Dating : 11.23

I fucking hate the post office. It’s 11.23, the clown-faced novelty clock behind the plexiglass booth informs me, its googly-eyes tracking hands topped with inflated red gloves, frilly papery legs dangling limply beneath a cheap plastic head. Something feels off. I don’t know what. It can’t be the clock, and yet I know I’m intimidated by it, maybe even frightened. It doesn’t fit in here, among the sour-milk coloured envelopes, out-of-date snacks and fluorescent bulbs fizzing overhead, painting everything underneath a sickly blue that reminds me of a hospital hallway more than anything to do with her majesty’s royal service. The only Royal thing about this place is the insidious horror lurking beneath its surface. The clock is a misplaced gag, a novelty birthday cake found at the scene of a murder, playful hedgehog icing splashed with the blood of dead children. I don’t know why I think like this. I feel my pulse pounding in my right ear, my heart-rate climbing as I imagine the clock launching over the counter, legs fluttering behind like a kite made of napkins before it lands on my chest, wraps its gloves around my neck and squeezes the breath from my lungs, all while forcing me to stare into its circling retinas. It’s still 11.23, the eyes are swirling, the legs are still. I consider the spittle-stained plexiglass, the customer assistant sat behind it, eyes darkened with boredom and lack of sleep. It must be hard to work early in the summer months, to call it a night while the sun is still up, waking up only to be greeted by the sun again. And with that fucking clock for a colleague. Maybe… Dave… the stitched name on his polo reads beneath the Royal Mail crest, misses the dark. Maybe he misses the moon. Maybe he steals a doze when things are quiet, not like right now. There’s two people for him to serve at the moment, myself and a boisterous gentleman in front chewing his ear off about the jumper he’s posting to his granddaughter in Glasgow for her 19th. She’s a right nice wee lassie, with good pals, studying theatre and psychology in tandem, he tells Dave. She’s the first in his family to go to University. He hopes she sticks at it, or she’ll get her arse booted by her granny when she comes home for Christmas. He’s sorry to take up Dave’s time, he says, he just likes talking about her. He doesn’t like to talk about her around the auld boys in the Central, they get boozed up and make inappropriate comments. My hand starts to tremble, my pinkie and ring fingers predictably spasming as I realise that I have nothing to say to Dave. Maybe I can conjure up a grandchild. No. I’m thirty-one. I can incite his interest in my package maybe, tease him as to its contents. No. He might think I’m a terrorist or an incel. I could flirt with him. My chest tightens. I look at the clock, it’s still on the wall, still unable to look me in the eye. It’s 11.23. Why is this minute so fucking long?

I’m being given time to reconsider, I realise. I look at the box in my hands, once home to thirty-two bags of frozen home-cut oven fries, now privy to a fistful of pants which is a porno title I’m officially trademarking, three t-shirts, several body lotions with fancy names in plastic zip-lock bags and three books; two from the Harry Potter franchise, the third a ghost-written biography of Michael Parkinson. The Parkinson book is technically mine but I had always said I’d lend it to them; he might carry a reputation as the man who sells pens to dying pensioners on the back of telly mags but he’s had a fascinating life and more people should know about him.

The gentleman tells Dave to have a good day and that he hopes his shift moves fast. He notices the clock before he turns to leave, snorts and emits a noise caught somewhere between a heh and a hoh. As to why he’s snorting I don’t know. It’s still 11.23 somehow. I want the clock to attack me, to make the first move and get this over with.

Dave asks me what I’m after. I force a hello and an unconvincing smile but keep my feet planted firmly in my space in the queue. I like this space, I’m safe here.

I could leave. I could take the book out and come back later and post the other things. No, they would see the broken tape, would know that I took something out. Maybe they’d think I regretted something, removed a note of apology or even worse, an insult. They’d never believe I removed a book about Michael Parkinson. Dave would see it too, would know that I took something out, that I had a second thought. He’d definitely think I’m a terrorist. I’m sweating now. He definitely thinks I’m a terrorist. He asks if I’m alright, I say that I’m not bad, that the air’s been fine this morning, and ask him how he’s doing in return. I get angry at myself for the way I speak to him, I sound like I’m being written for BBC prime-time, all pleasantries and tacky monster costumes. No sex please, the kids are still up. I’m not prime-time, I’m watershed. A fistful of pants. A few panties more. The good, the bad and the… I can’t think of anything for the third one. I think I’m a psychopath. Maybe I should swear at him.

