by G. B. Gordon
“You don’t have to—” Jack said, but Mark stopped him with a raised hand.
“When I was in eleventh grade they called it Asperger’s. Meds helped. Therapy was a pain. My dad finally stopped making me go. Poor man. He tried so hard to help me, and he didn’t know what to do or what I needed. But he gave his all, and he never took any shit from anyone. Sometimes I wish he was alive, just so he could see that I’m fine.” He turned and searched Jack’s face. “The world still thinks I’m weird, too sensitive to light and sound, too obsessed with texture, take too much time to answer or make decisions, which I guess riles people to no end. No one sees—” He wrapped one hand tightly around the other wrist, visibly wrestling down the plea that echoed in that unfinished sentence.
“These days my doctor is mostly trying to help me deal with the Sensory Processing Disorder and anxiety. The meds and some judicious living make me a bit less weird to the world.” His voice was perfectly matter-of-fact now, but there was definitely some pain there. Jack wanted to tell him he wasn’t weird, but that would have been weird. He hadn’t seemed weird to Jack; he’d seemed familiar. A little aloof, perhaps, but that had only added to the appeal of the dark, mysterious stranger, who was so very well-dressed, so uptown.
But Mark wasn’t done. “I still don’t deal well with surprises. My input filter works differently. Which, among other things, makes me a lousy driver.” He sat back down and rubbed the red marks on his wrist, then gave the braided leather a flick with his finger. “I’m sorry I let you walk into it like that. I didn’t mean to. There never seems to be a good time to bring it up or explain it.”
He was watching Jack again, his face calm, his eyes unreadable. “If you find that too much to deal with, I’ll understand, but I’d much rather know sooner and be done and gone than agonize over it in the long run.”
Jack could feel the protest in his throat, but again Mark’s hand rose like a stop sign and shut him up.
“I should go. Give you a chance to think, to figure out what you want.” He dug his wallet out of his pocket and put a business card on the table. “Email or message me?” He got up and went to the door.
Jack didn’t move. “You haven’t told me what you want.”
Mark stopped in his tracks. He didn’t turn, just shoved both hands in his pockets. “This. You. Dinner, music, movies. I liked all of that. I want more.”
With that, he left. Jack stared at the business card on the table and pondered the merest hint of a touch that had backfired so spectacularly. He wasn’t sure what that meant in the long run. “I want more,” Mark had said. Was that more of or more than? Though how it could be more than what they’d been doing, more than friendship, was a bit hard to see.
He picked up the card and pulled the laptop toward him, but then stalled. Mark had wanted him to think about it. He might not believe an immediate email any more than he’d believed that immediate protest he’d waved off. And hadn’t Jack thought he himself needed time to think, as well?
Truth was, he didn’t though. It wasn’t who Mark was that was the problem. On the contrary, someone to talk to, who had well-thought-out opinions, and shared so many likes and dislikes? Even apart from the physical draw, all of that meant a keeper. No, the problem was who Jack was. Or rather who he wasn’t, and that he couldn’t share that.
He slowly closed the laptop without having written anything. Maybe he should sleep on it. He needed time to figure out what he wanted, though he was sure that he didn’t want Mark to disappear from his life. Especially not if anything more involved was off the table anyway. The question was, could he have that, this nothing more involved? Could he keep it casual, so that Mark wouldn’t get hurt? Surely dinner and a movie was as casual as it got. But was it casual enough to be fair to Mark?
He went upstairs and paused in front of Margaret’s room when he saw that her door was open. She wasn’t in her bed, so he continued to the attic. When they’d moved in, they’d found an ancient alcove bed up there filled with junk of every description. Margaret had taken one look at it and declared it hers. It had proven too bulky to be moved, so he’d cleared it off, cleaned the area around it, which basically meant piling a truckload of ancient crap up against the opposite wall, and painted it for her. A new mattress and some curtains later, it had become her retreat, where she curled up when the world was too much, or just to sleep or read.
He was relieved to see she hadn’t drawn the curtains. To sleep, then. At least Mark’s visit hadn’t stressed her out.
She was lying on her side, in her favorite rainbow pj’s, hair brushed and braided. In the soft glow of the night-light she didn’t look older than twelve, when she’d sat in the back room at Simmons Groceries with that same braid down her back, watching TV with Mrs. Simmons, while Jack had stocked shelves. Well, when he first started he’d stocked shelves. But Mrs. Simmons, round to begin with, had acquired an alarming bulk over the years. The longer he’d worked there, the less likely she’d been to heave herself out of her La-Z-Boy when the bell above the door rang. Most of the time she’d just bellowed, “Jackson, there’s a customer,” and left him to take care of things as he saw fit. It had been a good arrangement that had made him some money through high school and later through college, and it’d kept Margaret away from the house and the sleazy company Charles had kept to further his political ambitions. Mrs. Simmons might have talked to Margaret like she had to the stray cats that came on the porch, but there hadn’t been a creature under the sun she hadn’t had some kindness for.
