Dearest Milton James by N.R. Walker

Chapter One

You knowhow there’s one teeny piece of straw that supposedly breaks the camel’s back? Well, I found it. And the invisible line one crosses with that one step too far? Yeah, well, apparently, I found that too.

Okay, so it probably wasn’t just one piece of straw . . .  Maybe it was a whole bale. And that ‘invisible’ line might have had approaching warning signs like exits on a freeway.

Whatever.

I sat in the backseat with my father as his driver escorted us from Sydney’s head office of the postal service on Pitt Street to some warehouse of postal hell in the industrial suburb of Sydney’s Alexandria. And if the arse-chewing I’d been getting at his office all morning wasn’t bad enough, it continued in the car.

“You need to grow up, Malachi,” my father said, not for the first time. “You’re twenty-seven. You have no responsibility, no consequences. And that’s my fault. As your father, I’ve let you get away with too much. Your brother and sister have shouldered . . .”

I tuned him out, and with a roll of my eyes, I stared out the window. My very dear, very heterosexual brother and sister were the perfect children, quickly working their way up from the entry-level jobs, working hard, producing 2.5 grandchildren and picket fences in suburban houses with responsible mortgages.

Me, on the other hand, had just blown another job, went on a bender, spent a cosy night in a Kings Cross police station holding cell, and was released into the very responsible custody of my still pissed-off father.

Now, he didn’t exactly not like the fact I was gay. He didn’t love it, either. He also didn’t love my black shaggy hair with a blue streak or my bright blue Doc Martens. Or the fact I’d paired a business shirt and tie with my faded black jeans with the knees out of them. He’d told me to dress respectably, so I did. It was my fancy tie and everything . . .

“Your mother insisted I give you one last chance,” my father said. I’d almost forgotten he was talking. The incessant drone tended to fade away after several hours. “This is your last chance, Malachi.”

I resisted sighing. Yes, getting my shit together was probably a good idea. But all those crap office jobs he’d insisted I take were not for me. Every time I tried to explain that, he refused to listen, spouting lines about ‘not always getting what we want’ yadda yadda, blah blah blah, and in the end, I just stopped trying to reason with him.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

We drove down the narrow, crowded back streets in Alexandria and pulled into the car park of some obscure warehouse. Actually, it didn’t look obscure. It looked abandoned. It was old, dark brick with a saw-tooth roofline and windows for natural lighting, and there was a loading dock at one side. It had perhaps been an old factory or mill at some point.

It would make for a great nightclub.

Dad got out of the car and I reluctantly followed. “I’ve pulled some strings to get you this job,” he reminded me. “Please don’t disappoint me.”

Ugh. The one d-word I didn’t like.

We walked in through the door which led to a small entry hall. It was all decidedly beige: beige walls, beige lino flooring, beige seats. God, how miserable. Then we passed in through another set of double doors which opened out into the main part of the warehouse . . . and holy shit. It looked like the inside of a warehouse from a cross between an old war movie and an X-Files episode.

The place was bigger than it looked from the outside—I couldn’t see the far end. The beige theme continued through to an office with glass partition walls and what looked like a tea room, though I couldn’t see anyone around. There were some cubicle desks at the front, then rows and rows of huge shelves filled with boxes in all shapes and sizes. Along one wall were filing cabinets and those old catalogue drawers from libraries before computers were a thing. There were metal cage trolleys filled with more boxes and envelopes along the other side wall, and somewhere in the deep, tall rows of shelves, some kind of machinery beeped. A forklift, maybe?

So much beige.

“This way,” my father said, walking toward the office. He knocked on the door and a man looked up, startled.

He was also beige. Well, not him, exactly. He was so pale I wondered if he was allergic to the sun. But his office, his desk, his hair, his glasses, his cardigan were all varying shades of brown. Christ on a freaking beige cracker. “Oh,” he said, his voice deeper than I expected. He stood. “Mr Keogh. Please come in.”

My father stepped into the office, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and sat opposite Mr Beige. I did the same, only because I didn’t fancy getting far if I chose to make a run for it.

