Frayed Page 2

  Much like at work, I really don’t know any of the neighbors in my building. Mr. James lives across the hall, and I only know his name because our simple-minded mail carrier keeps leaving his Medicare statements in my box. I introduced myself to Mr. James once while returning his mail, but with his hearing aid turned too low, he thought I said my name was Orville. I know I should’ve repeated myself, but I honestly didn’t care enough to correct him. My neighbor is something of a busybody, and I liked the idea of him broadcasting the wrong name to everyone in the building.

  At work, I’m known as 5, and in my apartment building, I’m Orville. I wear both identities like a mask. We all go through life showing only those personality traits that we feel most confident about. We keep the things that confuse us or make us feel ashamed hidden from the judgmental eyes of others. Being known as 5, Orville, or Owen, I get to decide which parts of myself belong to which version. I’m pretty lucky, when you think about it.

  Take 5, for instance—he’s a hard worker, never once wavering from the task he’s given. He follows rules and works efficiently. If he says he’s inspected something, no one ever has to double-check. He keeps to himself and never engages in office gossip. He’s a model employee.

  Orville is always alone. He’s never entertaining a date or much less has friends over to watch the game. If it weren’t for the occasional creaky floorboard, his apartment would appear vacant. He’s remarkably quiet, but not in an unnerving “my neighbor is a serial killer” kind of way. He smiles at the other tenants the right length of time without appearing creepy, and he always holds the door open for Mrs. Matz as she struggles with FiFi’s leash and her overflowing grocery bag of produce from Aldi.

  And Owen is, well, he’s something of an enigma. Very few people really know him. And he’s happy to keep it that way.

  As kids, we often love to dress up as someone we aren’t. Maybe we choose a superhero costume so we can feel strong when most days we feel weak. Perhaps we put on a princess dress and a tiara in an attempt to feel beautiful when in reality we feel completely unremarkable. In this way, I’m kind of living out a childhood dream of sorts. At nearly twenty-five years old, I can still play dress up, and the best part about it is no one around me is the wiser.

  3

  There’s a static in the air at West Apparel the next morning. The aftermath of Inspector 8’s combustion is still a hot topic of discussion, and it’s obvious that many of my coworkers are still shaken up.

  Aside from the quiet chatter of the other inspectors, there’s no visible sign that anything occurred. The cubicle walls of 8’s inspector “jail” have been righted and all the cotton and paper remnants have been swept away. It’s almost as if it never even happened. And therein lies the problem. Eventually, the memory of Inspector 8 with his tightly wound thoughts will start to dissipate until it’s merely a blip in the minds of those who once worked with him.

  “Can you believe how normal everything looks? If you hadn’t been here, you wouldn’t even know that Vince went batty yesterday.” Startled out of my thoughts, I look to my left to see Number 14 speaking to me. It’s at that moment that I realize I forgot to put my earbuds in. Shit.

  Inspector 14 is a fifty-something wannabe cougar who I like to call Donna Summerville. With her bouffant brunette chin-length hair and pearl necklace, she slightly resembles Jackie O, but with an edge that only heavy-handed black eyeliner can bring. I imagine that Donna has three grown children each of whom have a different father. Donna never settles for long and is always on the prowl for the next Mr. Right Now. But no one stands a chance. She compares every man she meets to her father. As hard as she tried, she could never earn his approval and even though he died years ago, she still longs for his blessing. If she can find a man who resembles her father in both looks and personality, she may actually be able to achieve her ultimate goal—acceptance. To say she has daddy issues would be a gross understatement.

  Clearing her throat, 14 looks at me expectantly. She’s waiting for me to respond, and I’m waiting for this awkward encounter to end.

  “Yep, the place looks good as new.”

  She nods and I don’t wait for a response. I waste no time putting in my earbuds as I make my way to my sorting haven. Sitting in my chair, I realize that I inadvertently learned that Inspector 8’s real name was Vince. I used to refer to him as Charles, and I have to think, given how chronically tense he was, I doubt he thought much of nicknames. I think Vincent is a more fitting name.

