Alexander Monroe lives in Grasspatch, a town so small, the founders couldn’t even be bothered thinking up a proper name for it. He works at the newsagency/post office, where his duties include ordering newspapers and magazines, printing Lotto tickets, and delivering the mail.
One morning he has to deliver a parcel to the mysterious Mr Christian O’Neill, who lives in an oddly-shaped mansion on the outskirts of town. Not much is known about Mr O’Neill, although there is certainly an abundance of rumours -- a faded rock star, a media-shy actor. Alexander can’t wait to find out the answers for himself.
Rather than being odd, Christian turns out to be the most interesting person Alexander has ever met. In fact, he asks to come back, and with each consecutive visit, he learns more and more about Christian, and about the power of the mind and the wonders visualisation can bring.
But even as Alexander learns how to get what he thinks he wants, he loses Christian. Is it too late to find him again? And if he does, will what they had still be there?
He dropped the parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, into the tray. It sat precariously, but there was nowhere else for it to go.
On some days Alexander set off wondering how he was going to conjure up the expected smile for any of the townspeople he might encounter. Day after day he took the same route, gave the same mundane greetings to the same people he saw every day. On those dark days he would vary his route, do it backwards or go up a street he normally went down, yet ultimately these small changes failed to inject any enthusiasm into him.
Today was not one of those days. Today he was going to interact with Mr Christian O’Neill. He’d be able to get right up close, close enough for the man to sign the post office register. He might even get a look inside the house, a feat no one else in town had ever managed to accomplish. His heart felt as though it was radiating sunlight from inside his chest and nothing, not Mr Cherry’s mongrel dog, which never failed to try and attack him through the gaps in Mr Cherry’s picket fence, nor Mrs Taylor’s little brats, who were fond of booby trapping the mail box so that either something slimy jumped out at him or something slimy ended up on his fingers, could rattle him.
There was also Lester Moore, who was in his sixties and who tried, as often as possible, to be at the mailbox when Alexander arrived with his mail. Happy were the days when Alexander could sail past and shout, “Nothing today, Mr Moore.” Yet he could see, from across the street, that Mr Moore, wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt with “I love Australia” emblazoned across the front, was waiting for him with a smile that could have put the Cheshire Cat out of work.
With a deep inhalation he rode across the street, Mr Moore’s letters and bills in his hand, ready to deliver and run.
“You’re looking as handsome as ever,” said Mr Moore.
“Thank you, sir,” Alexander replied.
“Are you thirsty? Would you like to come in for a drink?”
It was just Alexander’s luck to have the only man interested in him be someone old enough to be his grandfather. Some might have suggested he should thank his lucky stars that there was even another gay man in a town the size of Grasspatch, but he didn’t. Those stars weren’t lucky at all. They were teasing, frustrating and perhaps even mocking stars. And he certainly wasn’t going to thank them.
“I’m sorry, Mr Moore. Got a job to do.” He handed Mr Moore his mail. “Mr Wiggins wants me back as soon as possible.”
The smile on Mr Moore’s face didn’t even waiver. “He’s a lucky man, working with you all day. Perhaps you might like to ...”
Alexander rode away. “Good bye, Mr Moore.”
Alexander had always been one to save the best for last. Finally it was time to deliver Mr O’Neill’s package, which was sitting securely in the tray now all the mail had been delivered. He could feel his heart rate increase and he knew it wasn’t from the exertion of riding his bicycle. It was adrenalin-fuelled.
He rode up to the wrought iron gate and was surprised to find it unlocked. There was no real need to lock it, of course. The only crime ever committed in Grasspatch was the occasional drunk and disorderly. He dismounted and leant his bike against one of the sandstone pillars. He pushed the gate open and, in his eagerness to be at the door, he almost forgot to take the parcel and his clipboard with him.
He walked up the paved path and climbed the single step to the front door. As he raised his hand to knock he realised he was trembling a little and he didn’t know why. He wanted more than anything to get a good look at Christian O’Neill and to see what the inside of his home was like, if only to have a tale to tell when he returned to town. Yet there was something else at work, an anticipation of some kind.
He took a deep breath and knocked. The door opened almost immediately and he heard himself gasp.
