I had Fridays and Saturdays off, which made Sunday the roughest day. Plus the fact that on Sunday they made me report at 3:30 p.m. instead of my usual 6:18 p.m.

This Sunday I went in and they put me in the station papers section, as usual per Sundays, and this meant at least eight hours on my feet.

Besides the pains, I was beginning to suffer from dizzy spells.

Everything would whirl, I would come very close to blacking out, then I would grab myself.

It had been a brutal Sunday. Some friends of Fay’s had come over and sat on the couch and chirped, how they were really great writers, really the best in the nation. The only reason they didn’t get published was that they didn’t—they said—send their stuff out.

I had looked at them. If they wrote the way they looked, drink– ing their coffee and giggling and dipping their doughnuts, it didn’t matter if they sent it out or jammed it.

I was sticking in the magazines this Sunday. I needed coffee, 2 coffees, a bite to eat. But all the soups were standing out front. I hit out the back way. I had to get straight. The cafeteria was on the 2nd floor. I was on the 4th. There was a doorway down by
the men’s crapper. I looked at the sign.

                                                     WARNING!
                                             DO NOT USE THIS
                                                    STAIRWAY!

It was a con. I was wiser than those mothers. They just put the sign up to keep clever guys like Chinaski from going down to the cafeteria. I opened the door and went on down. The door closed behind me. I walked down to the second floor. Turned the knob. What the fuck! The door wouldn’t open! It was locked. I walked back up. Past the 3rd floor door. I didn’t try it. I knew it was locked. As the first floor door was locked. I knew the post office well enough by then. When they laid a trap, they were thorough. I had one slim chance. I was at the 4th floor. I tried the knob. It was locked.

At least the door was near the men’s crapper. There was always somebody going in and out of the men’s crapper. I waited. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. 20 minutes! Didn’t ANYBODY want to shit, piss or goof-off? 25 minutes. Then I saw a face. I tapped on the glass.

“Hey, buddy! HEY, BUDDY!”

He didn’t hear me, or he pretended not to hear me. He marched into the crapper. 5 minutes. Then another face came by.

I rapped hard. “HEY, BUDDY! HEY. YOU COCKSUCKER!”

I guess he heard me. He looked at me from behind the wired glass.

I said, “OPEN THE DOOR! CAN’T YOU SEE ME IN HERE? I’M LOCKED IN, YOU FOOL! OPEN THE DOOR!”

He opened the door. I went in. The guy was in a trance-like state.

I squeezed his elbow.

“Thanks, kid.”

I walked back to the magazine case.

Then the soup walked past. He stopped and looked at me. I slowed down.

“How are you doing, Mr. Chinaski?”

I growled at him, waved a magazine in the air as if I were going insane, said something to myself, and he walked on.