Post Office by Charles Bukowski Read Free Book Online

It’d give me a rest from Joyce.
    I walked very quickly into the field, waiting for them to drive off. I didn’t hear them leaving. I walked further in, then turned, cupped my hands and yelled back at them: “WELL, WHERE’S THE BUFFALO?”
    My answer came from behind me. I could hear their feet on the ground. There were three of them, big ones, just like in the movies, and they were running, they were coming FAST! One had a bit of a lead on the others. There was little doubt who they were headed for.
    “Oh shit!” I said.
    I turned and began running. That fence looked a long way away. It looked impossible. I couldn’t spare the time to look back. That might make the difference. I was flying, wide-eyed. I really moved! But they gained steadily! I could feel the ground shaking around me as they beat up the earth getting right down on me. I could hear them slobbering, I could hear them breathing. With the last of my strength I dug in and leaped the fence. I didn’t climb it. I sailed over it. And landed on my back in a ditch with one of those things poking his head over the fence and looking down at me.
    In the car, they were all laughing. They thought it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Joyce was laughing louder than any of them.
    The stupid beasts circled, then loped off.
    I got out of the ditch and climbed in the car.
    “I’ve seen the buffalo,” I said, “now let’s go catch a drink.”
    They laughed all the way in. They’d stop and then somebody would start and then they all would start. Wally had to stop the car once. He couldn’t drive anymore. He opened the door and rolled out on the ground and laughed. Even grandma was getting hers, along with Joyce.
    Later the story got around in town and there was a bit of swagger missing from my walk. I needed a haircut. I told Joyce.
    She said, “Go to a barbershop. “
    And I said, “I can’t. It’s the buffalo.”
    “Are you afraid of those men in the barbershop?”
    “It’s the buffalo,” I said.
    Joyce cut my hair.
    She did a terrible job.

4
    Then Joyce wanted to go back to the city. For all the drawbacks, that little town, haircuts or not, beat city life. It was quiet. We had our own house. Joyce fed me well. Plenty of meat. Rich, good, well-cooked meat. I’ll say one thing for that bitch. She could cook. She could cook better than any woman I had ever known. Food is good for the nerves and the spirit. Courage comes from the belly-all else is desperation.
    But no, she wanted to go. Granny was always climbing her and she was pissed. Me, I rather enjoyed playing the villain. I had made her cousin, the town bully, back down. It had never been done before. On blue jean day everybody in town was supposed to wear blue jeans or get thrown in the lake. I put on my only suit and necktie and slowly, like Billy the Kid, with all eyes on me, I walked slowly through the town, looking in windows, stopping for cigars. I broke that town in half like a wooden match.
    Later, I met the town doctor in the street. I liked him. He was always high on drugs. I was not a drug man, but in case I had to hide from myself for a few days, I knew I could get anything I wanted from him.
    “We’ve got to leave,” I told him.
    “You ought to stay here,” he said, “it’s a good life. Plenty of hunting and fishing. The air’s good. And no pressure. You own this town,” he said.
    “I know, doc, but she wears the pants.”

5
    So gramps wrote Joyce a big check and there we were. We rented a little house up on a hill, and then Joyce got this stupid moralistic thing.
    “We both ought to get jobs,” Joyce said, “to prove to them that you are not after their money. To prove to them that we are self-sufficient.”
    “Baby, that’s grammar school. Any damn fool can beg up some kind of job; it takes a wise man to make it without working. Out here we call it ‘hustling.’ I’d like to be a good hustler. “
    She didn’t want it.
    Then I explained that a man couldn’t