Post Office: A Novel by Charles Bukowski:
She stopped, then came on over. “Hi, Hank. How are you?”
I knew her from the central post office. She worked another station, the one near the water fountain, but she seemed more friendly than most.
“I’ve got the low blues. Third funeral in two years. First my mother, then my father. Today, an old girl friend.”
She ordered something. I opened the Form.
“Let’s catch this second race.”
She came over and leaned a lot of leg and breast against me. There was something under that raincoat. I always look for the non-public horse who could beat the favorite. If I found nobody could beat the favorite, I bet the favorite.
I had come to the racetrack after the other two funerals and had won. There was something about funerals. It made you see things better. A funeral a day and I’d be rich.