Post Office Read Online Free

and a painting of N., very large too, looked over the office, watching.
    Nekalayla claimed he had once been walking through the desert when he met Jesus Christ and Jesus Christ told him everything. They sat on a rock together and J.C. laid it on him. Now he was passing the secrets on to those who could afford it. He also held a service every Sunday. His help, who were also his followers, rang in and out on timeclocks.
    Imagine Matthew Battles trying to outwit Nekalayla who had met Christ in the desert!
    “Has anybody said anything to The Stone?” I asked. “Are you
kidding?”
    We sat an hour or so. A sub was assigned to Matthew’s case. The other subs were given other jobs. I sat alone behind The Stone. Then I got up and walked to his desk.
    “Mr. Jonstone?”
    “Yes, Chinaski?”
    “Where’s Matthew today? Sick?”
    The Stone’s head dropped. He looked at the paper in his hand and pretended to continue reading it. I walked back and sat down.
    At 7 a.m. The Stone turned:
    “There’s nothing for you today, Chinaski.”
    I stood up and walked to the doorway. I stood in the doorway. “Good morning, Mr. Jonstone. Have a good day.”
    He didn’t answer. I walked down to the liquor store and bought a half pint of Grand Dad for my breakfast.

13
    The voices of the people were the same, no matter where you carried the mail you heard the same things over and over again.
    “You’re late, aren’t you?”
    “Where’s the regular carrier?”
    “Hello, Uncle Sam!”
    “Mailman! Mailman! This doesn’t go here!”
    The streets were full of insane and dull people. Most of them lived in nice houses and didn’t seem to work, and you wondered how they did it. There was one guy who wouldn’t let you put the mail in his box. He’d stand in the driveway and watch you coming for two or three blocks and he’d stand there and hold his hand out.
    I asked some of the others who had carried the route:
    “What’s wrong with that guy who stands there and holds his hand out?”
    “What guy who stands there and holds his hand out?” they asked.
    They all had the same voice too.
    One day when I had the route, the man-who-holds-his-hand-out was a half a block up the street. He was talking to a neighbor, looked back at me more than a block away and knew he had time to walk back and meet me. When he turned his back to me, I began running. I don’t believe I ever delivered mail that fast, all stride and motion, never stopping or pausing, I was going to kill him. I had the letter half in the slot of his box when he turned and saw me.
    “OH NO NO NO!” he screamed, “DON’T PUT IT IN THE BOX!”
    He ran down the street toward me. All I saw was the blur of his feet. He must have run a hundred yards in 9.2.
    I put the letter in his hand. I watched him open it, walk across the porch, open the door and go into his house. What it meant somebody else will have to tell me.

14
    Again I was on a new route. The Stone always put me on hard routes, but now and then, due to the circumstances of things, he was forced to place me on one less murderous. Route 511 was peeling off quite nicely, and there I was thinking about
lunch
again, the lunch that never came.
    It was an average residential neighborhood. No apartment houses. Just house after house with well-kept lawns. But it was a
new
route and I walked along wondering where the trap was. Even the weather was nice.
    By god, I thought, I’m going to make it! Lunch, and back in on schedule! Life, at last, was bearable.
    These people didn’t even own dogs. Nobody stood outside waiting for their mail. I hadn’t heard a human voice in hours. Perhaps I had reached my postal maturity, whatever that was. I strolled along, efficient, almost dedicated.
    I remembered one of the older carriers pointing to his heart and telling me, “Chinaski, someday it will get to you, it will get you right
here!”
    “Heart attack?”
    “Dedication to service. You’ll see. You’ll be proud of