Between These Sheets

by Devon McCormack

  I inspect the inside before I try to start the engine.

  “Looks like you’ve got a dead battery on your hands,” I say as I step out of the driver’s side and approach him.

  “Fuck,” he says, and I can see in his expression and in his rage that he has contempt for the whole universe. Like it has conspired against him like this.

  He doesn’t know shit about how horrible and cruel this world can be.

  Some of the guys start laughing on the other side of the lot. “Motherfuckers,” Jay says as he notices them. He starts their way, but I snatch his arm, gripping onto his thick bicep in the leather jacket he’s wearing.

  I can’t help but immediately imagine pulling him aside in my office and roughing him up a bit. Wiping that frustrated look off his face and replacing it with one of pure joy.

  “Did you already forget what I fucking told you?” I ask, shaking the fantasy from my thoughts. Although it’s not that easy to get rid of.

  “They’re just loving this,” he says, his expression filled with confusion and rage.

  “I don’t need you starting another scene right now, okay? Just be glad I don’t have any other appendages you can share with the world.”

  His rage shifts to worry and guilt in an instant. “Dude, I’m sorry about that. I really didn’t—”

  “I was just trying to make light of it. Don’t get weird on me, okay?”

  He nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “I get that you want to be polite and all, but like I keep telling you, you can just call me Reese.”

  I don’t like hearing the sort of yes sirs that were so common when I was in the service. Even worse is being called by my last name since that’s what people were always shouting at me when we were in the thick of it, scrambling for our lives, wondering if the guns being fired around us would be the ones that finally took us out.

  “Yes, Reese,” he says.

  It’s like training a goddamn robot.

  I close the hood of his car. “Just act cool, and I’ll drive you home.” I start for my car, but then turn back around. He hasn’t moved. He stands there, staring at me, as if he’s surprised by something. “You fucking coming?” I ask him.

  “You’re serious?”

  “What part of that sounded like a joke?”

  “Sorry. I’m just…Never mind.”

  I lead him to my car. We hop in. He notices how I tuck the prosthesis on my right leg under my left leg to drive.

  I’m not thrilled about him seeing me like this, but he already knows, so what the fuck do I have to hide? We head onto the main road. He says he’s staying off Moreland in East Atlanta, which is on the way to my house in Grant Park, so I won’t have an issue dropping him off.

  We have a twenty-minute drive before we get to his place, so I keep my country music turned up—Travis Tritt—hoping I won’t have to worry about making conversation with him.

  “I hear you were in Iraq,” Jay says.

  “Just because you saw my leg doesn’t mean you have to chat with me about it.”

  “I’m sorry. I just…If I’d known…”

  “Wouldn’t have changed how you lost it today.”

  He silences and waits a few minutes before saying, “Look, Tyler’s just been kind of a dick, and that’s why I—”

  “You let me worry about Tyler. It’s none of your business anymore. My only suggestion to you is to not make any more enemies.”

  “Easier said than done. Seems like that’s all I ever make.”

  I’m not surprised. The guy clearly has a chip on his shoulder. “It’ll serve you to remember that.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just saying if you make enemies everywhere you go, it’s probably not because there’s a problem with everywhere you go.”

  “You saying Tyler was right?”

  “Nope. Everyone has a way with dealing with shit like that, but most people don’t resort to flipping the fuck out is all I’m saying.”

  Jay looks like he’s about to start a fight with me over it, so I say, “That was some friendly advice from a boss to his employee, so I suggest you keep your lips sealed and act appreciative of it.”

  He’s quiet again, though I suspect he’s less than appreciative of my suggestion. I don’t care. From what I can tell, he’s trouble. And that’s not what we need at the factory. If he doesn’t straighten up, he’s getting the fucking boot.

  I won’t stand for his fucking attitude. Although, his attitude, his uneasiness…those are the things that remind me of Caleb. Ever since he interviewed, he reminded me of my bunkmate—my best friend in the whole goddamn world. And despite how careful I’m trying to be, I know that’s why I’m really helping him.

