scheduled to throw your CP1 two weeks from today.”
 
“What? Now wait a minute . . . ”
 
“That’s all, Mr. Chinaski. Good day.” She hung up.
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