Quotes for "Post Office"

Bukowski, Charles

The water got higher and higher but mail trucks are built high off the ground. I took the shortcut through the residential neighborhood, full speed, and water flew up all around me. It continued to rain, hard. There weren’t any cars around. I was the only moving object. Betty baby. Yeah. Some guy standing on his front porch laughed at me and yelled, “THE MAIL MUST GO THROUGH!” I cursed him and gave him the finger.


He came again. Handed me a second write-up. I looked at him. “I don’t have to read it. I know what it says. It says that I didn’t read the first write-up.” I threw the second write-up in the wastebasket. The Stone ran back to his typewriter. He handed me a third write-up.


The supervisor walked up behind me. “Now,” he said, pointing at me, “this man is making production.


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.


“What happened to the birds?” “Damn the birds! I am the mayor of New York!”


He wasn’t playing Dixie on the harmonica. The damn fool was serious.


“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!”


“A GUY LIKE YOU CAN DO THAT,” he said, “BECAUSE YOU LOOK LIKE A WINO. PEOPLE WILL HIRE YOU BECAUSE THEY FIGURE YOU CAN’T GET A JOB ANYWHERE ELSE AND YOU’LL STAY. THEY WON’T HIRE ME BECAUSE THEY LOOK AT ME AND THEY SEE HOW INTELLIGENT I AM AND THEY THINK, WELL, AN INTELLIGENT MAN LIKE HIM WON’T STAY WITH US, SO THERE’S NO USE HIRING HIM.”


“By the way, you don’t hide behind pillars at the opera house, do you?”


“See these numbers painted on the end of the case?” “Yeh.” “Those numbers indicate the number of pieces that must be stuck in a minute. A two-foot tray must be stuck in 23 minutes. You ran five minutes over.” He pointed to the 23. “Twenty-three minutes is standard.” “That 23 doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “Whadda ya mean?” “I mean a man came along and painted that 23 on there with a can of paint.”


“Hey! I smell fire!” “YOU DON’T SMELL FIRE,” I yelled, “YOU SMELL SMOKE!”