  3

  Jay

  I don’t know what Reese said to Tyler, but it’s been a week since the incident, and Tyler hasn’t teased me or been an asshole. But as friendly as Reese was the other day, he hasn’t gone out of his way to be any nicer to me. Greets me like he would any of the other guys—with a nod and not so much as a friendly smirk. I can see why everyone falls into line under this guy. He’s intimidating as hell. When I was in the car with him and he was basically saying I brought this kind of shit on myself, I wanted to argue with him, but I didn’t want to stir his rage again. I saw what that looked like, and it freaked me the hell out. I’m one to get angry. I’ll explode during a situation like the one with Tyler. What happened to Reese is so far beyond that. It wasn’t just like he lost his mind. It was like he knew he had and wasn’t sure he could control himself.

  I sit by myself at a table in the break room, taking fifteen minutes to grab a drink from the vending machine. With my earbuds in, I listen to an old Louis C. K. special. I have a bunch of comedy specials downloaded on my phone that I like to listen to—Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Joan Rivers, Rita Rudner.

  Reese walks in, looking particularly agitated as he fidgets about. He’s rattled, as though something’s just happened to him.

  He’s prepping for a major inventory audit next week. He’s been sticking around after hours for the past few days pulling all-nighters, and it’s weighing him down. His beard appears a little rougher than usual—more uneven, like he needs a trim.

  He heads to the vending machine and pops a dollar in before pressing a button. There’s a thud as a snack hits the bottom of the machine.

  He doesn’t look at me as he kneels down and retrieves a Snickers bar. Not the healthiest of choices, but considering I’m planning to heat a package of Bowl of Noodles in the microwave for lunch, who am I to judge?

  Some guys pass outside the doorway. The last guy has a cart piled with long sheets of metal. They’re the repairmen who came in to fix one of the annealing machines that broke down on the other side of the factory. I’m guessing they’re pulling the sheets from storage to make repairs—another task that’s been agitating Reese since corporate’s having a fit about how we’re behind on our orders.

  The repairman pushing the cart keys something in on his phone, not paying much attention. One of the sheets looks like it’s about to slide free. I consider warning the guy, but I don’t want to call him out in front of the boss. No need to get him into any trouble over something stupid. Worst case scenario is he loses it and has to put it back on.

  My prediction comes true after he passes the doorway, and a loud clang echoes through the hall—the metal against the concrete floor sounding like a fucking gun going off. It shocks me, but then Reese slips behind the vending machine, disappearing out of sight.

  I can’t help but chuckle. Oh, wow. What a fucking scaredy-cat. My laugh is soft, and I wait for him to step out and admit he was a fucking pansy about something pretty stupid.

  But he doesn’t come out.

  What the fuck is he doing?

  I rise from my chair and approach him, pulling my earbuds out and sliding them into my pocket.

  He’s huddled in a fetal position, shaking. Trembling.

  It only takes me a moment before th
e obvious realization hits me. This is about a lot more than some dumb fucking noise.

  Post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ve seen it in movies and shit. Even known a few guys who’ve had these kinds of reactions to loud sounds after they served in the army. I’ve seen guys agitated, but not like this.

  A voice comes from outside: “Holy shit!”

  It’s Tyler. I hear a few guys chuckle in the hallway. Judging by the way their voices amplify, they’re on their way to the break room. Makes sense since they’re in the first round of guys to take lunch.

  I’m hardly thinking my actions through as I close the door and turn the lock.

  “Hey, what the fuck?” Tyler says as he rattles the door handle from the other side. Fucking douchebag.

  I turn to Reese, who’s still shaking. Not moving.

  A loud knock comes from the other side, which I know sure as fuck can’t be helping Reese.

  “You can’t come in here,” I say.

  “What the fuck do you mean?”