It hadn’t been a permanent arrangement, though. During the last couple of years, she’d even slept in that La-Z-Boy, and one morning they’d found her dead in it. Her heart had given out while she slept. Her death had ripped quite a hole in their small community, especially when her husband closed down the store after her funeral. Jack had finished college, and left for grad school that fall, but he’d genuinely grieved her loss. And he couldn’t even imagine what it had meant for Margaret, who’d been stuck at home again. Mawmaw had been there, of course. Otherwise Jack wouldn’t have gone in the first place.
He threw a last glance at Margaret’s sleeping figure, then tiptoed back out and pulled the door closed behind himself. All he wanted to do was protect her. For the millionth time he asked himself how anyone could want to hurt her, and for the millionth time pushed the question aside. He had no desire to peek into the mind of the man who’d assaulted her. It was a moot point in any case. He was dead, and if only was a useless game to play.
Finish the coffee, rinse the mug. I’m really glad I’ve got this trip to Sequim planned. That’ll keep me busy for most of the day. At least it’ll keep me from staying glued to the Refresh button of my email, checking for an answer from Jack. And it gives me a time target to aim for: no checking on the phone means no checking until I’m back.
I’ve lived in this world for thirty-five years, and I’ve grown relatively impervious to people who have a problem with me, but rejection always stings, especially from someone whose approval I care about. Should I brace myself? Or is that only going to make me miserable for no good reason? Jack seemed okay with me, maybe even interested. He certainly appears to have an excellent relationship with his sister. But he was definitely taken aback by my reaction when he touched me. Was that only because it was unexpected? One can hope. One can be a stupid jackass.
Right. I may have just set the mug down on the drain board harder than it deserves. I should’ve explained things to Jack earlier. It could hardly have been more awkward than it was last night. Why isn’t there a cue card for Now’s the time, or something like that? Why does life have to be so complicated?
The traffic report gives me the all clear, and the town website doesn’t mention detours or construction on the way. And I know the road well; they hold their flea market every second Sunday of the month over the summer. I go whenever I’ve got nothing else on my schedule.
I hate to be so fidgety. How perverse that I can’t concentrate on the
things I need to, but when I want to ignore something, my mind obsesses over it. All day long it keeps coming back to what might be waiting on my computer when I get home.
The flea market doesn’t really help. I find a bag full of rawhide strips we might be able to use for bracelets and necklaces on set, but beyond that, nothing interesting. I want to go home and check my email now, but distracted driving won’t do. So I sit in the car for a good five minutes, giving myself a stern internal talking to about concentrating on the road and traffic, before I leave the parking lot.
Back home I take the stairs two at a time, barely holding off on checking my inbox on the way up. When I finally do check it, Jack’s name isn’t among the new messages.
Well, I did ask him to think about it. That’s all he’s doing, right? Right. Now, step away from the desktop and think of something else.
Because that has worked really spectacularly so far.
Monday morning there’s still nothing. I’m trying to remember if I asked Jack to email me even if he doesn’t want to see me again. Did I accidentally doom myself to hoping and checking and being disappointed for the next few weeks or months for nothing?
When I walk into the hangar, Natalya is pacing inside the fortress. She’s the only long-time member of the production crew utterly incapable of letting me deal with her in the written word. The tiny Russian stunt coordinator insists on face time. And, of course, she’s one of those low-patience, high-energy people whose sheer presence hikes my stress levels up into the red.
Right now her body is packing so much tension that I half expect steam to come out her ears.
“Which part of ‘my guy is getting dragged under a car’ was I so unclear on that you kitted him out with this?” She slaps something against my chest. Searing bolts of overfiring synapses drown out her next sentence. I manage to grab what she’s holding in her hand before she can do it again. It’s one of a couple dozen tan-colored jeans we’ve dyed to fake worn leather.
Distressed leather pants are part of the wild, animalistic look the show thrives on, but in crowd scenes they get expensive fast. This is the budget solution. But it’s certainly not meant to be worn in a stunt that needs protective clothing. I try to recall the shooting schedule, script, anything that’ll tell me what stunt she’s talking about, and come up short.
“Where did he get those?” I ask instead, more to gain time than anything else, since I don’t have a clue who we’re talking about.
Natalya scowls at me. “Don’t fuck with me,” she says through her teeth. “You handed them out.”
“Not to the stunt crew. I didn’t even know they were doing a dragging scene today.”
That’s met with another withering stare. “Are you ever listening? We talked about the schedule change when the motorcycles were delivered, right when we were all leaving the meeting on Friday to go check them.”
Fuck, lady. There were sixteen people jostling each other out of an airless conference room, everyone talking at the same time, trying to make themselves heard over gunfire from the soundstage. That’s exactly why I need important information in writing.
“Did you message me the—”
“You pissy little asshole. You’d have my stunt guy torn to shreds in that pathetic—” Her index finger stabs the pants I’m still holding to my chest.
“Excuse of.”
Stab.
“Protective wear.”
Stab.
I can barely hear her. Pain, as if her finger was a branding iron, searing away all other senses.
“Because I didn’t let you wank over your email fetish?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is getting worse by the second.
She makes a show of waiting for an explanation she isn’t expecting, then whispers, “If he doesn’t have proper riding leathers by eleven, you are so dead.” She shoulders past me harder than such a small woman should be able to, and leaves me under the gathering tornado of a migraine.
