Round and Round

Simon Selv entered the box-shaped building that loomed over the neighbourhood, formerly a plastics factory that pumped out kitchen utensils, advertised by hysterical salesmen on neon shopping channels broadcast deep into the night. Now it functioned as the state's Post Office headquarters, and it was so bland everyone assumed it was an empty warehouse collecting dust. Waiting for his interview, Simon was wedged inside a slim hallway while the repetitive hiss of the snare drum from the jazz record he’d listened to earlier circled through his head like a fly trapped in a glass. He felt as if the neurons in his mind were being rewired. He must be in a fragile state, he thought, because the picture of the Postman of the Month plaque on the opposite wall was a mirror image of himself, even down to the proliferation of pock marks across his cheeks and his sledgehammer jawline.

“How can I be employee of the month?” muttered Simon to himself, “I haven't even had the interview yet.”

A woman with a pencil skirt and a tightly buttoned polyester blazer drifted by, but Simon didn't dare disturb her to ask why he was up on the wall.

Opposite, a man cracked a door open a smidgeon and beckoned Simon in, motioning with an index finger. Simon swallowed hard, trying to suppress the nerves that were charging through his body.

The interview room was foreboding and stark - no paintings on the wall, no family snaps on the desk. The only objects that adorned the room were a cardboard box on the floor beneath a full-length hanging mirror. 

The employer looked grave as he jotted some notes into his pad, seemingly making conclusions about Simon before any words had been exchanged. Simon grabbed his chin – hid it, nervously.

“I'm David Run,” said the interviewer, using a pencil to flick a curl of hair from his mostly bald skull, “and I will be the judge and jury in this case.”

“Case?” Simon chuckled.

“What's funny, Mr Selv? Because I assure you this is no joke.”

“No, of course,” Simon said, trying to hold in hysterical laughter.

“You might not think this is important now, but you'll soon learn. Now, let's get to know you a bit. Family background: did you have a happy childhood?”

“Is this - I don't think that's relevant, is it?”

“I'll let you know what is and what isn't relevant Mr Selv, because I will, ultimately, decide whether you're employable or not.”

“Well, then, I guess I'd say I had a happy childhood, I can't really remember to be honest.”

“Think.”

An image came into Simon's mind's eye. Sticky, fluttering, insect wings, pressed against Simon's lips and he spluttered in disgust. He was unable to shake off the vision, that is, until, David Run's voice echoed through Simon's consciousness, gradually reverberating louder and louder, finally snapping him out of his trance.

As Simon composed himself, rubbing his eyes with his fists, trying to annihilate what he'd seen, he asked the Postmaster General, “Why is my picture on the wall outside?”

“Well, Mr Selv, we are eager to reward good work. It keeps this place ticking over. Why don't you let me ask the questions?”

“But -?”

“Would you say you're a good person, Simon?”

Being called by his first name from this strait-laced interlocutor threw Simon off guard for a second. He felt the rumblings of trauma filter through his mind like black bubbles in a sweaty glass of coke.

Another image held his mind captive and his body convulsed. He saw ants swarm over his bare foot. He gasped. He lifted his foot and stamped on them, crushing them into the damp wooden floor creating a brown pulp.

“Wake up,” said Run, bent over Simon, looking in to his eyes like a doctor. “What is going on in that head of yours?”

He tapped Simon several times on the forehead with his pencil. As Simon came to, Run returned to his desk again.

“Well, those are the preliminaries. You're an interesting case and I believe you are ready for the next phase of the recruitment process.”

“I just want to deliver post,” said Simon, “why am I so confused?”

“And deliver post you shall. As for your personal problems they can be ironed out in time - and there's always time. But we're getting ahead of ourselves, we need to carry out your first dry run. That box under the mirror seems to be a good place to start, don't you think? I won't give you a uniform this time around, I mean, if it all goes horribly wrong, we'd be the ones with egg on our face, wouldn't we?”

Run snorted.

Feeling the weight of the box, shaking it and putting it to his ear, Simon was clueless as to the contents.

