‘There are very few people on this earth that I would describe as being a mould,’
Joseph tutted, removing his glasses, and hunching over his desk with the applied gravity of remembering an unpleasant smell, ‘A limpid sort of fellow, quite able to stagnate the air around him. Is fester too harsh a word? Don’t tell me he’s come to harm, has he?’
A library of dust and thrice read books flanked the two sides of the long office of Joseph D’Aguilar.
Suitably, the dimly lit braziers of this room flickered dramatically and cast shadows of menace across the pale face of chartered accountant, D’Aguilar. With dramatic poise he calmly picked up a pen and continued writing, not dismissing his visitor but ensuring that they knew that their message was to be received in the half-heard manner.
‘Ah would you like me to just leave it on the desk?’ The postman asked, clearly thrown by the man before him but still compelled to deliver the letter. He had yet to meet another person that held the entitled poshness that Joseph extruded and wondered to himself if all bookish types were like this. Walking forward the postman was halted by the gesture of a finely crafted pen.
‘No, you read it,’ D’Aguilar intoned, ‘I would like to hear how the colloquial accent manages pronounce a cursive font. In your own time.’ Without lifting his gaze, Joseph managed to firmly imply that the postman should in no way actually take his time and, further, that there was a present countdown he was to exit the room by.
‘But. It’s against the law to open a person’s mail.’ said the postman weakly, unable to build a bridge between the two laws of the Stallinger post office.
| -The mail shall be delivered, no matter the cost! (a cost of 25 cents is required for the purchase of a stamp) -The mail shall be delivered correctly and to only the addressee / next of kin / relevant deity. |
‘What’s your name,’ D’Aguilar began, looking up and catching his eyeline before he appeared interested, ‘actually, I don’t care. Here are 25 cents, I address the letter to you, wow that’s a neat looking letter, you should read me what it says.’ Flashing the flustered postman, a serious look, Joseph attempted to grimace a smile but could only manage to politely snarl: his smiling muscles possibly atrophied from lack of use.
‘I’ve never gotten mail befo-‘ the postman began but was rebuffed by the twisted complexion of the accountant before him, ‘Ah, well it begins…
To J. D’Aguilar
I am writing to you to tender my resignation as your assistant and indentured apprentice. I have had a pleasant time working for you these past two years but am struggling to keep up with your: Over-abundance of paperwork, yelling, throwing of ink pots, silent menace, forgetting of my name, throwing of pens, reluctance of acknowledgement, and so forth.
I will be using the next few weeks to reset my perspective and really think about what I want to achieve in the world.
Sorry if this comes at a bad time and I thank you for your patience.
I hope to use you as a reference at some point in the future.
Your assistant,
-Rodney.
Josef thought for a long moment and tried to recollect having an apprentice despite mentioning him just moments before. Yes, recently there was less washing up to be done in the kitchenette, and he did remember receiving a coffee from some unseen hand at set points during the day. But for all the fog in the foggiest mire of Lundra he couldn’t remember a Rodney.
‘Who is Rodney?’ Joseph asked to the open air as he had forgotten that the postman was still standing in front of him.
‘The sender of the letter, sire, we were just speaking about him…the mould’ the postman chirped, failing to read the room, ‘Rodney Muckwheeler of…this very address. Why do you both contract the post office to deliver internal letters…sire.’ He added forgoing his trepidation for sheer dumb-struck curiosity.
‘We apricate the efficiency–Oh Muckwheeler! So that miserable stain upon my wallpaper has finally ungrafted himself from his corner. Good, I shall miss his weekly grovelling for a payslip. I shall have to get him to write a reply to himself as a gesture of goodbye; three paragraphs thanking him for his excellent work; and one entailing that his severance payment is being withheld.’
Assuming his absent assistant would take charge, Joseph returned to his ledgers and hummed a satisfied minor scale to himself.
Once again forgotten within the cavernous maw of the accountancy office, the postman silently saluted and made from the room before he was asked if he was looking for a new career opportunity.
There was something detached about the logic of this office, it felt to the postman that everything had a cursed energy to its processes, even with his little knowledge of the financial sector. Nodding to the receptionist as he left, the old postal worker remembered the days when evil was easier to put a thumb on; back when a broiling cauldron of several heads on spikes was a flag that you could leave the package unattended.
The world had gone mad.
-J. McCray
2021
Sunday Short Stories 