  I scan my stupid brain for any excuse that might remotely make sense. “Reese told me not to let anyone in the room. I was a dumbass and broke some bottles in here when I was coming to grab a drink, okay? He doesn’t want anyone to come in until he comes back with some shit to clean it up with.”

  “You’re just accident-prone as shit, aren’t you?” Tyler asks, amusement in his tone.

  Normally, I would be upset that he’s referring to when he was a dick and tripped me, but right now, my mind is only on the fact that he needs to go the fuck away so Reese won’t have to deal with another embarrassing situation. Maybe this’ll make up for that dumb-shit move I pulled last week.

  Tyler and his buds groan and their voices trail off as they move farther and farther from the door.

  I turn back to Reese. His head shifts slightly back and forth.

  I approach him and kneel so I’m at his level. I’m cautious. I don’t want him to snap, but he needs someone here for him. And I want him to know he can trust me with this. “Reese,” I say.

  “Fucking…leave,” he says through gritted teeth, his gaze straight ahead of him. He looks like he’s concentrating very hard on something. Struggling to concentrate, even.

  It’s a harsh reaction considering I just saved his ass from being seen by those assholes, but I get why he wants me out of here.

  “I’m not leaving you like this.”

  He moves his lips like he’s trying to say something, but nothing comes out.

  “Dude, I’m staying here until this passes,” I add. “If I leave, any of the other guys can come in here. Is that what you want?”

  He closes his eyes, muttering to himself.

  I feel like crap. Wish there was something I could do to help him. Not just because he’s tortured by whatever the fuck memory he’s experiencing from Iraq, but because I know what it’s like to feel embarrassed—to be ashamed and want everyone in the world to leave me the fuck alone.

  I try to think of something to say, but everything that comes to mind seems trite. Like it’ll just annoy him more than anything else. The last thing he needs right now is a series of clichés to pull him out of his very real pain.

  Tears rush from his eyes, down his cheeks. I turn away.

  “I’m just gonna come over here and not look at you, okay? I’ll just keep guard, and you can do whatever you need to do.” I head to the table, facing the wall.

  He breathes intensely. Like it’s nearly impossible for him to get air in.

  “Do I need to call an ambulance?” I ask.

  I wait. If he can’t respond, maybe that’s what I need to do. I reach into my pocket and retrieve my phone.

  “No,” he says in a deep, guttural voice that keeps me from doubting his sincerity. Judging by his tone, if I call anyone, the moment he returns to his usual self, he’ll kick my fucking ass, and I’ll be out on the streets without the sort of consideration he gave me the other day.

  I’ll stop talking. Anything else is going to annoy him, I figure. I just hope no one else swings by and disturbs him.

  The sounds he makes intensify from heavy breathing to what sounds like weeping and then whimpering. I shouldn’t be here for this. Shouldn’t be witnessing it. He deserves a moment to recover on his own.

  Not five minutes pass before the sounds settle, and I hear him moving around. I spin back around. He climbs to his feet and rests against the vending machine, tucking his face close to it.

  “You can get out now,” he says, his voice deep as ever. Severe.

  He doesn’t sound appreciative. He sounds pissed. Like there was a way to handle this and I fucked it up royally.

  “I was just trying to help,” I say quickly, but he points to the door.

  I hurry out. Better this way. I don’t want to see him like this, and at least now I know he’s fine. I feel like crap knowing that he can never look at me the same way again. First I exposed his leg. Now this. Reese obviously isn’t the kind of guy who likes people to see him weak. Or in pain.

  And having a fucking PTSD episode right in front of me sure covers that.

  I head back to work, and some of the guys start giving me shit about how long I was gone, but I say that Reese had me cleaning up my mess.

  I don’t give a shit about saving my own ass, but I’m glad I could save Reese’s.

  4

  Reese

  I can’t believe he saw me like that.