“Hang on a minute,” Simon said, “the delivery address is the Fogninis' place, next door to my home. This'll be no problem at all.”

In fact, the Fogninis lived within walking distance of the headquarters and for years the giant building had cast a lifeless shadow across the family's household, especially on a late summer's day.

Overall, Simon was very positive about the situation, he was a shoe-in for the job and it would be lovely to catch up with the Fogninis and see how their daughter, Allie, was progressing as a virtuoso violinist, which she surely was by now. He couldn't help but reminisce about the furtive kisses they shared under the drooping cherry tree at the back of her garden, before they were even teenagers. So why did he feel so sad? When he reached his street a spine-tingling shriek shocked Simon out of his reverie. It began to rain and the gutters quickly overflowed as leaves and plastic bottles blocked the sewers. Simon looked up and down the empty street and assumed the scream had come from a stray fox. He wanted to hang it on a washing line by its tail and watch the life drain from its eyes. He was sucked out of his fantasy. He guessed he'd been pressing the Fognini's doorbell for at least several minutes as the rain had settled now and the water was gently lapping against the curbs. He released the buzzer. The parcel was weighing him down, so he hoisted it up and balanced it on his shoulder. Suddenly he heard the grotesque slicing sounds of Allie practicing her violin. Could she really still be there, trapped, perpetually playing the same wrong notes? Simon clambered across the flower bed, and forced his way through the side alley, violently shoving it open with his shoulder.

Spying through the French windows at the back of the house, Simon could see Allie in the living room playing her violin, becoming frustrated at her inability to master the instrument and punishing it with vicious strokes. It took him a minute to realise he was experiencing a flashback - because Allie was a child and he was with her in the living room too, also as a youth. Simon was surprised by the authenticity of the vision and he let himself sink into the dream state.

Allie hurled her violin across the room, scratching its surface against the TV stand. Simon rushed over to pick it up and handed the instrument back to her.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly seething.

Simon took a seat beside her and took a deep breath. He placed his hand on her knee and said, “Allie, I - I want you to be my girlfriend.”

A look of disgust spread across her face.

“Right about now, I like you about as much as I like my violin.”

Allie plucked Simon's hand from her knee and dropped it to his side.

The vision ceased abruptly. All Simon could see was an empty room, no Allie, no violin. He wasn't there either.

He heard movement from the far end of the garden. As he sneaked up the lawn, he realised the sound was emanating from the shed next door, in Simon's family property. Simon was concerned that he’d yet to deliver his parcel but he’d do it soon and anyway, maybe his investigations would help him get the job.

He fazed out of reality again. He poked his head over the fence and tried to stare through the shed's murky window. He saw a hand with bloody fingertips scratching at the glass.

“Help me,” said a child, with a withered voice.

Simon didn't dare climb over the fence to take a closer look. He was afraid of what he might find. The captive in the shed banged against the door, trying to force himself free but it was useless. Then a voice from the other end of the grass called out, “Hello there? Are you OK?”

A postman with a salt and pepper moustache, wearing baggy shorts exposing his legs with bulging veins along the calves, approached the shed and unlocked the door. A teenager with crusty snot all over his face, wearing soiled boxer shorts, and a grubby t-shirt, collapsed in the postman's arms. His lips were chapped and he shivered with fear. It was Simon.

“Who put you in here?” the postman said.

“My parents, they lock me up when I'm bad. I'm always bad. All I have left is Allie.”

“Allie?”

“She's my girlfriend, or at least she will be someday.”

“Look, do you want me to have a word with your parents?”

“That'll only make things worse.”

“This is on my round but I can't always be here to release you, this can't continue.”

“Wait, I hear Allie in her garden next door, come and see.”

“I'm sorry, I really have to – “

“Please, you've been so nice and I want to show you how lovely she is.”

“Well OK, but I don't have long.”

The two of them knelt down and gazed through a gap in the fence. They saw Allie straddling an older man on the soft grass, showering him with kisses and whipping her hair against the man's face. The couple's laughter chimed through the trees as crows circled. The youthful Simon sat back, stunned.

