Darren “Whit” Whitlock punched in his code and walked into the mailroom. As usual he was greeted by the smell of cheap coffee. He rubbed his eyes and made a beeline for the breakroom where took his stained St. Louis Art Museum mug from the shelf and filled it from the ancient stainless steel coffee pot.
Fred walked in, chipper as always, his cup of Casey’s Coffee steaming. “Well good morning sunshine,” the old man said as he sat down and opened up a paper. Whit smiled, Fred’s uniform was at least two generations older then the current model and stained, but who cares. Fred was the oldest employee in the office, a 69 year old City Carrier. Everyone joked he carried at least two uncashed paychecks in his wallet, saving them up so he only had to go to the bank every couple months. No one could understand why he didn’t retire.
“Looks like a big day, alot packages,” Whit said as he glanced out of the back pallet of cardboard boxes the clerk was sorting.
“Yeah, pain the ass, you know there was a time when we actually delivered mail, but now I spend so much time dragging boxes around. It’s like these people can’t go buy their own shit anymore, know what I mean.”
“I hear you,” Whit said and went out to his case. As a rural carrier the rules were a bit lax, he could start early and the dispatcher wouldn’t say anything. City carriers had to follow the rules and start at 7:30 on the dot.
Whit pulled out his phone and checked his emails, he cursed under his breath. His package would arrive today and for some crazy reason it was being delivered by UPS. He cursed under his breath. ‘Maybe she won’t open it,’ he thought.
Whit put his phone down when Carrie waltzed into the office, the young red head was wearing a long knit sweater, and capri tights. She smiled at Whit and lifted her Starbucks cup to her mouth. He couldn’t help but admire the way the sweater enhanced her curves. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, “What you looking at there Whit?” Fred asked.
“Oh, I’m…”
“I know what you’re looking at son,” Fred laughed hysterically and slapped the younger man on the back.
Fred shuffled off, still chuckling.
Whit smiled, shook his head, and turned back to his coffee. Carrie was already gone, the echo of her laugh trailing down the hallway. He checked the clock—7:15. Time to get moving.
At his case the day’s mail waited in tight rubber-banded bundles. He slipped his headphones in, one ear only, and hit play. Pink Rabbits by the National. A sad song for a Sad Day. You didn’t see me when I was falling apart, I was a white girl in a crowd of white girls in the park. Matt Beringer’s melancholic baritone sang while Whit started casing letters: hands on autopilot, brain floating. Bills, flyers, the usual. Then he hit the first yellow “PARCEL” slip and groaned. A big one. Oversized. Address: Grace Miller, 1049 County Road 8.
He recognized the route number instantly, the old trailer way after the blacktop turned to gravel. The name had been popping up there a lot recently, another online shopper. Everybody was an online shopper now. “Hey, you've been working on your masterpiece?” Carrie asked.
Whit looked up in confusion and Carrie pointed at his arms. Blue paint stained his forearm. “Yeah I guess I didn’t see it,” Whit sheepishly said.
“I’m still waiting on my painting,” Carrie says.
“Yeah me too Whit, you’re said you’re going to paint me something pretty,” Fed yells out from across the room eliciting laughter from the other carriers.
“One day,” Whit says. He slid the slip aside, finished sorting, and began loading the LLV. The morning light came through the bay door like a thin sheet of gold, turning the dust into glitter. For a second he thought of the studio he’d had in college, the way light could make even a cracked wall look holy. Then Fred yelled something about the Cardinals’ bullpen and the spell broke.
A tall box stood out in the row of parcels, the box was from Amazon and plainly said it was a “professional artists easel” Whit checked the tag, Grace Miller. Well Grace you’ve got good taste in art supplies at least. Whit thought as he stacked the boxes.
Whit made a quick pit stop at his car and grabbed his camera. By the time Whit rolled out of the parking lot, Mud Creek was yawning awake: kids at bus stops, tractors already crawling down county roads, the diner’s neon sign flickering OPEN. He sipped the rest of his coffee and thought about the package again.
Grace Miller, 1049 County Road 8.
Four hours later, Whit pulled into the gravel drive.
It was hard to imagine anyone living in the beat-up trailer tucked behind the pines. The metal siding, once beige, had gone dark green with moss, and the porch sagged like an old man’s jaw. An ancient Ford pickup sat half in the weeds, its tailgate tied shut with a bungee cord.
