Then some men came around and ripped out every other water– fountain.

“Hey, look, what the hell are they doing?” I asked.

Nobody seemed interested.

I was in the 3rd class flat section. I walked over to another clerk.

“Look!” I said. “They are taking away our water!”

He glanced at the water fountain, then went back to sticking his 3rd class.

I tried other clerks. They showed the same disinterest. I couldn’t understand it.

I asked to have my union representative paged to my area.

After a long delay, here he came—Parker Anderson. Parker used to sleep in an old used car and freshen up and shave and shit at gas stations that didn’t lock their restrooms. Parker had tried to be a hustler but had failed. And had come to the central post office, joined the union, and went to the union meetings where he became sarge-at-arms. He was soon a union representative, and then he was elected vice president.

“What’s the matter, Hank? I know you don’t need me to handle these soups!”

“Don’t butter me, babe. Now I’ve paying union dues for almost 12 years and haven’t asked for a damn thing.”

“All right, what’s wrong?”

“It’s the waterfountains.”

“The waterfountains are wrong?”

“No, god damn it, the waterfountains are right. It’s what they are doing to them. Look.”

“Look? Where?”

“There”

“I don’t see anything.”

“That’s the exact nature of my bitch. There used to be a water fountain there.”

“So they took it out. What the hell?”

“Look, Parker, I wouldn’t mind one. But they are yanking out every other water fountain in the building. If we don’t stop them here, they will soon be closing down every other crapper. . . and then, what next, I don’t know ...”

“All right,” said Parker, “what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to get off your ass and find out why these water– fountains are being removed.”

“All right, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See that you do. 12 years worth of union dues is $312.”

The next day I had to look for Parker. He didn’t have the answer. Or the next or the next. I told Parker that I was tired of waiting. He had one more day.

The next day he came up to me in the coffee break area.

“All right, Chinaski, I found out.”

“Yes?”

“In 1912 when this building was built . . . “

”1912? That’s over a half century ago! No wonder this place looks like the Kaiser’s whorehouse!”

“All right, stop it. Now, in 1912 when this place was built, the contract called for a certain number of waterfountains. In checking, the p.o. found that there had been twice as many waterfountains installed as were called for in the original con– tract.”

“Well, o.k.,” I said, “what harm can twice as many water– fountains do? The clerks will only drink so much water.”

“Right. But the waterfountains happen to jut out a bit. They get in the way.”

“So?”

“All right. Supposing a clerk with a sharp lawyer was injured against a water fountain? Say he was pinned against that fountain by a hand truck loaded with heavy sacks of magazines?”

“I see it now. The fountain isn’t supposed to be there. The post office is sued for negligence.”

“Right!”

“All right. Thanks, Parker.”

“My service.”

If he had made up the story, it was damn near worth $312.

I’d seen a lot worse printed in Playboy.