  My sorting bin is filled with more tube socks, but this time they are stark white. No stripes in sight. Two bins and one episode of This American Life later, some movement to the left of my cubicle catches my eye. Mr. Shelton, the Quality Control Supervisor, is leading someone around the inspection floor. Just as I start to turn my head and reconvene my sorting, I see her.

  Her back is facing me, but there’s an energy radiating off of her. I can almost feel it crackle in my chest. Her wheat-colored hair falls in lazy waves just past her shoulders. From where I’m sitting, I can see her left hand as she gestures toward the copy machine. Simple silver bands adorn her index and ring fingers, and around her wrist is a collection of leather and silk wrap bracelets. Her skirt is a patchwork of greens and yellows and barely grazes the floor as she moves. It reminds me of summers spent lying in the dandelion fields by my grandparents’ cabin. As she slowly makes her way around the inspection floor, it’s almost as if she’s floating. Her movements are so fluid and graceful and otherworldly. I can’t take my eyes off of her, and I still haven’t seen her face.

  When she turns, our eyes find each other. Hers are just as I would imagine them to be—haunting and captivating and utterly unique. Much like her skirt, her eyes are a curious blend of green and yellow making them appear almost golden. It’s as if they have a supernatural quality about them. There’s a glow deep within their depths, and at this moment, I can’t move. I could be imagining things, but I’m pretty certain I saw the right corner of her lip turn up in a knowing grin. I think she’s on to me.

  Mr. Shelton leads her over to my cube. “Oh, let me introduce you to—”

  I jump to my feet and extend my right hand toward her. “I’m 5. How do you do?” How do you do? Did I really just say that? What century is this?

  She smiles at me warmly as she takes my hand in hers. It sounds cliché, I know, but I swear I feel a current when our fingers touch. And her quick intake of air tells me she felt it, too.

  “Right, right, uh, as I was saying, this is Inspector 5 and he will be dual inspecting with you until you get the hang of things. That’s just a formality, but he’ll be taking a quick look over all the items you’ve sorted just to be sure that nothing was missed.” Mr. Shelton pauses for dramatic effect. “We are quality control, after all!” He laughs at his nonexistent joke, and his belly—the vast size of which could only be attributed to his great love of all things ending in wurst—shakes up and down as if nodding in agreement. He is, without a doubt, the wittiest person he’s ever met.

  Mr. Shelton continues his introduction. “5, this is Inspector 15. She’ll be helping to fill the void left by, uh…well, today’s her first day. I’m sure I can count on you to help answer any questions she might have.”

  I nod and smile politely as he leads her to the next stop on the tour. She never once uttered a single word, and yet it felt as though we shared a conversation so intimate only the two of us could hear it. As she glides away, she turns her head and looks directly into my soul. With a shy smile, she gives me a small wave. I raise my palm slightly and match her gaze. And then she disappears into the cubicle abyss.

  I usually make it a rule not to get to know my coworkers; I think I just met my exception.

  4

  I have no idea what that was this morning and if someone asked me to describe it, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t. Truthfully, I’m not exactly thrilled by this new complication. I’ve lived here for two and a half years now, and in that time, I’ve made very f
ew connections. I like it that way.

  Connections tie you to things, tether you down until you’re so involved in everyone and everything around you that you lose sight of yourself. You forget what drives you. You lose track of your own thoughts. Your life is no longer just your own. I had enough of that back in Connecticut. I didn’t come all the way here to start connecting again.

  Still, I can’t stop myself from looking around for another glimpse of her when I pick up the bins of sorted socks and take them to the packing room. As I make my way back to my station, I keep my eyes on the gray cubicle walls that once belonged to poor Vincent, the craziest of all 8s. Just knowing that she could be sitting behind those fabric barricades has my heart beating erratically.

  My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I shake my head slightly bringing myself back to the present. Reaching for my phone, I see my mom’s face on the screen. I decline the call and shoot off a quick text to her. At work. Call you in fifteen.

