Sugar Heart

The accident happened quickly, so quickly that I could not decide even after lengthy, bitter discussions and filling out a number of reports exactly what had gone wrong. I was moving a particularly bulky load and had begun to descend a ramp to the rear yards when my forklift leaned over and abruptly flipped.

I was lucky I was securely strapped in; if I'd fallen out of the cage, I could have been crushed. The lift itself was more or less undamaged, but an unfortunately significant proportion of the load of electronics I'd been carrying had been destroyed--thousands of dollars worth of merchandise. I'd been distracted, I could admit to myself at least. I was daydreaming about having the Hemsworth brothers all to myself, naked and glistening. But there were other factors at work. The skid had probably been overloaded as well as unbalanced--I hadn't liked the looks of it, but after being pressured all day to get everything moved, I just went for it. I wasn't sure if that was more my fault for not taking issue with the skid, my boss's fault for pressuring me, or the fault of whoever had improperly loaded the skid.

The skid itself was cracked and splintered apart after the accident. Most of the witnesses assumed this had happened when the lift flipped and dumped the load, but I could have sworn I heard a cracking noise before I'd tipped. Maybe the skid had been in crappy shape, and was unsafe to use.

My co-workers berated me, or at least gave me unimpressed glares, and I endured plenty of yelling from Mitch in his office afterward. He told me over and over I could have killed myself, or, even worse, someone else. This I could not deny, and I was beginning to wish I hadn't been wearing that seatbelt after all. If I'd been killed, my worries would be over. In the end I simply accepted full responsibility, and that was the attitude in which I filled out all the necessary reports.

I was surprised Mitch didn't fire me on the spot. After over an hour in his office dealing with the aftermath, I was simply sent back to work, but not on the forklift. I wasn't ever to drive a forklift for this company again, and it was very likely I'd have my operator's license revoked entirely. I had nearly three hours left on my overtime shift, and I spent them mainly dealing with waybills and other paperwork while receiving glares of both resentment and morbid fascination from all sides.

The remainder of my shift seemed to drag on forever. By the end of it I thoroughly hated myself as well as the world and everyone in it. It was hard for me to think of a single aspect of my life I hadn't managed to screw up. My head ached, and my stomach churned. My shoulder was also feeling fairly sore; the strap of my seatbelt had yanked on it pretty hard when the forklift had tumbled. I didn't have the wherewithal to report an injury on top of everything else. It was probably just a little bruised, or strained.

Before I could leave, Mitch called me into his office again, giving me a fresh, gut-wrenching attack of nerves. As it turned out, I was fired after all. He claimed he'd had a discussion with upper management, and they'd all made the "difficult" decision to let me go. I suspected this was bullshit, and that Mitch would have fired me on the spot had he not needed the extra body to occupy the rest of this shift. I humbly accepted my fate, and clocked out for the last time.

Once again my car was hesitant to start. It had been doing this to me for a while. I needed to find a mechanic, probably. It seemed of negligible importance now. Once the engine was finally running, I turned out of the parking lot and began my long drive home. At least it was well past rush hour, and there wasn't much traffic on the roads.

It suddenly seemed unlikely to me that I'd even make it home. There didn't seem to be much point. The world was a cold, unfriendly place full of cold, unfriendly people. As I merged onto the highway, I had vivid fantasies of swerving abruptly into oncoming traffic. It could be over so quickly. As quickly as my forklift had flipped. I could just wrench the wheel violently over, close my eyes, let go, and be done. A few times I held my breath and gripped the steering wheel tightly, watching the traffic in the oncoming lanes, but I couldn't bring myself to go through with it. Taking out innocent people with me was an unbearable thought.

A little sweat dripped down my forehead, but I felt cold.

I could drive up into the mountains, I mused. Way up near the ski resorts, where there were steep drop-offs barricaded by guardrails that probably wouldn't stop my car if I careened deliberately into them at a high speed. They might just make my car flip neatly over as I hit the edge, and down I'd go, tumbling, flying, free.

Ka-boom.

I thought about my parents finding out, about how they'd blame themselves for how we last parted, how they'd suspect they'd driven me to suicide. Maybe that was what I wanted. But the more I thought about them going through funeral arrangements, making up stories to tell their extended family ("It was almost certainly an accident--he seemed fine last time we spoke!"), the more this, too, seemed like a pain I couldn't put someone else through--even someone who had caused me such heartache.

