Cracked Part III: Bryan's Story

He turned off the Jeep's ignition and leaned back in the driver's seat. Another job lost, another stinging rejection still raw and jangling around his brain.
"I can't fucking believe this."

Only an hour before he'd been sitting in Jake's office, legs crossed, listening to the accusation.
"You've been late at least fifteen times since you've started. On several of those occasions, you were tardy by at least forty-five minutes. You've only been with us a few months."

Bryan had inadvertently shrugged and rolled his eyes. He knew he had before he could stop himself. Something about those lunch time beers made it easier for him to do this without really thinking.

"Did you just roll your eyes?" Jake had asked.
"I didn't mean to," he responded.

Jake shifted in his beat up, second class, fake leather chair and then looked Bryan right in the eye.
"Listen pal, we know about the drinking."

Bryan had been mid-thought - something like "Jake the Fake with a leather snake" - when his boss' words hit home.

"Oh," was all he could muster, gazing down.

"It's really this simple, Bryan. You're fired. Get your stuff out of your locker, check in with HR, and leave. We can't have stuff like last Friday happen here."

Bryan stood, turned to go, and then in a flood of panic, turned back to Jake:
"Listen, man. I really need this job. I'm sorry about the other day and I'm sorry about the tardies and the eye rolling and that issue with Belinda that you won't talk to me about. I have to have a job. I have kids. I have to make a living. I have to do this. Please reconsider."

Jake stared back, eyes widening. It had been one thing to show up drunk on the job last Friday and run the company car into the warehouse docking bay at a pleasant 35 mph. It was something else entirely to reference Bryan's affair with Jake's wife.

Bryan and Belinda met at the company Christmas party. Having shown up three vodka tonics in, Bryan moved around the room chatting up the pretty executive's wives and girlfriends having told his date at the last minute he had to cancel. For some odd reason, one he'd never quite understand, he felt he needed to fly solo. He casually chatted with Jake and the seniors, before heading to the bar for whiskey.

Belinda, all 5'6 of her, wrapped scantily in gold sequins and with her dark chestnut hair falling down her back, was held up by the bar stool. She sat quietly observing Bryan as he walked up, running her manicured nail around the rim of her wine glass.
"Hello. You must be the new guy," she'd said.
That's what she'd called him all night long, "new guy." Bryan remembered that much.

Two hours later, they were peeling each other apart in the concierge closet downstairs, Belinda breathing in his ear to "Come on" and "Just do it hard before the party is over." He'd taken her number that night, driving home inebriated and collapsed into sleep.

For the next two weeks, they hopscotched between bar bathrooms, his car, her car, her health club, an elevator at the Sheridan Center, and his home office. It was when Jake caught them in the couple's bed that things really went south.

Now he was here, staring at the bewildered Jake.

"Get out of here," he snarled. "Get help. Get a program. Get therapy. Get your own God Damn woman. Get out."

It's really that simple, he thought. You screw the boss' wife, you get fired. You drink too much, you get fired. You screw up in general, you get fired.

"Fired," he murmured aloud, "Like, fired from your own fucking marriage fired."

He climbed out of the Jeep and walked toward Sticky's bar on Fourth. Sticky's had become his favorite hang out spot of late. It was quiet, dark, and relatively attractive people came in to watch the game or play pool. Nothing special. Just like him.

He plopped down at a corner table, ordered a beer, and took a look at his phone. He could text or call anyone right now, he thought. He thought about calling his soon-to-be ex-wife, who had moved on a year ago. It would really creep her out if he called about something other than the boys now. He thought about calling his boys, who were staying with their grandparents for the week. He thought about calling Stephanie, a marketing intern he'd met at a club two nights ago whom he'd been inappropriately texting for the last 24 hours in hopes she'd invite him over to her place. He thought about calling his old friends, the ones who didn't know enough about his fucked up life to still talk to him. He set the phone down.

