Bukowski – Post Office

They had me in the counselor’s office in one of the back rooms of the second floor.
“Let me see how you look, Chinaski.”
He looked at me.
“Ow! You look bad. I better take a pill.”
Sure enough, he opened a bottle and took one.
“All right, Mr. Chinaski, we’d like to know where you’ve been the last two days?”
“Mourning.”
“Mourning? Mourning about what?”
“Funeral . Old friend. One day to pack in the stiff. One day to mourn.”
“But you didn’t phone in, Mr. Chinaski.”
“Yeh.”
“And I want to tell you something, Chinaski, off the record.”
“All right.”
“When you don’t phone in, you know what you are saying?”
“No.”
“Mr. Chinaski, you are saying. ‘Fuck the post office!’ ”
“I am?”
“And, Mr. Chinaski, you know what that means?”
“No, what does it mean?”
“That means, Mr. Chinaski, that the post office is going to fuck you!”
Then he leaned back and looked at me.
“Mr. Feathers,” I told him, “you can go to hell.”

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