Frayed

  Frayed

  Layne Deemer

  Copyright © 2019 by Layne Deemer (laynedeemer.com)

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by Traci Finlay (tracifinlay.com)

  Proofread by Marla Selkow Esposito (proofingstyle.com)

  Cover design by Murphy Rae (murphyrae.net)

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Dad

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  A bin of tube socks waits for me beside my cubicle. They’ve been casually tossed into the sorting tub, and when I peer inside, I can see green and yellow stripes among the sea of white. The visual thrills me. Stripes mean more work which equates to less of a chance for me to interact with another human. And that’s always my end game.

  The sign on my cube is crooked. I adjust it so that the point on the Q lines up with the ink spot on the gray textured fabric. The blackened blot has been there since I started working here, and I often find myself conducting my own little Rorschach test whenever it catches my eye. Today it resembles a jackknifed tractor trailer. Last week it was a dismembered butterfly.

  Once my tag is straight, I step back to examine the words that have been carefully typed in Times New Roman Bold.

  Quality Control Inspector Number 5

  Even after all this time, the coincidence of my inspector number still catches me by surprise.

  “Give me five, Owen.” Her soft melodic voice contradicts with words meant to chastise me. I wasn’t paying attention again, and I sit up straight as I heed her warning. She caught me. She always does.

  Giving my head a quick shake, I lean down and grasp the plastic edge of my bin. My fingertips catch on the lip as I hoist the large black tub into my cube. I place it on the dust-colored herringbone carpet and plop into my seat. The worn split leather chair creaks a hello and groans as I roll up to the desk.

  Before I begin each job, there’s paperwork. There’s also paperwork at the end of each job. And sometimes, there’s paperwork in the middle. I’m convinced West Apparel is to blame for at least a fifth of the downed trees in any given year. The amount of paper that moves across my desk is obscene, but we have yet to move with the times and adopt a computerized system, so I don’t see things changing anytime soon.

  It’s a minor detail, but those are the most important. I’ve been working at West Apparel for two and a half years, and the best parts of my day are found in the details. My job here is simple. I check the stitching quality on socks, and when I finish, I affix a little round sticker on each one declaring Inspected by 5. Those stickers are supposed to be removed before the socks are shipped to retail stores, and most of the time, they are. But sometimes a few remain.

  I often think about those forgotten stickers. The clothing I inspect is sent to stores all over the country, and socks like the ones in front of me may end up in a department store. Maybe a teenage boy is begrudgingly shopping with his mom and she decides he needs more socks. After all, the ones he’s wearing are full of holes and can no longer be considered white. They look through the racks and choose a pack that’s hanging near the back. Those are always the safest because most people open packs closest to the front and, as horrifying as it may sound, some even dare to try on the socks before buying them. This boy’s mother knows better. She’s not risking her son getting a case of athlete’s foot from someone barbaric enough to open a pack before purchasing it. When the boy and his mom arrive home, he takes the new pack of socks out of the bag and makes quick work of opening them. He tries one on, and as he puts his foot inside, a small piece of paper falls off and wafts through the air before landing on the hardwood floor. He bends down to pick it up. Inspected by 5 appears in bold block letters across the stark white circular sticker—and for one brief moment, we are connected. He’s holding in his hands something that I once held in mine. And that suits me just fine. Interacting with other humans would be far more tolerable if there was a paper barrier in between. Who needs face-to-face connections when you have a sticky-backed piece of fiber? This is why my job is perfect for me.

  I have a given name, but no one here uses it. And why should they? The print on my stickers doesn’t say Inspected by Owen Hansen so there’s no need for anyone to know my name. I actually like the anonymity of it. Some of my co-inspectors disagree and try to make an effort to learn names, but I much prefer conjuring up identities for everyone in my head.

  Take Number 12, for instance. He’s a fine specimen if ever there was one. To put it bluntly, he’s enormous. He stands at least six foot five and very clearly enjoys weightlifting. We have no set uniform here at West Apparel, but 12 takes a lot of liberties with that freedom. Today he’s wearing acid-washed jeans that have more holes than actual denim. He’s paired them with a red plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned to reveal a Kelly green T-shirt underneath proclaiming him “Champion” of the 2011 Lewisburg Hot Dog Eating Contest. He completes the ensemble with tan Timberland boots with cherry red laces untied and dangling on the sides. His face is even less put-together with an overgrown beard that’s patchy in spots and unwashed mousey brown hair that just barely touches his shoulders. He looks more like a lumberjack than a stitching inspector. I imagine when he leaves here, he’s known as Stan Miller. Stan has many friends, but they’re all of the surface variety. Every day after work, you can find him at the Pourhouse around the corner. When he walks into the bar, much like Norm from Cheers, everyone yells, “Stan!” He sits at the bar and tells jokes that are slightly racist and almost always sexist, and everyone thinks he’s hilarious. But Stan has a secret. Despite the sexist jokes and extreme effort to appear as masculine as possible, Stan has an affinity for women’s lingerie. As soon as he gets home each night, he changes into the most lacy, silky slip that he can find and completes his look with a thong and red lipstick.