  Huh, 15. She’s even figured out a way to invade my texts to my mom.

  I close out my day just as I began it—with a shit ton of completely unnecessary and, arguably, redundant paperwork. It’s just tube socks. We aren’t saving the world here.

  The sun is almost blinding on my walk home. I left my sunglasses in the pocket of my jacket back in my apartment, and I’m cursing myself for being so absentminded. Turning onto Campbell Street, I’m granted a reprieve as the tall office building to my left shields me from an overdose of Vitamin D. I reach into my pocket for my phone and give my mom a call.

  After two rings, there’s a clanking noise followed by a very hefty dog barking and the muffled sounds of my mother admonishing said dog for being so loud. Breathlessly she answers, “Hello, O! How’s the Midwest? Hang on a second, would ya? Oh, for crying out loud, Hank, please stop barking at poor old Mr. Wilshire! He’s allowed to sit on his porch! Okay, sorry about that, hun. Where was I?”

  The incomparable Jessica Hansen, ladies and gentlemen. “Hi, Mom. Everything is fine. I see nothing has changed there.”

  “This dog drives me friggin’ crazy, but what else is new, right? How are things at work?”

  “The same. I’m still saving the world one sock at a time.” I chuckle at my joke.

  “You know, things have been really picking up here at the practice. Of course, your dad would never admit it, but I’m sure he’d welcome the help. Think maybe you’re ready to come back home?

  Well, she really didn’t waste any time, did she? I mean, I knew this was coming. My mom can hardly ever get through a conversation with me without bringing up me moving back home. Still, she usually has a little more tact. “We’ve been over this, Mom. You know I’m not planning on moving back anytime soon. Maybe not ever.”

  There’s an audible sigh and when she speaks again, her voice carries more weight. “I hope you’re not still blaming yourself, Owen. Have you talked to Dr. Jamie lately? You aren’t ignoring his calls, are you?”

  Of course, I am. Dr. Jamie is as skilled a doctor as I am a lion-tamer. But I can’t say that to my mom, so I remain silent in hopes that she’ll get the hint and change the subject. She doesn’t.

  “I ran into Sarah’s mom at Stop & Shop last week. She asked how you were doing. Maybe you should give her a call and check-in. It might help.” There’s a brief pause and then she whispers, “I worry about you.” She says it in such a muted tone, I’m not even sure I was meant to hear it. But nevertheless, I did and now I definitely don’t want to hear any more.

  As if by some divine intervention, a man in a navy blue Volvo picks that very moment to blow his horn at an oblivious pedestrian. Taking my cue, I bid farewell to my meddlesome albeit caring mother. “Oh, hey, Mom? There’s an older woman here at the curb and I think she might need some help crossing the street with all of her bags. Talk to you later?” I say that last part like it’s a question because it is, but more for me than for her. If she had her way, we’d talk every day at the same breakfast table over coffee and a copy of The Milford-Orange Times.

  “Sure thing, O. Stay out of trouble and make sure you’re eating enough!”

  “Bye, Mom.” I end the call and realize I’ve been holding my left hand in a tight fist.

  Relaxing my fingers, I pause a minute to collect myself and notice that I’m standing right outside of Rudy’s Books. I feel my whole body relax with relief. It’s exactly what I need.

  The little bell above the door announces my arrival. Rudy Jenkins looks up from his iPad to nod a hello, never once stilling his fingers on the screen. Rudy is in his mid-seventies and should be retired, but he’s too stubborn to admit it. He stands just around six feet and is as wide as he is tall. His standard uniform consists of a simple blue polo and a pair of khaki shorts. On his feet are a pair of New Balance sneakers that barely look worn even though he bought them over a year ago. Rudy lives his life in absolutes. It’s never too cold to wear shorts, and it’s never too hot to eat soup. He’s a no-frills, no-bullshit kind of guy. And much like my Uncle George, you can always count on him to give it to you straight and with enough curse words thrown in for emphasis.