He decided he'd call in a few hours. It was 11:30 AM and there was a really cute waitress on today.

Cracked: The Length of a Year, Part II

The weather turned bitter cold and no heat setting in the car seemed to help at the moment. She flipped the dial and turned up the radio to compensate for all of the hot air. It seemed to be the right thing to do, in general - turn up the music, push the heat.

As the music blared, she drove south, trying not to think too much on the latest developments. She talked to herself. She made a comment to God. She swore once. Maybe twice. She pounded once on the steering wheel and gave another motorist a dirty look.

Her face twisted into a half-sneer, half-frown and a sob caught in the back of her throat the minute a ballad came on.

"I'm losing it," she muttered, wiping her face.
She told herself that in the grand scheme of things, the work was not a big deal. In the end, this wasn't going to be how people remembered her.
"Seriously, she muttered, get over yourself."

Over the past year, she'd had several conversations with herself in a vain attempt to satisfy her urge to rectify her current discomfort. She knew she'd placed too much of her own identity into something completely unworthy, and yet, it's so easy to do that nowadays.

As she drove, she could only remember one thing that ever made things seem a bit more palatable, more acceptable.
It was the only path to sanity in a life that was looking a lot less organized than when she first entered it.

She continued driving, continued battling her own mind. She told her heart to wait. It'd get its say.

She had things to do - places to go - people to see - obligations to meet.



The night came. It passed.

In the morning, things were different.
She cracked open the book again.

Cracked: The Length of a Year

"You know, a year's really a long time," her friend said.

"Compared to what?" she replied.

"You know, compared to everything! What's the hold up? I mean, you either are or you aren't going to do this. It's been a YEAR."

She sighed, took a drink of her iced tea, and rolled her eyes around for a moment.

"Well?" her friend continued.

"I don't know," she answered. "I've learned something in the length of a year and that's that nothing is ever timely. I've resorted to relying on Fate, the Universe, and my own sense of self-worth."

"You're crazy. What about your eggs?"

"Eggs. Yes. I eat more eggs now." she answered.

While Most Weren't Watching...

She returned to her post having slept for a quite a long time.

Thorn

Sometimes, all of the compliments in the world cannot ease the pain of one, unintentional criticism.

Such is loneliness.

What Is Left

Inside me
Is a pocket
Of glass
Refusing to break.

No one can touch
Between color
And breath
Residing there.

It is secret –

Something like blossom fire
Or dewy expiration.

It holds me together –

This private sanctuary.

It is not solitude I fear,
But loss of what is still precious –
The crimson flutter within
That keeps me whole.

The Only Part of You that I Remember

"It was a long time ago," she said mildly, staring out the window, "It wasn't like I cheated or anything."

"No, but you were a wreck back then," her friend replied. "You had to go and pick the absolute worst fuck-up in history after that," she added, taking a defiant swig of her vanilla latte.

She looked up at the ceiling and smirked. Her friend noticed, adding, "So whatever happened after he left? You never did say."

It had been only a few years ago -
That day when she realized she was taken in and taken down,
for a fool.
Again.
In a passionate moment (the first in several years),
She grabbed the remaining clothing from her hamper, her dryer, her floor.
In the heap, a pink collared shirt - his favorite.
In her running shorts and sneakers, she went outside in the rain.
The air was moist and crisp, her skin prickled against the assault.
It took only a few seconds to toss it all,
Up and over,
Ashes to ashes, as they say.
She listened for them to thud against the floor of the Dumpster,
Imagining his prized clothing amidst soiled diapers, last night's meatloaf, a broken crack pipe.
Apartments were anything, if not civilized back then.
Then turning, she ran.
Never looking back.

A week later, she mailed everything else - half-eaten cereal, a gas station receipt, an old toothbrush.
Her only regret -
Not sending C.O.D.
The rest, was history.

"Nothing," she responded, grinning.
Some small victories remain silent.