I found myself back at the coffee shop. This wasn't exactly strange, as coming here after work had been a bit of a routine for me for quite some time. I was surprised I still wanted to be here after what had gone down with my folks, but I supposed I wasn't ready to let the place go. The coffee was excellent, and, while I wasn't in the habit of purchasing their baked goods, the remembrance of those little heart-shaped sugar cookies seemed like the one meagre bright spot in the midst of a horrific nightmare.

I sat in my car for several minutes. The shop was only open about twenty minutes longer, and I craved coffee perhaps more than ever before, but I was having a hard time psyching myself up to go in now. I looked down at my hands; I couldn't seem to stop them from trembling.

Was I being ridiculous, feeling so panicked and hopeless? Maybe there was more to my life that I was simply missing at the moment because of a crappy mood. Didn't I still have friends? I'd been distant from them for quite a while, admittedly, but that didn't mean they weren't still there. I'd never really had serious talks with any of my friends before, but I could try. I thought about my buddy Jeff, whom I'd thought of as my closest friend for the last few years, and all the good times we'd had together in high school and beyond. He could be a bit of an asshole now and then, but I felt he had a good heart, and I was sure that if I needed to talk about something serious, he'd be there for me.

I navigated to Jeff's number in my phone contacts, my thumb hovering over it as I breathed raggedly. I wasn't sure I could trust my voice at the moment. Instead of calling, I opened a text.

[Hey--do you have a sec?]

I waited a couple of minutes and finally received a reply: [Sup?]

[Having a really shitty week I guess. I need to tell you something.]

[???]

I took a few deep breaths. My thumbs twitched, and then started typing again: [I'm gay...]

After a minute or two: [Ahahah yeah ok--come over here and suck my cock. Chris and Mike say they want thers sucked 2. Is this even Rick? Did someone jack ur phone dude?]

My heart thudded. There went the nausea again. My hands shook even harder. [This isn't a joke. OMG are you not alone? Did you actually tell people what I just told you? I'm not ready for everyone to know... >_<]

[Ur not serious??!!!]

[Yes I'm serious. I came out to my parents yesterday and now I'm telling you. Pls tell me you haven't actually told anyone!!]

[Um yeah Chris and Mike V are here, Jordan and his brother, Kim, JJ, and some other guys I'm not sure if u no... shit dude I literally just told everyone and there like freaking out ahaha]

I slammed my head against my steering wheel and groaned before typing again: [FUCK]

[Ur really serious? Really?? Like actually homo? If ur trolling me I'm gonna be pissed]

[Serious. Ugh. I guess the whole world's gonna know now. I was so not ready for this.]

[Shoulda told me right away not 2 tell. Why r u telling me tho?]

I glared at my phone. He wasn't apologizing for spilling the beans, and now I was starting to get the sense that Jeff didn't feel as close to me as I felt to him. [Because we're friends... I felt like I could trust you. Are you having a party or something? Why didn't anyone invite me?] The text seemed horribly whiny, but I sent it anyway.

[Umm I dunno, not really a party I guess, just sort of a last min hangout... srsly tho no offence but u been a downer lately, we just wanted 2 have some beers and lols]

This was more hurtful than I was prepared for. I felt like I'd been kicked in the chest. I was a downer? Had my friends been quietly hoping I'd just disappear from their lives? I swallowed and slowly started typing again. [I'm sorry if I haven't been myself... I'm in a rough patch and I just really need someone right now...]

[Dude r u in love with me or something???!! Oh ew is that what this is??]

My face twisted into horror. Gay or not, I'd never thought about Jeff that way, and even if I had, his reaction was... cruel. I shook my head slowly in disbelief. Everything he was saying seemed more and more offensive by the minute. I typed furiously, [FUCK YOU!]

I waited a few more minutes, my phone shaking in my hands. I begged myself to calm down. Probably I was overreacting to all this. A few minutes ago I'd been thinking about driving my car off a cliff; I obviously wasn't in my right mind.

Jeff's last text finally arrived: [Uhh no homo LOL... Lose my number dude. Go suck a dick.]