  I have no idea what 12�
�s real name is or whether or not he actually enjoys dressing in women’s lingerie, but I guarantee he’s not half as interesting in real life as he is within the confines of my mind.

  Seated at my desk, I reach for my clipboard and make quick work of the first form. Before I can begin sorting, I need my earbuds. I like how unavailable they make me seem. The reality is if I want to drown out the rest of the world, I need a podcast broadcasting directly into my ears.

  With my earbuds in, the familiar nasal modulation of Ira Glass helps me concentrate on the task at hand. Now I can work. Reaching my hand into the abyss of socks, I pull out a pile and plop them onto my work surface. Typically, I can inspect a bin of socks in under thirty minutes. My main focus is on the toe seam. If the stitching is crooked, we discount. If it has skipped—or worse, there’s a hole starting to form—we reject. I have the final say in whether or not articles can be sold at full price, discounted, or donated. I guess you could say I am “Lord of the Tube Socks,” but I would never call myself that. I take my job way too seriously.

  Today’s variety has stripes, so there’s an extra step. After I check seams, I lay each sock flat on my desk making sure the stripes are straight…well, straight enough. Let’s be honest here, who’s really checking the stripes on their tube socks to make sure they’re perfect? It’s pointless, really, but it’s a rule here and rules are one of those details that I revel in.

  My job is a whole lot of m words: monotonous, mundane, mediocre. And that’s exactly what I like most about it. Every day is just like the one before. I’ve been here for nearly three years and nothing has changed. It’s all well within my control.

  At noon, I take my lunch break. I never pack food because that would require me to use the breakroom. The breakroom means mingling with my coworkers and possibly having to engage in an actual conversation.

  Instead, I keep my earbuds in and make my way to Lettuce Eat Salad across the street. There is nothing remarkable about this little restaurant. It’s a solid three-stars on Yelp. But there’s a counter that runs the full length of the windows in the front of the café. It’s one of my favorite spots to people-watch and I eat here at least twice a week.

  There’s a middle-aged man in line ahead of me placing a specialized order. He starts with a chicken Caesar salad, but by the time he’s added and subtracted ingredients, the only thing that resembles what he started with is romaine lettuce. While he drones on, I keep my eyes glued to the girl behind the counter. She’s short in stature with a round face framed by ear-length bleach blond hair that appears to have been cut with a blunt pair of scissors. I can’t imagine she’s thrilled by all of his changes. I watch her for signs of annoyance—a sigh, an impatient shifting from one foot to the other, or even a subtle eye roll. But nothing comes. She just nods her head while he talks. Her self-control is impressive. It’s my turn to order and I plan on complimenting her for keeping her composure, but as I open my mouth to speak, she holds up a finger and turns to a coworker behind her. “Uh, yeah, did you get all of that? He basically wants lettuce with olives and a ‘smattering of oil’ whatever the fuck that means. I feel like tossing in a few of those ‘vile cherry tomatoes’ just to mess with him. What a twat!” She cackles loudly as she turns back to face me. The praise I was about to give her is stuck in my throat. I swallow it down. “I’ll have the strawberry poppy seed salad, please.” I watch her key in my order and then I add, “Oh, and, uh, hold the poppy seeds.” She tilts her head up to meet my eyes and I give her my best shit-eating grin.

  I make my way to the far right corner and drop my food on the counter. It occurs to me that I just tossed my salad and I have to work hard to stifle the laugh that’s building in my throat. In my head, I’m hilarious. I am a one-man comedy show all day long.

  Looking out the expanse of windows, I watch the world unfold. It’s April, and spring has finally made its presence known here in Minnesota. The sun is peaking out through puffy white clouds in a sky that Bob Ross would approve of. A vast array of people mill about on the sidewalk stopping to read the menus of the cafés that line the block or to take selfies in front of the street sign at the corner. It marks Desire Street, which makes it “A Street Sign Named Desire.” This town thinks it’s so clever.