Fuck.

He asks again if I’m alright, if there’s a reason why I just said fuck out loud. I didn’t even realise I had said it aloud. What if all of this has been said aloud. I think I’m going to shit myself. I’m at the counter now, I don’t remember moving. Dave asks if I want first or second-class postage, I want to make a joke, to ask if there’s a third class. That’s not funny though. Instead I say nothing, just staring at him with my jaw hanging open like a freezer drawer. A freezer drawer packed with swear words, unlicensed porno titles and stupidity. I look at the clock again. It’s 11.23. Something is off. My gums flap uncontrollably, flinging words like ‘sorry’ and ‘just a minute’ at Dave while the bags under his eyes become heavier. I’m filling them up. I’m that customer. The baggage. The prick. The amusing story he might tell his loved ones if the clock lets him leave.

No, I refuse.

You refuse what, he asks. Fuck I’m speaking out loud again. I can’t feel my legs. I wonder if I have shit myself. I look at the clock. It’s 11.23.

I feel an epiphany.

An epipha-what, Dave asks. Fuck off for a moment Dave. I don’t know if I said that aloud or not but I see his hand nervously shifting under his desk, maybe reaching for a panic button. There’s no reason to panic Dave, I want to say, I’m not a terrorist I’m just frightened. His hand flirts with the possibilities. Maybe I can get arrested before I think about-

My epiphany. It’s not the clock I’m afraid of, it’s the time. I shift my elbow, sandwiching the box between my ribs and my oxters — nearly dropping it — while I fish for my phone. Dave’s fingers turn white against the table. Now he’s the one sweating. I take my phone out and he relaxes. I offer a half-smile, a peace offering that confirms I’m not a terrorist, and check the screen. I knew it. It’s 11.14. The clock lies. A googly-eyed, limp-legged fibbing abomination. I want to smash it, to strangle it with its own legs, to break its face and dine upon the poisonous numbers stuck to its skin. Maybe Dave would thank me. I’ll get free postage for life. I can’t do this. I almost drop the box again, feeling its contents shift along with my insides. It takes an average of one-to-three months to know someone, a minute and an oven-fry box to forget them. I’m scared of forgetting. The clock can go fuck itself.

Take your time, Dave tells me. If there’s something in the box that’s sensitive, if it’s the remnants of someone passed, its okay to take a moment before allowing their belongings to be forwarded elsewhere under an expensive stick-on tattoo of the Queen’s head. I want to laugh, to tell Dave that its okay, that they aren’t dead, they’re just gone. Instead I ask him if he’s read Michael Parkinson’s ghost-written biography. He hasn’t, he only reads action novels. I ask him if he thinks it would be appropriate to send to someone under strained circumstances. The kind of circumstances that don’t fit on the back of a telly mag, or into an action novel. He pauses, thinking. I look at the clock. I don’t care what time it is.

Dave takes the box from me, I find myself clinging to it, pressing my fingers into its sides hard enough to leave tiny craters in the cardboard. Me-teorites. Now that’s funny. I try to tell Dave but he talks first, looking me in the eye and telling me that even if the book isn’t appropriate, I shouldn’t worry about it anymore. Time takes care of these things. I look at the space next to the clock.

I give him the box. He stamps the corner, just above the address. He smiles at me, the bags under his eyes splitting and unleashing their contents down his cheeks. He asks if I’m ready to pay. I say yes.

He punches in some details to the monitor in front of him before spinning the card machine round to face me. I like that he already knows I’ll pay by card. I read the number. I laugh. I laugh hard.

£11.23.

A beep, the welcoming hymn of a contactless payment, and the box is gone from sight. Dave thanks me for my time, I thank him for his. I look at the clock. The eyes are still. It’s 11.23. And it will be if I ever have to come back.

I get outside. I walk home.