  Wandering through the aisles of Rudy’s Books is a bit like stepping back in time. There are floor-to-ceiling shelves packed full of books that are a mix of new and used. Some of the spines are so worn it’s impossible to read the titles that were once plainly printed on them. In addition to bookshelves, there are also stacks upon stacks of haphazardly placed books forming a sort of maze that funnels you around the store. By the looks of it, when people come in to sell Rudy their used books, he isn’t very picky.

  Since I stopped in here on a whim, I’m not looking for anything in particular. Running my hands over the spines of the Fiction section, I wonder if 15 enjoys reading. I imagine her choosing a book that enlightens her and challenges her ideals. We’ve never actually spoken, but I can’t imagine her reading a book with Fabio on the cover, or worse—teen vampire shape-shifter romance. I shudder at the thought.

  Making my way to the New Arrival section, I stop to admire a leather-bound edition of The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. The cover is worn around the edges and slightly discolored from the natural oils of the hands that once held it. It was clearly well-loved. A book as fine as this one belongs in someone’s collection, not among a careless pile on the floor of a bookstore. I pick it up and riffle through the table of contents. I’ve always loved The Tell-Tale Heart. We all have secrets hidden away under our floorboards. Some of us are just better at hiding them.

  Depositing my selection on the counter, I wait for Rudy. He’s so engrossed in virtual slot machines, he doesn’t even realize I’m standing here. Rudy’s hair is pure white, and from this angle, I can see the top edge lifting slightly off of his forehead. The stick on his toupee tape is failing him. I clear my throat to get his attention, and he startles out of his electronic induced trance. “Find something?”

  Handing him the book, I nod. “How are things, Rudy?” For some reason, my rule of not engaging in conversations doesn’t apply to Rudy.

  “Same old shit, Owen.”

  I’ve never seen Rudy with a book. I’m not even sure he enjoys reading. “So, tell me, Rudy, was it a life-long dream of yours to own a bookstore?” He looks at me briefly before casting his eyes back to the flashing screen of his iPad.

  I’m certain he has no plans to answer my question so I’m shocked when he starts to speak. “Listen, kid, here’s the thing, I never waste my time on dreams. I’m seventy-five years old, if I want to do something, I do it. I see no point in setting myself up for failure by making something into more than it is.” He gestures his large hand around the space. “This store is just one of those things I felt like doing. It was for sale so I bought it. End of story. Things weren’t so great for the last guy who owned it so I decided to give it a try. It’s what I do.”

  Since I rarely see other customers whenever I stop in, I’m not really sure how well it’s working out for him. Either way, it doesn’t
seem to bother him in the slightest. Rudy’s a workaholic with a touch of insomnia. He just appreciates the distraction. And that’s something I can get behind. Right now I could use a distraction myself.

  I ponder his words for a moment. “This store is a project for you—something to keep you busy.” It’s not a question, but he answers me anyway. “You could say that. Sometimes things work out. Sometimes they don’t. You never know until you try.” The small gleam in his eye tells me this place is more than just a hobby to him.

  He makes a sound that’s unique to him—a hybrid mix of clearing his throat and coughing. Reaching for his bottle of store-brand lime sparkling water, he downs a big gulp and sighs audibly.

  I’ve never tried flavored water, but I can’t imagine it’s a suitable replacement for the original. “Ever thought about retiring that stuff and just drinking plain water?”

  He looks at me as though I’ve just suggested that he drink a glass of liquid Drano. “Water’s for washing your feet.”

  This is why I like Rudy. He has his mind made up where life’s concerned. You can’t sway him so don’t even bother trying. You have to respect that kind of tenacity.

  Heading outside into the warmth of the afternoon, I inhale deeply and think of the lopsided dimple on Sarah’s right cheek that only appeared when she laughed. When I exhale, I let all of those thoughts go. The past hasn’t caught up with me yet, and, as long as I can help it, it never will.

  5

  As I near the end of the sorting bin of tube socks at my feet, I grasp the remaining remnants and deposit them on my work surface. I could do this in my sleep.