I gaped at the message for several minutes, lost in disbelief. I had no best friend. I didn't even have a friend. I thought of all the people he'd named, basically all of the friends from high school I'd kept in touch with--they were all a write-off now. I hadn't made any new friends in years. First my parents had basically disowned me, and now good old Jeff, whom I'd always somehow managed to like despite his foibles, had cut me off and taken everyone with him. I could imagine him yelling out gay jokes at his little get-together, laughing his ass off, and telling everyone that Homo Rick had made a big gay pass at him. That was the sort of guy he was. It struck me as deeply unsettling now that I'd ever been friends with him at all--even more so that I'd thought of him as my best friend. Perhaps my desperation to appear straight had driven me to deliberately ally myself with a loudmouthed homophobe as if to prove a point.

I received a new text message--it was from my friend Mike.

[U a faggot?]

I stared at the message, gutted. I had no response. I deleted the message, and then I deleted Mike from my contacts, followed by Jeff, and Chris, and Jordan, and several more. In retrospect I'd made the worst possible choice of friends in high school. They were lost to me now, and I felt like grieving even though they clearly hadn't been any good for me. Being alone in the world was a terrifying feeling.

What was the universe trying to do to me? Maybe I should have just ended things quickly and painlessly.

"Stop it," I whispered, shaking my head vehemently as I recognized how pathetic this defeatist thinking was. I glanced at the time on my phone. Only five minutes until the coffee shop closed. I had to at least have one good cup of coffee, and maybe a few cookies. Possibly they would make things seem a little bit brighter.

Or, a dark part of me still insisted, maybe they would be my last hurrah.

My legs felt weak and wobbly as I shuffled up to the counter to order. The staff were already cleaning up the tables in preparation for closing, but no one was telling me to go away. I looked over the menu on the wall, even though I always ordered the same thing. I finally looked down at the guy behind the cash register. He was very short and scrawny, sort of geeky-looking, freckle-faced, with a mop of auburn hair that stuck up in all directions. He looked back at me and smiled bashfully.

"H-hi," he said, grabbing an extra-large cup and beginning to write on it with a Sharpie.

"Extra-large Sumatran blend, double milk, double sugar," I recited robotically.

The boy nodded, giving another of those timid smiles. His eyes flicked up and down rapidly. "Anything... else?"

I remembered the cookies suddenly and glanced at the glass case that showed off the baked goods. There wasn't much in it at this point. "Do you guys have those... those little sugar cookies?"

His eyes widened. "We ran out--I'm s-sorry!" He cocked his head and smiled again. "Did I g-get you hooked?"

I furrowed my brow at him for a moment. He did look familiar, when I thought about it. He was the same kid who'd given me the cookies last night. Probably I'd seen him here plenty of times before.

"Yeah... yeah, I guess you did," I said slowly. I looked at the nametag pinned to his apron--Buddy. His name was Buddy. His eyes followed my line of sight, and he chuckled briefly.

"Yeah... that's... my real n-name," he said. His cheeks went pink, seeming to darken his freckles. "Sounds more like... a d-d-d...dog's name."

The corners of my mouth twitched a little. His stutter was sort of endearing--it, too, seemed distantly familiar. How long had I been coming to this coffee shop, ordering from this same boy, and never really noticing he existed? "Ah, hardly--my middle name is Benji, so don't talk to me about dog names," I replied, digging a handful of coins out of my pocket.

He grinned widely, and chuckled again. "Ah... hm. I think that's... actually... well, ha. Anyway... c-can I... get you something else? We have, uh... cinnamon buns. But I w-won't lie--they're n-not the best."

I shook my head. "Just the coffee."

He rang up the sale. "Three ten."

I handed over three dollars and ten cents in change, and then drifted over to the prep area without waiting for a receipt.

I received my coffee and turned to leave, but paused when I spotted the table I had been sitting at with my parents last night. It spurred a fresh bout of misery that flooded my chest and settled deep in my gut. I glanced back at the counter, and noticed Buddy watching me as he took off his apron. His brow was creased with concern. I realized he must have witnessed at least some of my disastrous coming out. Was that why he randomly gave me cookies? I felt horribly embarrassed all of a sudden and turned quickly to leave.

I let out a huff as I collapsed back into the driver's seat of my car, tossing last night's empty coffee cup into the backseat to make room in the cupholder for my fresh coffee. I thought for a moment about where I might drive while I enjoyed my coffee. Home... or somewhere else. Maybe this cup of coffee really would be my last. I could just start driving and let my gut lead me.

