A Mellow, Mild, Middle of the Road Man

They could drop kick his dead dog, shower his sunflowers with soot, replace his conked out small car with a pile of broken glass and mistakenly disconnect his utilities, and Mr Milton Mizco would remain a calm cool island of neutral. Simply using his dense egg shell coloured fingers to push up his deep gold stemmed glasses against calm green eyes and smiles weak under prematurely thinning greying hair, average build and fashion sensibility, nothing shakes him or his cool temperament. Why this disposition remains underutilised, and not seemingly contagious, perplexes those around him. Nothing has once bothered him. His difficult birth complicated by tight umbilical cord strangulation caused not one cry to push through his lips. The school yard bullies had a hard time raising a rise from him despite numerous Chinese burns, cistern head pressed flushes, face smashed into poles or technically brilliant taunts. University flew by as he approached problems slow and soft, no sweat raised. And now his office job, filing reports of educational complaint incidents under the letter ‘F’ fills him with many emotions minus frustration, anger, passion or love. Rational and logic are his keywords. Mr Milton Mizco…

Miss Mindy Macon causes at least thirty three incidents of dangerously high blood pressure a day, close to twenty six auto accidents a day, and most likely one thought of unrequited love suicide, both past and present. Hair dripped from the purest black squid ink, dirty innocent eyes, a chest best described as uncompressed and a sweat dressed body that blinds the smiling sun, The worst pickup line she has ever heard is unfortunately the best one ninety percent of other girls will ever hear. Miss Mindy Macon never uses makeup as she hates to waste money. Miss Mindy Macon…

Parts the dead sea of drab office dwindlers and drones, for her first day here. Holding the button for the first time ever, Milton feels a small bead of sweat swell on his forehead.

‘Thanking you, kind sir.’

‘Ha ha ha ha n-no, thanking yo-you Miss…’

‘Which floor are you on?’

‘Um-

‘Let me guess, the forty four?’

Milton cannot remember his name. His rank. His file. What he had for breakfast. Or if he is even human anymore. Although he has only ever seen one, what may have been described as, stag movie, funky seventies pornographic wah wah guitar from it opens up into his brain.

‘Um-‘

‘Let’s go to the fortieth and sort it out there? Haha. I’m Mindy. Mindy Macon.’ She holds out her shaped from pure top shelf DNA digits.

‘Um- Yes.’ Extending his worn down right hand, Milton takes Miss Mindy’s lavender soapy right hand.

‘Heheheh. I’m um-yeah.’

‘Do you know where the educational reports section is?’

‘Oh, yes, us, oh, yes, um you working there?’

‘No I’m delivering coffee there.’

‘Oh, well, coffee is always nice. So much better than tea, and healthier for the liver.’

‘Joking! I’m the new reports section person for the letter ‘G’. You know gravel rashes, goal post vandalism, gonorrhea and things like that.’

‘Fascinating! That’s really fascinating. Because I’m the, um, person who, does the errr, section reports for ‘F’. Not as exciting as ‘G’ though. I mainly deal with flag stealing, fist fights both student and teacher, and occasionally, um, well, occasionally um, well…

‘Yes?’

‘Occasionally, um well, um, fornication.’

‘Ouw, my favourite, haha!’

Dry writhing with some sort of biological cotton in his mouth Milton feels shallow and woozy. Wet eyed and fire faced, he places his cold sweat soaked virginal palms against the back of the shiny lift for support.

‘Are you okay? We’re almost to the forty fourth floor. We’ll get some wat-‘

Returning from their short sharp cigarette break smiling the doctors, mortician and policemen gather in the fluoro blue hall of death to discuss what to write on the autopsy paperwork. It swings back and forwards between the official line and straight out lies.

‘It seems too me that he just could not take it.’

‘But that’s impossible. He was only thirty five years old, had the heart of a twenty year old.’

‘Workmates said he never got angry.’

‘They said he never got emotional at all.’

‘He married?’

‘Nope.’

‘You interviewed the girl he was talking to yet?’

‘Nah, we’re gonna flip a coin to see who gets her.’

‘Fair enough.’

Within seconds of departure the ectoplasmic essence of Mr Milton Mizco began haunting the halls of the forty fourth floor in attempt to see more of Miss Mindy Macon. Immediately after the incident occurred, she removed her high heels and bolted from the building, not ever glancing back. So now poor Milton Mizco just floats, not scaring nor helping the busy buzzy fleshy people around. Straight faced remembering the lesson he once learnt, unfortunately when used correctly, the heart always hurts.

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