The worst was closing the bars at
2 a.m.
with my lady.
going home to get a couple hours
sleep,
then as a substitute postal carrier
to be on call at
5:30 a.m.
sitting there with the other
subs
along the little ledge
outside the magazine
cases.
too often given a route to
case and carry,
starting 15 or 20 minutes
late,
the sweat pouring down
your face,
gathering under the
armpits.
you’re dizzy, sick,
trying to get the case
up, pull it down and
sack it for the truck to
pick up.
you worked on sheer
nerve,
reaching down into the
gut,
flailing, fighting
as the last minutes,
the last
seconds
rushed toward
you.
then to get on the
route with the people
and the dogs,
to make the rounds
on a new
route,
making your legs
go,
making your feet
walk
as the sun baked
you alive,
you fought through
your first
round
with 6 or 7 more to
go.
never time for lunch,
you’d get a write-up
if you were 5 minutes
late.
a few too many write-ups and you were
finished,
they moved you
out.
it was living, a
deathly
a living, to somehow
finish your route,
come in and often
be told
you were assigned
to the night pick-
up run, another
ball-buster.
or
if you got out of that
to drive on in
to your place
to find your lady
already drunk,
dirty dishes in the
sink,
the dog unfed,
the flowers unwatered,
the bed unmade,
the ashtrays full of
punched-out
lipstick-smeared
cigarettes.
then to get in the tub
with a beer.
you were no longer
young,
you were no longer
anything,
just worn down and
out
with your lady in the
other room
lisping inanities and
insanities,
pouring her glasses
of cheap
wine.
you were always going
to get rid of her,
you were working on
that,
you were caught between
the post office and
her,
it was the vise of
death,
each side crushing in
upon you.
“Jesus, baby, please,
please, just shut up for
a little while . . .”
“ah, you asshole!
what’re you doing in
there, playing with
yourself?”
to come roaring out
of that tub, all the impossibilities
of that day and that life
corkscrewing through you
ripping away
everything.
out of that tub,
a naked, roaring rocket
of battered body and
mind:
“YOU GOD DAMNED WHORE,
WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT
ANYTHING?
SITTING THERE ON YOUR
DEAD ASS AND
SUCKING AT THE VINO!”
to rush into the other room,
looking all about,
the walls whirling,
the entire world tilting in
against you.
“DON’T HIT ME! DON’T HIT
ME!
YOU’D HIT ME BUT YOU
WOULDN’T HIT A
MAN!”
“HELL NO, I WOULDN’T
HIT A MAN, YOU THINK
I’M CRAZY?”
to grab the bottle from
her,
to drain damn near
half of it.
to find another bottle,
open it,
pour a tall waterglass
full,
then to smash the glass
against a
wall,
to explode it like
that
in purple glory.
to find a new glass,
sit down and pour a
full one.
she’d be quiet
then.
we’d drink an hour or so
like that.
then, to get
dressed,
cigarette dangling,
you are feeling somewhat
better,
then you are moving
toward the door.
“hey! where the hell
you going?”
“I’m going to the fucking
bar!”
“not without me!
not without me, buster!”
“all right, get your ass
into gear!”
to walk there together.
to get our stools.
to sit before the long mirror.
the mirror you always hated to
look into.
to tell the bartender,
“vodka 7.”
To have her tell the bartender,
“scotch and water.”
everything was far away
then,
the post office, the world,
the past and the
future.
to have our drinks arrive.
to take the first hit in the
dark bar.
life couldn’t get any
better.