My father waved in my general direction. “This is Malachi Keogh,” he said, his disappointment clear. “Malachi, this is Mr Julian Pollard, your new boss.”

Beige Julian Pollard gave me a stern nod. “Nice to meet you.”

I cracked a smile for him. “Likewise.”

My father made a disappointed face. “Malachi has been told not to expect any special treatment. He is to behave responsibly like everyone else, and he will perform his duties as is expected of any employee. He can also be fired like anyone else.”

I rolled my eyes, which Mr Beige saw. He didn’t seem impressed, with me or my eye-roll, but I didn’t care. He had a professor-teacher vibe going on which I could totally appreciate. I’d favourited a few of those porn videos on GayHub in my time. But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to be here long.

Whether he liked me or not was neither here nor there.

I felt like a kid at his parent/teacher night, getting the same old ‘Malachi would achieve better grades if he studied/talked less/did his work/turned up to class’ kind of spiels. And I guessed in a lot of ways, that’s exactly what this was.

My dad was literally taking me to my job interview . . .  Well, technically it was my first day . . . of the job my father lined up for me.

I pretended I wasn’t embarrassed.

Then I pretended I’d heard whatever it was they’d been talking about, which I most definitely had not. My father stood, rebuttoned his jacket, and gave Mr Beige a nod. “Thank you again. Malachi, I’ll be back to pick you up after five.”

Wait . . . what?

Five what?

“Five what?”

He didn’t answer. He just turned on his heel and walked out.

“Five what? Minutes?” I called out after him, but it was too late. He was gone.

“I believe he meant five o’clock,” Mr All-Brown replied.

Five o’clock . . .

There was a clock on the wall, which was somehow also beige, that indicated it was just after ten. “That’s not on London time, by any chance, is it?”

Mr Taupe stood up, and he was absolutely wearing brown trousers and brown shoes. For the love of tan . . .

“I’ll show you around and get you started,” he said, turning his hand up toward the door.

Oh, hell no.

I was just about to bail, say thanks but no thanks, and take my chances with my father when Mr Beige looked up at the door and smiled. “Good timing. It’s morning teatime. I’ll introduce you to the team.”

“Oh, you know what?” I tried. “That’s okay. I don’t think—”

“Mr Keogh was very clear,” he replied, his deep voice pulling a thread at the bottom of my spine. He spoke with such authority and certainty, I was beginning to think he’d rattled some kink cage in my brain that found daddy-teachers hot.

Or him . . .

Was he hot? With his sensible hair, his brown glasses, brown cardigan—

A cardigan, Malachi. In no definition under any circumstances is that sexy.

Except it kinda was . . .

“Malachi?”

“Yes?” I answered too quickly.

He was standing at the door with one unimpressed eyebrow raised. “This way, please.”

I stood and went with him to the staff breakroom. There were four people who all stopped and stared, coffee mugs in hand. And one by agonising one, I was introduced.

Paul, who I put at sixty-something, with his short grey hair, grey loafers, and a trucker’s coat. He looked like Jeremy Irons . . . if Jeremy Irons ever starred in a movie as a trucker grandpa who delivered presents to sick kids at Christmas. Or maybe a trucker grandpa who murdered hitchhikers up the highway. Honestly, it could have gone either way.

Cherry was a goth girl, maybe twenty-five. She wore a purple plaid skirt over black tights, a black shirt, with a short black bob hairstyle, dark eyeliner, and dark lips. She looked me up and down, and after glaring at me, she gave me a nod. And everyone knows a nod from a goth girl is as good as it ever gets.

Theo was in his thirties, wore blue jeans, sneakers, and a polar fleece sweater vest over what I think was a football jersey? I didn’t look too hard. It screamed hetero man who still lived with his parents, but he smiled wide and I immediately felt bad for judging him.

And Denise, a forty-something-year-old woman who wore KingGee work shorts, Timberland boots, a flannelette shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She had short blond hair, shaved up one side. She had tattoos on her forearms, and even though she looked small, I reckoned she’d be as strong as an ox and also a lot of fun to get on the piss with on a Friday night.

