store. And, I thought, I might get used to it. I never got used to it.
12
Then the supervisor moved us to a new aisle. We had been there 10 hours.
“Before you begin,” the soup said, “I want to tell you something. Each tray of this type of mail must be stuck in 23 minutes. That’s the production schedule. Now, just for fun, let’s see if each of us can meet the production schedule! Now, one, two, three … GO!”
What the hell is this? I thought. I’m tired.
Each tray was two feet long. But each tray held different amounts of letters. Some trays had two or three times as much mail in them as others, depending upon the size of the letters.
Arms started flying. Fear of failure.
I took my time.
“When you finish your first tray, grab another! “
They really worked at it. Then they jumped up and grabbed another tray.
The supervisor walked up behind me. “Now,” he said, pointing at me,
“this
man is making production. He’s halfway through his second tray!”
It was my first tray. I didn’t know if he were trying to con me or not, but since I was that far ahead of them I slowed down a little more.
13
At 3:30 a.m. my 12 hours were up. At that time they did not pay the subs time and one half for overtime. You just got straight time. And you hired in as a “temporary indefinite substitute clerk.”
I set the alarm so that I would be at the art store at 8 a.m.
“What happened, Hank? We thought maybe you had been in an auto accident. We kept waiting for you to come back.”
“I’m quitting.”
“Quitting?”
“Yes, you can’t blame a man for wanting to better himself. “
I walked into the office and got my check. I was back in the post office again.
14
Meanwhile, there was still Joyce, and her geraniums, and a couple of million if I could hang on. Joyce and the flies and the geraniums. I worked the night shift, 12 hours, and she pawed me during the day, trying to get me to perform. I’d be asleep and I’d awaken with this hand stroking me. Then I’d have to do it. The poor dear was mad.
Then I came in one morning and she said, “Hank, don’t be mad.”
I was too tired to be mad.
“What izzit, baby?”
“I got us a dog. A little pup dog.”
“O.K. That’s nice. There’s nothing wrong with dogs. Where is he?”
“He’s in the kitchen. I named him ‘Picasso.’”
I walked in and looked at the dog. He couldn’t see. Hair covered his eyes. I watched him walk. Then I picked him up and looked at his eyes. Poor Picasso!
“Baby, you know what you’ve gone and done?”
“You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like him. But he’s a subnormal. He has an I.Q. of about 12. You’ve gone out and gotten us an idiot of a dog.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can tell just by looking at him.”
Just then Picasso started to piss. Picasso was full of piss. It ran in long yellow fat rivulets along the kitchen floor. Then Picasso finished, ran and looked at it.
I picked him up.
“Mop it up.”
So Picasso was just one more problem.
I’d awaken after a 12-hour night with Joyce strumming me under the geraniums and I’d say, “Where’s Picasso?”
“Oh god
damn
Picasso!” she’d say.
I’d get out of bed, naked, with this big thing in front of me.
“Look, you’ve left him out in the yard again! I
told
you not to leave him out in the yard in the daytime!”
Then I’d go out into the backyard, naked, too tired to dress. It was fairly well sheltered. And there would be poor Picasso, overrun with 500 flies, flies crawling all over him in circles. I’d run out with the thing (going down then) and curse those flies. They were in his eyes, under the hair, in his ears, on his privates, in his mouth … everywhere. And he’d just sit there and smile at me. Laugh at me, while the flies ate him up. Maybe he knew more than any of us. I’d pick him up and carry him into the house.
“The little dog laughed
To see such sport;
And the dish ran away with the
12
Then the supervisor moved us to a new aisle. We had been there 10 hours.
“Before you begin,” the soup said, “I want to tell you something. Each tray of this type of mail must be stuck in 23 minutes. That’s the production schedule. Now, just for fun, let’s see if each of us can meet the production schedule! Now, one, two, three … GO!”
What the hell is this? I thought. I’m tired.
Each tray was two feet long. But each tray held different amounts of letters. Some trays had two or three times as much mail in them as others, depending upon the size of the letters.
Arms started flying. Fear of failure.
I took my time.
“When you finish your first tray, grab another! “
They really worked at it. Then they jumped up and grabbed another tray.
The supervisor walked up behind me. “Now,” he said, pointing at me,
“this
man is making production. He’s halfway through his second tray!”
It was my first tray. I didn’t know if he were trying to con me or not, but since I was that far ahead of them I slowed down a little more.
13
At 3:30 a.m. my 12 hours were up. At that time they did not pay the subs time and one half for overtime. You just got straight time. And you hired in as a “temporary indefinite substitute clerk.”
I set the alarm so that I would be at the art store at 8 a.m.
“What happened, Hank? We thought maybe you had been in an auto accident. We kept waiting for you to come back.”
“I’m quitting.”
“Quitting?”
“Yes, you can’t blame a man for wanting to better himself. “
I walked into the office and got my check. I was back in the post office again.
14
Meanwhile, there was still Joyce, and her geraniums, and a couple of million if I could hang on. Joyce and the flies and the geraniums. I worked the night shift, 12 hours, and she pawed me during the day, trying to get me to perform. I’d be asleep and I’d awaken with this hand stroking me. Then I’d have to do it. The poor dear was mad.
Then I came in one morning and she said, “Hank, don’t be mad.”
I was too tired to be mad.
“What izzit, baby?”
“I got us a dog. A little pup dog.”
“O.K. That’s nice. There’s nothing wrong with dogs. Where is he?”
“He’s in the kitchen. I named him ‘Picasso.’”
I walked in and looked at the dog. He couldn’t see. Hair covered his eyes. I watched him walk. Then I picked him up and looked at his eyes. Poor Picasso!
“Baby, you know what you’ve gone and done?”
“You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like him. But he’s a subnormal. He has an I.Q. of about 12. You’ve gone out and gotten us an idiot of a dog.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can tell just by looking at him.”
Just then Picasso started to piss. Picasso was full of piss. It ran in long yellow fat rivulets along the kitchen floor. Then Picasso finished, ran and looked at it.
I picked him up.
“Mop it up.”
So Picasso was just one more problem.
I’d awaken after a 12-hour night with Joyce strumming me under the geraniums and I’d say, “Where’s Picasso?”
“Oh god
damn
Picasso!” she’d say.
I’d get out of bed, naked, with this big thing in front of me.
“Look, you’ve left him out in the yard again! I
told
you not to leave him out in the yard in the daytime!”
Then I’d go out into the backyard, naked, too tired to dress. It was fairly well sheltered. And there would be poor Picasso, overrun with 500 flies, flies crawling all over him in circles. I’d run out with the thing (going down then) and curse those flies. They were in his eyes, under the hair, in his ears, on his privates, in his mouth … everywhere. And he’d just sit there and smile at me. Laugh at me, while the flies ate him up. Maybe he knew more than any of us. I’d pick him up and carry him into the house.
“The little dog laughed
To see such sport;
And the dish ran away with the
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