  For the past two years, I’ve done so well. I was nervous as fuck about even taking this supervisor position because when I first started working here, the noises freaked me the fuck out, and a factory is such a goddamn noisy place. But I didn’t have any work experience outside the military training. This and construction were really the only options I had available to me—my only shots at creating a life for myself. Thanks to the meds and my work with Laura, I’ve gotten good at getting by day to day. The noises still freak me out, but few have transported me like the one that came from the hall today, one that evoked memories of me alongside my crew, dressed in full combat gear, as we raced through the smoldering heat. The sounds of gunshots fired all around us as we watched a few guys collapse onto the ground and eat the dirt-covered earth, their bodies going limp.

  I’m better at handling everyday tasks now, but that episode reminds me of what I already know—I’m always a moment away from being back where I started, struggling to control the raging thoughts that are far beyond my control, falling prey to the sensations that overtake my body and paralyze me.

  I already know why this one affected me so much. I haven’t had much sleep the past few days. I knew I needed more rest, but it’s not easy for a guy who never wants to sleep—a guy who needs Ambien and Nyquil so his mind will shut down. I don’t have the nightmares like I used to, but my lingering fear of them makes it easy for me to stay up. Once again, I’m reminded of why I need sleep. Getting on edge like I’ve been for this inventory audit puts me at a greater risk of an episode.

  I think Jay is partially responsible for them, too. From his first interview, he reminded me of Caleb. How closed-off he was. How he couldn’t look me in the eyes. A guy who doesn’t trust anyone. The sort of guy I’d have to earn trust from. The memory he awakened is one of the reasons that even when the guy at his last job told me not to hire him, I went against my better judgment and gave him a shot. Because even though Caleb had a short temper, he was a hard worker. And a great man. I want to believe the same thing is true of Jay. That I’m not just desperately trying to keep Caleb’s memory alive.

  But part of the similarity triggers those things that I work to bury within me every day, and it’s even worse now that he knows about my issues. The other guys have seen me act weird, but I’ve always been able to sneak away before losing it. Even with loud noises, I’ve been cognizant enough to get the fuck away from everyone to have my breakdowns—panic attacks, mainly. And the other guys are usually so unaware of what’s going on or where I’m at that I don’t have to worry about them b
othering me in a moment of weakness.

  I head out of the freight elevator and walk into the main part of the warehouse, where I see Jay securing some shipments with plastic wrap and tape. I stand tall even though I want to curl back up like I did earlier. Because seeing him takes me back to that moment in the breakroom.

  As he spots me, he stops what he’s doing and runs his hand through his dark hair. He looks worried about me, which just pisses me off even more. I don’t need his pity. I’m a fucking grown man. I’ve been to fucking war, which is more than this whiny-ass, entitled kid can say. I’ve been getting help for eight years, so I sure as fuck know I can control it. No, not control it. Manage it.

  Sympathetic as he acted, as he looks, I imagine him getting a kick out of letting the other guys know he was there for me when I burst into tears like a wuss. Even though everything about his expression suggests he wouldn’t do that, I don’t trust him. I try to remind myself that this paranoia I have about him exposing me is just part of the feelings that overtook me earlier. But it doesn’t make me feel any better or any more trusting of him.

  My rage toward him mixes with my awareness of how fucking hot he is, and I imagine taking all this frustration out on him in the sack. Taking his body and making him beg for me to come inside him. Dominating him so that he knows I’m not just the weak thing he saw me as earlier.

  He returns his attention to his work, wrapping up the pallet of crated bottles.

  I approach William, who sits on the forklift, riffling through a few sheets on his clipboard. I don’t need to talk to him, but I want Jay to see I’m perfectly capable of handling my job. I can do this. Although I wonder if I’m proving it to him or to myself. I chat with William about some inventory issues I’m trying to sort out. Some misplaced equipment and a couple of shipments we’re rescheduling because of the damaged annealing machine.

  I feel Jay’s gaze on me, and I’m sure he notices how I can’t keep my clipboard from shaking. He must know it’s about my episode and not just from me being tired as fuck, which I am too.