  I notice a woman. She’s the right height and her hair is the exact same shade of mahogany. It even flips up at the ends. She’s wearing a light pink sweater with sleeves that stop at her elbows. I know it can’t possibly be her, but I still find myself holding my breath as she begins to turn toward the café window. As soon as I see her eyes, I exhale. This girl’s eyes are brown; Sarah’s were the most remarkable shade of turquoise. Even though I know it isn’t her, my appetite is gone.

  Making my way back to my cube, I have my earbuds in place, but no podcast is playing. The chatter around the inspection floor is manic. Apparently I missed quite the show while I was at lunch. I won’t ask anyone for the story, but I don’t have to. From what I can hear, Number 8 had a meltdown of epic proportions. To put it bluntly, he lost his shit. His cubicle walls have been knocked down and there are shredded bits of tube socks scattered all around the floor of what was once his work space.

  Everyone is so shocked by 8’s impassioned tantrum. But I’m not surprised at all. As I recall, he was always clad in a buttoned-up polo tucked into belted dress slacks. He wore his clothing like a corset—it kept his fury contained, cinched it in tightly to keep it hidden from the world. But we all know what happens when you try to suppress something. Eventually, it explodes. And the cotton fibers floating in the air serve as a reminder. We all have a breaking point.

  My co-inspectors are all clamoring to find out what drove 8 to snap in such an extreme way. I never worry about the why; it’s the when that we should be concerned about. It’s only a matter of time for any of us.

  2

  A year ago, I was walking my trash bag out to the dumpster behind my apartment building when a disheveled tabby cat with mottled gray fur came waddling toward me. He moved with such purpose, striding right over to me. He cocked his head and his matted fur rumpled around his neck in response. His milky green eyes regarded me with interest—an intense sober expression on his bedraggled face. I’d recognize that look anywhere. Without even thinking, I picked him up. He smelled faintly of spearmint and Marlboro Reds. Truth be told, I despise cats, but this creature I was holding was no cat. This was my Uncle George.

  George died of lung cancer when I was twelve. He was my dad’s brother and a permanent fixture at our house each week for Sunday dinner. He always wore the same marbled gray wool sweater, no matter what the temperature was. And his pockets were filled to the brim with Starlight Mints, which he believed helped mask the smell of tobacco on his breath—a symptom of the constant stream of cigarettes he smoked.

  My uncle was my favorite person in the world, and he made no secret that the feeling was mutual. He was a no bullshit, straight-to-the-facts kind of guy. If you told Uncle George that a storm was coming, he’d ask how you could be so certain. If you heard about it on the radio or watched a report on the evening news, he wasn’t buying it. Unless he saw the swirling black clouds in the sky with his own eyes or heard the menacing rumbles of thunder with the ears on his head, he would never be convinced.

  He once told me, “Owen, don’t believe anything that you can’t prove on your own. You have the power to seek the truth. Never let anyone else find it for you.” He lived his life full of a rich skepticism that eventually cost him his life. After all, he couldn’t see the cancer that was raging a battle inside of him, so he couldn’t be talked into the treatment that might have saved him or at least prolonged his life. Sure, there were images produced from the scans of his body, but George never trusted “confangled technology” so those pictures were nothing more than shapes on X-ray screens to him. Most of my family felt that George was foolish. They used him as an example of how not to live. But not me. Uncle George stayed true to who he was. He never wavered in his convictions. He took cont
rol of every situation he found himself in, and I respected the hell out of him for it.

  So naturally, I took him back to my apartment with me because even in cat form, Uncle George was still my hero.

  I live in an apartment in an old converted warehouse about three blocks from West Apparel. There’s no clutter in my living space and barely any furniture, either. I don’t waste time mucking up my life with things. I have the essentials—a black corduroy futon from IKEA and my dad’s old college cedar chest with rusty hinges. In my kitchen, I have a French press for coffee, one frying pan, and one pot. My silverware drawer holds two of each eating utensil and the cabinet above my sink houses two bowls, two plates, two mugs, and two pint glasses. I always have something to use while the other is soaking in the sink waiting to be washed. I’m nothing if not practical.

  A modestly sized flat-screen TV is the only thing hanging from the exposed brick walls of my apartment. The faded red and grayed out mortar is capped off with an uneven mix of plaster beginning at about three-quarters of the way up the wall and onto the ceiling. The contrast of textures is decoration enough, as far as I’m concerned. I like things to be clean and organized and I’ve found the best way to do that is to keep stuff to a minimum. If it doesn’t serve a functional purpose in my life, I have no use for it.