“This is Malachi,” Mr Sexy Beige said. “He’s replacing Glenda.”

They all frowned and looked to a photo on the wall, which I quickly realised was a shrine. There was a memorial photo of an older lady stuck to the wall, like a plaque, but this was on purple funeral notice paper and stuck up with Blu-Tack next to the fire safety plan.

Nice.

Mr Taupe waited a respectful moment before continuing. “I’ll be showing Malachi the ropes this morning. Then, Paul, he can work with you this afternoon.”

Paul gave me a smile.

Oh goodie. The serial-killer truckie. How fun.

I waved. Not like Forrest Gump, more like one of those sun bears stuck in a zoo. Then because I felt like an idiot, I decided to open my mouth and prove that I was one. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here for. Until I disappoint my father again, no doubt, so probably not long. The odds are definitely not in my favour for that, let me tell ya. He’s the boss of the postal service, just so you know. But please don’t hold that against me.”

Mr Boss McBrown hesitated. “I uh, um, I wasn’t actually going to tell them that.”

“Well, I’d prefer it put out there for everyone to know. So there’s no surprises later on. I’m not a spy or anything. Cause trust me, he would not pick me for that. I believe the words my father used were ‘childish disappointment’ which, I mean, he’s technically not wrong. But . . . anyway, I’m getting off track. I’m sure everyone here is really nice, and RIP Glenda.” I gestured toward the memorial photo, squinting at the details. “I’m sure anyone with five cats and an accordion was everyone’s friend. I didn’t realise I was replacing anyone, and this is not my choice to be here but more of a punishment for the whole ‘wearing a skirt to work’ and ‘being arrested for drunk and disorderly.’ I wasn’t drunk at work, just so we’re clear. And not that working here is a punishment at all; that sounds bad and I don’t mean it in a bad way . . .” Christ, Malachi, stop talking. “But anyway, my point is that I probably won’t be here for long, so feel free not to expend too much time or energy in training or getting to know me. It’s honestly understandable, and that’s it. I’m done talking forever now.”

The five of them stared at me for a long few seconds.

Then Paul snorted out a laugh and sipped his coffee. Theo nodded to the kitchenette. “Find a coffee cup in the cupboard. Milk’s in the fridge.”

Cherry put her coffee cup to her lips, kept her head down, and sat at the table, facing the wall. And Denise barked out a smoker’s laugh. “Love your boots. Did you get them from the Newtown store?”

“Uh . . .” I blinked. Did no one notice my verbal spewage just now?

Mr Tall and Taupe put his hand on my elbow. “You’re going to want to wash any coffee cup you use first if it’s been in the cupboard for a time. And remember to wash it afterwards.”

I was still a little stunned. Either everyone here was used to a certain kind of crazy or I’d walked into an episode of the Twilight Zone. I was beginning to think it was the latter.

I chose a coffee mug from the back of the cupboard, that was a ghastly shade of puce with an orange flower painted on it. Chances are it had been here since 1973 and the likelihood of someone using it any time in the last forty years were slim to none. I didn’t even care that they all watched me wash it thoroughly, twice, before I used it.

After we’d finished our coffee, Mr Fawn and Fine began his tour of the warehouse. “So this is the Mail Redirection Centre. It used to be called The Dead Letter Office, but that sounded so . . . final. Anyway, we receive over two thousand undeliverable letters and parcels every day and we need to do our best to find out who the intended recipient was, or failing that, who the sender was and see it delivered.”

“Sorry,” I interrupted, confused. “Let me just explain something real quick about how this is going to go. I won’t be staying.”

Mr Beige smiled, his lips were pink, his brown eyes sparkled behind those brown frames. That gorgeous motherfucker smiled like he knew something I didn’t. He smiled like this was the Twilight Zone and I’d entered the Hotel California and once you checked in, you could never leave.

He ignored my request to leave completely and waved his hand at one of the cubicles. “And this here is your desk.”