Beef

It starts, as all nightmares do, somewhere offensively mundane. The depot. Fluorescent lights flicker out of habit, not enthusiasm. The air smells faintly of discarded envelopes and dwindling ambition, like the place has already given up on itself. Everything is exactly as it shouldn’t be — familiar, but wrong in a way that sits just beneath the surface, waiting to be noticed. Because at the front… Sits Rob. Not stands. Sits. In a full-blown recliner. Leather. Reclined to an angle that suggests control has been outsourced to vibes and strong lazy-bastard energy. Footrest up. Tilted back like a man who has conquered not just the depot, but the very concept of effort itself. One hand cradles a mug of Yorkshire Tea. The other hovers over a packet of Hobnobs with the casual entitlement of someone who believes biscuits are a managerial right. Yorkshire Rob. From the Dales. A man who once asked me if Spain was “near Scotland-ish.” Now in charge. “Listen up, you lot,” he announces, not moving an inch. “There’s gonna be big changes. A proper shake-up.” He dunks a biscuit, holds it too long, and watches it collapse into the tea. There’s a long, reflective pause and then: “Can’t save` em all.” “First things first,” he says, holding up a finger. “No more letters.” He points vaguely across the room. We all follow his finger to a massive skip, overflowing with envelopes spilling out like shed skin. “Straight in t’skip.” “Right…” someone says. “But—” “We’re all ’bout parcels now.” Weren’t we always? Before we can question it, a man appears — out of nowhere — holding a steaming mug on a silver tray. “Your Yorkshire Tea, sir.” Rob takes a sip, winces dramatically. “Bit weak, that. You’ll want to apologise.” The ‘brew specialist’ does so immediately, sincerely, as if apologies are part of the uniform, unspoken but mandatory. Right. This is happening now. “Morale check,” Rob says, suddenly. “Everyone say something nice about Yorkshire.” Silence. “I’ll start. Best place in t’world.” A pause. “… It’s very… north?” someone offers. Rob narrows his eyes. “You’re on thin ice.” Today I’m paired with Zuzanna. And immediately, I know something is wrong. I’m getting strong whiffs of hatred. No… sniff... something deeper than that. Something simmering. Something that’s been slow-cooked for hours. Beef. Chargrilled. Actively sizzling in resentment. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even accidentally acknowledge me. She communicates entirely through sharp movements — snatching parcels, shoulder-checking me out of the way, sighing like I’ve personally reduced her oxygen supply. Team work makes the dream work, right? Or, in this case, the nightmare tolerable. I don’t know what I’ve done. But my brain gets straight to work. What did I do? Did I interrupt her last week? Briefly. Lightly. Interruptions have consequences. People have been socially exiled for less. Did I not laugh at something? Was it a laugh deficit situation? A polite “ha” where a full-bodied laugh was expected? That’s how it starts. That’s how it ends. Did I… sigh? Oh God. A sigh. That’s how beef starts. By the time we reach the van, I’ve constructed multiple offences, one of which may require a formal apology and baked goods. She loads parcels in silence. I try a smile. Nothing. I try, “Busy one today?” She takes the parcel from my hands. Firm, clean, cutting. That wasn’t a grab — that was a statement. We set off in the van. At first, it’s just parcels — stacked neatly, orderly, behaving exactly as parcels should. Then — A bark. “… Zuzanna?” Nothing. Another bark. I turn. There’s a dog in the back. Then two. Then… more. “Okay,” I say carefully. “We appear to have… dogs.” She doesn’t react. Why would she acknowledge the dogs when she hasn’t acknowledged me all morning? We pull up at our first stop. She opens the door. And they launch. A flood of fur. Big dogs, small dogs, one suspiciously elegant greyhound, something that might be a Pomeranian but could equally be a furious pom-pom on legs. They scatter into the road like they’ve been planning this all along. “Oh for—” I’m already running. “Get them!” I shout. She’s already ahead of me, silent as ever, scooping up a wriggling spaniel under one arm like this is just your average Tuesday. A pug commits to the middle of the road and simply stays there, like it’s decided that’s where it lives now. The greyhound sprints past me at a speed that feels personal. I’m not saying it is personal. I’m just saying it feels targeted. “COME BACK!” I shout, to all of them, to none of them, to my own sanity. Zuzanna moves like this is routine. Scoops, grabs, redirects. All in stony silence. “Are we… is this… is this part of the job now?” I pant. No answer. Not even a nod. Not even a blink. Just silence and efficiency. Like I’m being tested and she’s already decided I’ve failed. We get them back in. Door shuts. We breathe. We drive. We stop. Door opens. And again— WHO. LET. THE DOGS. OUT. By the third stop, I’m sweating. By the fifth, I’m unraveling. By the seventh, I’m certain this is about me. Of course it is. This is a targeted exercise. The dogs are symbolic. Zuzanna is monitoring. Rob is observing from his chair, making notes between biscuit dunks. Tutting and shaking his head disapprovingly. At one point, I’m holding two pugs and negotiating with a terrier. “Please,” I say quietly. “Work with me here.” It stares at me. Unmoved. There’s beef there as well. I can feel it. Behind me, Zuzanna exhales. Ah. Another mark against me. Does she think I’m bad with dogs? Oh God. Is this a competence thing? Am I failing… dogs? Halfway down the hill, we see Danny. Or what’s left of him. He’s sprinting, a giant blue pouch on his head, parcels hanging off him like some obscure Royal Mail Christmas tree. “Danny! You alright?!” “No time!” he shouts, not breaking his stride. “System’s working!” Working? Surely bloody not. And then he’s gone. Just… gone. Back at the van, I try again with zuzanna. I reach for a parcel she’s clearly struggling with. That’s when she snaps. “Get your damn hands off!” Ah. Human language. Progress. “What’s your beef?” I ask. “Because there is clearly beef. I’ve done something.” “Beef?” she says, baffled. “Yes—beef. It’s been radiating off you all day—” “There is no beef.” A pause. Another dog escapes. I don’t move. I wait. She exhales. “I just don’t like change.” Oh. That’s it? “All of this—” I gesture wildly to the dogs currently reorganising our entire day— “and it’s not… me?” She frowns. “Why would it be you?” And just like that — the beef evaporates. Or worse… it was never there. We get back to the depot. The van is quiet. The dogs sit calmly in the back. Watching. Waiting. I open the door slightly. They don’t move. I close it again. Inside, something smells different. Not disregarded envelopes. Not dwindling ambition. Smoke. Rich. Meaty. Unmistakable. I step further inside. And there he is. Rob. Still in charge. Now stood over a full-blown barbecue in the middle of the depot. Tongs in hand. Apron on. “Can you smell what the boss is cooking” stretched heroically across his round stomach. A slab of beef hisses on the grill. He turns it with unnecessary confidence and glances up. “How was it, pet?” “Chaotic,” I reply. “Aye,” he nods. “Always is at first.” He presses the tongs into the meat. It sizzles louder, like it's trying to prove something. Then he lifts the beef, inspects it, nods. “Go on,” he says, jerking the tongs towards me. “Have some.” I look at the grill. Then at him. Then, briefly, at the van. Dogs still inside. Calm, not going anywhere. I shake my head. “No thanks,” I say. “I’ve had enough beef for one day.”