When I turned the key in the ignition, all I got was a loud clicking noise--not even a hint of a crank. I felt as if I could vomit.

"Goddamn fucking piece of shit car!" I screamed, beating the steering wheel with my fists. "No, no, please don't do this to me now!"

I tried again and again to start it, but only got that click. I slumped over the wheel, breathing hard. My head felt like it was spinning. My heart thudded rapidly. I felt cold, and then very hot, and sweat broke out across my forehead. Everything hit me all at once--my parents, my friends, my job, even the ice cream I'd lost. And my car. My stupid car, that I'd neglected to get repaired when I'd first noticed starter problems. I fought to breathe, pulling in deep, rapid inhalations that barely seemed to fill my lungs. Spots danced in front of my eyes; I could barely tell which way was up. I was drowning. I was dying.

I cried out in pure, raw terror when someone tapped on my window.

"Are you okay?" whoever was standing next to my car exclaimed.

I stared at the ghostly face; my vision swam. "No!" I choked out.

Abruptly the person pulled my door open and got right in my face.

"Look at me--watch my eyes!" he said firmly. His voice seemed to be travelling through a tunnel. A pair of cool, soft hands rested on either side of my face and kept my head still and pointed at him. I continued to heave in panicked breaths as I struggled to focus my kaleidoscopic vision on the face in front of me. Gradually I made out a scattering of freckles. Buddy--it was Buddy, the coffee boy. But he wasn't a boy at all. He was a man--a small-statured one, certainly, but his manner in this moment commanded authority. I found his eyes--it was dark outside, but with my car door open, the interior light was on and illuminated him in a dim but warm light--they were blue, or maybe green, or maybe grey.

"Okay, Richard, you're just fine," he said in a loud, clear, steady voice. "Keep looking at me." His hands left my face; one settled on my shoulder, and the other reached for my right hand. He pressed it against his chest. "You're going to breathe with me now. Breathe along with me, Richard."

I wasn't sure if I was dead or dreaming or completely insane, but nothing seemed to make sense right now, so I just followed the instructions being imposed on me. My hand was sandwiched between his hand and his ribs; I felt a rapid heartbeat. His chest swelled with a deep inhalation, and I inhaled with him. He exhaled through his mouth; I did the same.

"Good, Richard. Keep it up. Deep breath in... and out."

I kept my eyes fixed on his. It must have lasted several minutes. He very gradually slowed his breaths, and I slowed mine, along with my heart and mind. My sense of reality finally started to return, though I still felt dazed and now terribly exhausted.

"You're doing great, Richard," Buddy said. He let my hand drop, but continued to hang onto my shoulder. "Tell me something--tell me what's happening."

"Heart attack?" I blurted. "Dying--going crazy?"

He shook his head and smiled. "You're only having a panic attack. You're going to be just fine. Are you having a problem with your car?"

I slowly turned my head back toward the steering wheel. I tried turning the key again, and got that same clicking noise. The panic started to return.

"No, no--steady, Richard!" Buddy exclaimed, turning my face back toward his. "Forget about the car, okay? We'll take care of it. I'm here, and I'm gonna help you out, okay?"

I nodded dumbly.

"I've seen this before," he continued. "You could have a battery issue, but I think it's most likely your starter solenoid. Either way, the repair is easy and fairly inexpensive. Do you have a good mechanic, Richard?"

I shook my head.

"Well, you're in luck--I know a great one!" He smiled widely and squeezed both of my shoulders. "You relax, drink your coffee, and I'll take care of this for you, all right?"

I nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. I picked up my coffee cup and cradled it in my hands, shutting my eyes as I slumped back against my seat. I was barely aware of him typing on his phone as he paced back and forth outside my car. I had never been so exhausted in my life.

Buddy eventually opened my passenger door and sat down. "Feeling a bit calmer?"

I looked at him curiously and answered with a drowsy nod.

"Good. I texted Bernie, my mechanic--he can have a look at your car tomorrow. If it's what we think it is, you'll probably have it back by the end of the day, and it should cost you under two hundred bucks--no guarantees on that, though. Bernie's sending a tow truck--it's too late for him to do anything today but they'll tow your car to his place, leave it in his yard, and pop your car key through his mail slot. I'll email him all your info tonight, and you should be good to go. Is it okay if I have a peek through your registration?" He placed a hand on my glove box.