Post Office. Chapter VI: 7
I don’t know how it happens to people. I had child support, need for something to drink, rent, shoes, shirts, socks, all that stuff. Like everyone else I needed an old car, something to eat, all the little intangibles.
Like women.
Or a day at the track.
With everything on the line and no way out, you don’t even think about it.
I parked across the street from the Federal Building and stood waiting for the signal to change. I walked across. Pushed through the swinging doors. It was as if I were a piece of iron drawn to the magnet. There was nothing I could do.
It was on the 2nd floor. I opened the door and they were in there. The clerks of the Federal Building. I noticed one girl, poor thing, only one arm. She’d be there forever. It was like being an old wino like me. Well, as the boys said, you had to work somewhere. So they accepted what there was. This was the wisdom of the slave.
A young black girl walked up. She was well-dressed and pleased with her surroundings. I was happy for her. I would have gone mad with the same job.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I’m a postal clerk,” I said, “I want to resign.”
She reached under the counter and came up with a stack of papers.
“All these?”
She smiled, “Sure you can do it?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I can do it.”
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