He turns to the hall.
“Hey, Jay,” I say. He spins around, and I look right at him forthe first time since the other day. He appears shocked by it. “A drink would benice. After work.”
What the fuck am I doing?
5
Jay
I can’t believe he took me up on my offer.
I’m glad he did, but also scared as fuck. He’s been so quiet thepast few days. I figured he’d never look me in the eyes again.
I tried to forget about the incident and ignore him the way hewas ignoring me, but I couldn’t. Something about seeing a full grown man fallapart like that…knowing he was in pain, struggling, made me feel for the guy.First thing I did after I got home the day it happened was google the crap outof post-traumatic stress disorder. I knew about it in the way most peopledo—heard about it, seen it depicted on TV and in movies. I’ve known other guyswho’ve had episodes, but I’ve never seen one that dramatic before. Now that Iknow about his issue, I feel a little protective of him. When I hear the guystalking shit about the boss-man, it puts me more on edge than it usually would.Makes me feel like getting in their faces and defending him. They don’t knowhis life or what he’s been through, but then again, neither do I. I wonder ifI’m defending his weakness or my own. Whatever it is, I just kept findingmyself itching to talk to him. I know what it’s like to feel all alone in theworld. To be afraid of shit. To want to break down and cry sometimes.
Granted, that time in the breakroom is the only time I’ve feltanything close to a connection with Reese, but now that I know it’s there, I’mdrawn to him. Want to know more about him. I feel like we carry his secretabout that day together. Like we’re bonded in some strange way because of it.Maybe I’m wrong and having a drink with him will help me realize that. Maybe Ican get him and what happened out of my head once we talk about it.
I sit in the bar, waiting for him to arrive.
We agreed to meet at this place in East Atlanta. He had tofinish up some shit at work first, so I figured I’d get a few rounds in me inthe meantime. I’m on my third when he walks in, that same stoic expression onhis face—the one he’s always made in the brief time I’ve known him. But sincehis episode in the breakroom, it’s gotten even more intense. Seems like he’skeeping his defenses up even more now.
He approaches, offers a politehey, and sits in the stoolbeside me—keeping his eye on me in his periphery. He angles himself toward thedoor and checks over his shoulder at a couple of guys who sit in a booth in thecorner of the bar.
The bartender swings by and takes his order. After he gets hisBud Lite, he takes a sip and sets it on the bar.
Now I’m left wondering what the fuck we’re going to talk about.This isn’t exactly the way to discuss PTSD, but I figure I’ll let him directthe conversation.
“I really am fine,” he says. Sincere as his words sound, I can’thelp but question them.
“Okay,” I say.
“I was deployed for about twelve months back in 2003 when theyneeded guys for Iraq. I just wasn’t the same when I got back. Six months wentby, and it was really bad. Took me about five more years before I started toget treatment. At first, I didn’t understand what was happening to me, but alot of my buddies were going through the same thing, struggling even worse thanI was. Fortunately, they knew more about it at that time than in previous wars,and I figured I’d get on top of it. Considering how this shit hits people, Iguess you could say I’m one of the lucky ones.” He snickers, as if callinghimselfluckyseems particularly amusing.
He takes a swig of his beer, and I take one of mine.
“I’ve been getting treatment for about eight years now,” hecontinues, “so just get it through your head that I know what I’m doing. Yeah,I should have gotten more rest when the inventory was happening. I knew that.Sometimes I go too hard, but at the end of the day, I got it under control.”
“By ‘got it under control,’ you mean like a shrink and stuff?”
“An arsenal of people to help me out. But I don’t need thisgetting around work, okay? That’s why I wanted to meet you out here because ifI find out you’re spreading this shit around the factory, making my guys worryabout my ability to do my job, that’s gonna piss me off. I gave you a break,and I’m just asking you to show me the same respect. They know I’ve been towar. They know I lost my fucking leg because of it. They know I act a littlescrewy every once in a while. I’d like to keep them from knowing any more thanthat.” The way he says it, in a deep guttural voice, he sounds like he’ll ripoff my head if I start spreading rumors about him.
“I would never do anything like that. Speaking of the guys, though,this…meeting here…isn’t like against policy or anything, right?”
“Do you think I’d be here if it was?” He takes another sipbefore asking, “So what’s your story, kid?”
I’m irritated by him calling me kid. “I can’t be that muchyounger than you.”
“I’m thirty-three,” Reese says.
“Twenty-seven.”
“You’re a kid. Get over it. Story?”
“Don’t have much of a story.”
“Oh, really? The guy who almost attacked one of my guys doesn’thave much of a story?”
“He tripped me.”