He cut the engine and just sat there for a second, realizing he felt… tense. Out here, so far past his regular route, it wasn’t the distance that unsettled him, it was the quiet. You never knew what kind of people lived this far off the map.
Then the truck door creaked open, and a long, fake-fur-lined boot stepped onto the gravel.
The boot belonged to a tall, long-legged girl in black tights and a short dress, a flash of silver jewelry at her throat. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of one of his old art-school cigarette breaks in front of Fanner Hall. She certainly didn’t look like the woman he’d imagined living in this shit hole.
Whit felt the weight of his own years tug at him. He tugged his jeans higher over his soft belly and cleared his throat.
“Grace Miller?”
There was a pause, long enough to make him think he’d made a mistake, then a cautious, “Yes.”
The voice caught him off guard. It wasn’t a man’s, not exactly, but not quite a woman’s either. It landed somewhere in between, fragile but steady. Something in the back of his brain lit up, a mix of curiosity and guilt.
“I’ve got a package for you,” he said, “and some letters.”
“Awesome on the package,” she said, flipping her hair back. “But if those letters are bills, you can just keep them.”
The joke was old; Whit had heard it a thousand times. Still, he laughed, more out of relief than humor.
Grace took the mail, looked down the stack, and sighed. “Yeah, bills.”
Whit lifted the rear door and slid out the box. It was heavier than it looked.
“I can take this in for you… if you want.”
“Yeah, that’d be great. I was just leaving for work, so perfect timing.”
She dashed up the steps, quick and light, almost graceful—like a deer startled but not afraid. Whit followed, balancing the box on his hip, and the smell of cold pine and shampoo drifted back toward him. She opened the ancient plastic door revealing a plaid blanket blocking the entrance way. Whit sat the box down in front of the door and the girl heaved it past the curtain into the darkness.
“Thanks, Mr. Mailman,” she said.
“I’m Whit,”
“Hi Whit, I’m Grace, but you already know that,” she said and then shut the door. He shook her hand like he’d just sold her a car.
“So you paint?” he asked.
“I took an art class in high school, but really I needed the easel to balance out the grand piano.”
Whit laughed, “I teach painting at the college on Thursday nights, you should come to my class.”
Grace frowned, “Umm don’t think that’s how college classes work.”
“It’s not a college class, it’s adult education. It’s like 100 bucks a semester, but it’s no big deal.”
“Well thanks but I can’t afford real college, don’t have a 100 bucks for your painting class.”
“I can waive the fee, it’s no big deal, I’ve got plenty of supplies.” Whit said a little too quickly.
“OK I work on Thursdays… but.. You got a flyer or something?”
“Yeah one sec,” Whit pulled his camera bag out of the LLV.
Grace walked over and checked out the beat up digital SLR in the bag. “Hey, 5D mark ii, a real classic,” she said.
“Wow, I’m impressed you know cameras.”
Grace shrugged. “My dad used to take wildlife photos, deer, mostly. He had a Canon too, 7D, but he liked shooting film on his old Nikon better.”
“Film’s romantic until you have to pay for it,” Whit said, handing her a folded flyer from the back pocket of the bag. “Here. Thursday nights, six to nine. We’ve got good light, terrible coffee.”
She smiled, studying the paper like it might test her. “You think I could just show up?”
“Sure you’d fit in. But I warn you, the others are a bit older”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “Fit in where? I bet it’s all retirees painting barns. Plus I’m not always that popular with some people.”
Was she hinting at being trans? Whit wanted to ask so many questions, but he knew better, he wasn’t even sure. “Mostly,” he admitted. “But the barns are good practice, but I promise you’d fit in.”
She laughed softly. “Maybe. Depends how desperate I get for excitement.”
Whit nodded, pretending he didn’t care either way. “Well, if you change your mind, we’re in Room 104. Back of the art building.”
She folded the flyer and slid it into her boot. “Got it. Thanks, Whit.”
“No problem.”
For a moment neither of them moved. Then she waved, climbed into the old Ford, and started the engine, an uneven rattle that sounded like it might quit any second. Whit watched her taillights bounce down the drive until they disappeared behind the pines.
He stood there a beat longer, the smell of exhaust hanging in the cold air, and thought about how strange it felt to miss someone he’d met five minutes ago. His phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket.
A message from Lucy, “What the Fuck is this?” followed with a photo of a package of Bali Comfort stretch briefs, black with lace sides.
“Shit,” Whit said.