“I'm sorry, kid,” said the postman, “you're young and there'll be plenty of others, don't you worry.”

“Sure,” said Simon, struggling to hold back tears, “I hope I can be a postman and deliver parcels like you someday.”

“That's the spirit.”

The illusion faded and Simon realised he had little time to post the package to the Fogninis. He was determined, now more than ever, to dispose of the parcel and cement his position as a fully-fledged postal worker.

At the front door again, Simon rang the bell several times and finally he saw silhouettes moving behind the blind. Mr and Mrs Fognini opened the door with suspicion etched across their faces, looking over Simon's shoulders as if someone was about to leap out at them.

“Oh Simon,” Mrs Fognini said. “Have you seen Allie?”

“Not in years,” said Simon, assuming flashbacks didn't count. “But I do have a parcel of her - I mean for her. In fact, I think it's some kind of award or trophy.”

He handed over the box.

“I'm sorry things didn't work out with you and Allie. You're such a lovely boy and Allie is, frankly, wild. It would never have worked. But anyway, if you see her please let us know, we're tearing our hair out.”

“I'm sure you'll see her soon,” said Simon, as he navigated his way out of the front garden, struggling to disentangle himself from the overgrown brambles. Before he could get more than several strides away from the Fognini's house there was a bone chilling howl from inside their property.

Immediately, another picture entered Simon's mind. He saw Allie absorbing the sun's rays that seeped through the trees as she lay on her back in her garden, while gnats floated about in the shade. She was much older now and Simon was too. It was a fresh memory but Simon couldn't be sure just how recent it was. He spied on her for what seemed like hours and when the time felt right, he slipped through the hole in the fence, and crawled on his hands and knees towards her. She was snoozing, which made it easy to get up close. He crouched over her head and pulled out a rusty machete. He slashed down hard on her neck, severing her jugular. She burst into life, struggling and straining for breath but Simon had cut through her neck, splitting her head clean from her body, despite the blunt blade. Her body still shook as her head was detached. Simon dragged the agitated body into the bushes. He would deal with that later. In the meantime, he carried the head under his arm, slid through the fence and went to inspect his girlfriend in his shed where he wouldn’t be disturbed. He looked forward to a nice chat.

Back at the Post Office headquarters Simon waited in the same hallway as before - the sounds of Allie's violin looping around his mind. His face was still displayed on the plaque and this time he felt he was worthy of the accolade. He was invited back into David Run's office and Simon seated himself dutifully in front of his prospective boss. The room, as before, was sparse except for a large box on the floor underneath a full-length mirror.

“Everything go smoothly?” said Run without looking up, focusing on his notes.

“Yep,” said Simon, gently patting his cheeks making popping sounds. “Smooth, smooth, smooth.”

“Well that maybe, but frankly I don't know if you're cut out for this job.”

“I don't understand, I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. Plus, I'm employee of the month.”

“Possibly, Mr Selv, but er...”

Run stared into space, as if trying to unravel a great mystery, then said, “OK, what the hell, let's show you the storeroom.”

Run led Simon out of his office and they weaved their way through labyrinthine hallways - the light dissolving into shadow as they went - until Simon was convinced they had travelled through the same passages at least more than once. Finally, Run tracked down the nondescript door he'd been looking for. He reached into his pocket for his keys and jiggled them inside the lock, with the sound of a rattle snake. The door had to be kicked in with Run’s foot before it swung open silently. They were almost sucked inside the cavernous room which was the size of a great farm outbuilding, but without the windows. The smell of stale bread permeated the room and when Run flicked the halogen lights on, a truck load of parcels, the same size as the one Simon had just delivered, were stacked high in front of them.

“Take a look around,” said Run, breathing deeply through his nose, “this will be your life's mission.”

Run returned to his office while Simon inspected the parcels. An image of the shed invaded his mind - rats, cockroaches, spiders’ webs. One day, he thought, he'd deliver all these packages and he'd be free.

Meanwhile the imposing boxes whispered to him, told him stories, buzzed monotonously. He knew the only way to quell his troubled mind was to pick a parcel, switch off the light, and back out of the room. He had to return to work.