Western Star Castle

A true story
by Mel King

I built a castle out of butter once 
Twenty kilograms of butter 
Wrapped in forty grease-proof wrappers
It took a whole afternoon

I was at work, on the clock
I was pretty mad at my boss that day

I worked long shifts at the REDACTED Hotel
Twelve or thirteen hours without a break
I’d knock off at midnight, then stumble back in at five
To cook Big Breakfasts for busloads of tourists

You hit the wall with a job like that
And the you that you find
On the wall's other side
Is different
Not happy or sad, just in perpetual motion
You just about forget your own name

My boss, REDACTED (lets call him Red)
Well see Red, he liked to party
So he’d make me honorary head chef
(without the pay or qualifications)
He’d go out on the town
And me?
I’d chop and fry and bake and swear 
Like Gordon REDACTED Ramsay

Meals for noisy families
Then bar snacks for noisy drunks
And strange room service orders
Don't ask about those
Trust me

Sometimes I had to cook for Red and his mates
I perfected a new cooking style
Called seething

Then I’d be stuck scrubbing pots
All alone in a prison of chrome
Sometimes until two or three am
Because my REDACTED kitchen hands
Hadn’t shown up again

I’d barely have my head on the pillow
When my bloody phone would ring
I’d hear glasses clinking and people singing
And a voice, soaked and smoked
‘Can you take the breakfast shift?
‘I think I’ve got the flu.’

Liar.

One day, I started at five
After a huge solo shift the night before
Red didn’t show up to relieve me at mid-day, or two, or four

Wouldn’t you know it, a huge delivery came in 
For me to put away on my own
The last two boxes were full of butter 

I didn’t put them away
I unpacked them onto the counter
And I contemplated them for a while
Then I made a decision

I unwrapped them, every one
And I stacked them into a study structure
On the sturdy stainless steel bench
Then I took a paring knife
And like a kid on the beach with a bucket and spade
I began to craft the ultimate scale-model stronghold

It filled the long quiet stretch between lunch and dinner
It beat cleaning and prepping and making desserts
And slicing a thousand onions with the whirring meat slicer 
And crying a thousand oniony tears

My castle had turrets and walkways
I gave it little windows and doors
I carved cannons from mushrooms
And stacked canon ball peas

It was pretty intricate work

Then I fashioned a flag from one of the wrappers
And flew it high from the center tower, on a kebab spike

‘I dub thee Western Star Castle!’

The floor manager admired my handiwork
I could tell he was impressed, but this was all he had to say:
‘You better pack that up.
‘Red called.
‘He’s on his way.’

I shrugged.
‘Whatever’.
I guess I'd snapped.
Like Michael REDACTED Douglas
In that movie where he – you know – snaps.

Red didn’t turn up until 10pm
After the dinner service was done
He coughed out an apology
He was looking pretty rough

I stood in proud yet solemn silence
I let him take in the majesty of Western Star Castle
He was awed. I could tell.

Finally, he uttered two quiet, careful words –
‘Fair enough’.

I sat at the bar then
Drinking my one-free-beer-per-staff-member-per-day
And watched Red dismantle my masterpiece
Putting what he could salvage into tubs

My artistic efforts were never again mentioned – not once
But I think Western Star Castle lived on, in a way
Because Red never acted like such a REDACTED again
After Western Star Castle Day.

Mel King is a late-blooming writer who has decided to go for broke and fake it as an author as the horrors of impending mortality emerge.
Mel writes science fiction, horror and comedy, and is the editor and administrator of Geelong Cereal.
You can check out Mel's website here.
Or visit Mel on facey.