Not that I have time to think about that. I need to get my hands on the current stunt schedule. Like, yesterday. And then on clothes that fit the stunt, the guy doing it, and whatever character he’s standing in for.
Have lunch with me? Anna’s message reads. Nothing more. Not that she has to write more than that. I know what this is about. As pissed as Natalya left here, there’s no way Anna doesn’t know about what I’m supposed to have done.
Do I have a choice? I write back, trying to shake off my annoyance and failing. I hate that they’re talking about me. There’s a reason I haven’t told anyone but Anna, who hired me, about being autistic. I’ve worked fucking hard to carve out an environment for myself within which I can do a good job. An excellent job most times even. I’m not asking people to bend over backward for me. How hard is it to send a fucking email? Keep me in the fucking loop, so I can do my fucking job?
My phone pings with a new message. Always. But I am trying to help.
Right. Calm down. My headache is turning the sound of sewing machines into jackhammers. Never mind Natalya emailing me, I should have received the new production schedule in any case. Think. Where did I put my earphones?
First, I need Anna off my back. Fair enough, I type. When? Where?
Then I log in to the chat channel some of us use to talk over noise and through walls, send funny stuff around and, occasionally, vent and angle for virtual hugs. Can anyone send me the new production schedule from Friday?
I get a flurry of responses.
-What day is today?
-There’s a new production schedule?
-Dude, why don’t you have that?
-What?
-Haven’t you heard? One of the copiers exploded in a shower of toner. They’re bogged down in cleanup.
Which explains that. I’d still like to know how those jeans found their way to Natalya’s team, but that’ll have to wait.
I’m in a meeting until about one, Anna messages me. After that I can come over to the cafeteria.
Ugh. I’ve set foot in the cafeteria exactly once, on my first day. And backed out as soon as the indefinable miasma of food and cleaner hit my nostrils. I can’t eat anything in there. I’ll be lucky if I don’t throw up my breakfast. But then, this isn’t about food. I’ll be there.
Meanwhile the production schedule has landed in my inbox, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Why they don’t email it around in the first place, or at least after the copier disaster, beats me.
I manage to meet my eleven o’clock deadline. Barely. But the morning doesn’t calm down after that. The stunt hasn’t been the only schedule change, and the whole team is scrambling to keep up. By the time I walk over to the cafeteria, I’m almost glad for the break. If only it was for a different reason.
It’s still as hot as it was the week before, but I breathe the humid air in deeply, bracing myself for the assault on the senses I’m expecting in the cafeteria. Inside, the mix of boiled potatoes, Lysol, and battery acid coffee still comes as a shock.
Anna is sitting by herself, watching the door, and nods when she sees me. Resentment rises along with the bile, at Natalya ripping up at me like that, at the incompetence of whoever should have sent the production schedules around, at having been pretty much ordered here to account for myself. I square my shoulders and grab the back of the chair opposite her but don’t pull it out. “Am I going to be fighting for my job, or did you already decide to fire me?”
She blinks, and one of her eyebrows rises a good way to her hairline. “Do you want to try again?” she asks softly.
Fuck. Don’t fuck this up, Mark. Calm down. For the umpteenth time today I take a deep breath—and immediately regret it. I have no idea how much nausea is showing in my face, but Anna stands up and half leans across the table. She stops just short of touching me. “Are you okay?”
With an effort I swallow the bile. “Walk with me?” I get out, then turn and leave without waiting for an answer. Once outside I concentrate on breathing and not throwing up. I thought I could stand
the smell for a short time, but apparently my stomach has different ideas.
Anna is right behind me, one hand held out, but not quite touching my elbow, for which I’m grateful. Concern is written in the furrow between her brows. I need to remember that. Her concern. Despite her relationship with Natalya, she’s not the enemy here. On the contrary. She’s always been fair and as helpful as she can be without favoring me over anyone else. Or otherwise indicating that I might need help I won’t ask for and don’t want.
“Sorry.” I’m breathing easier out here, and manage to shove the anger back down. “The smell in there kills me.”
“You could have said something, you know? We could easily have met somewhere else.”
I nod. “Thank you. It’s difficult to figure out sometimes what people consider a reasonable request and what they see as ‘making allowances.’ Seems like in this case I overcompensated.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, why am I here?”
Anna indicates an empty picnic table in the shade of a tree, and we sit down.
“You’re here because I’m hoping we can resolve things between you and Natalya without it escalating to official channels. Because that, I’m sure, wouldn’t be good for any of us. So far this is a private conversation about a private conversation. I told Natalya I would talk to you, as a friend, but she did not ask me to do that. I honestly don’t think that when her emotions spilled over she even remembered the position she was putting me in. And you as well.”
The wood is warm and rough against my fingertips. A solitary spider travels across one of the boards, maneuvers around a splinter, then disappears in the gap. I yank my attention back to Anna. Have I missed anything?
“I understand this isn’t the first time you two have rubbed each other the wrong way?” It’s phrased like a statement, but her voice rises at the end of the sentence. Is she asking me?