A Bruised Ego

Ted Hanscomb hadn’t been feeling so great lately. Loneliness and the weight of age were pressing down on him like a device in a dungeon. When he awoke in the afternoon (he worked third shift) the encroaching day felt drastic in some vague way. Like a last chance at something. His repetitive daily schedule was like a calendar on a prison wall and he was just Xing out the days until the final rest of death. Marking time. Waiting for change. 

So when a shift in his fortunes occurred it improved his mood, no matter how damaging or frightening the sudden new inclusion was.    

He’d suffered a seizure yesterday and smashed his face against a wooden crate. The crate was packed with his vintage porn magazines and they spilled across the floor under the impact like a scattered deck of cards. The accident turned half his face into a huge multicolored bruise. His right eyeball was a black grape. It leaked for days. Thick rheumy tears tinged with yellow. 

Finally, Ted thought, my face matches my disposition. 

He stared at the massacre in his bathroom reflection for half an hour, fascinated by the sheer violence in his new expression. The swelling was incredible. He sported double shiners and a broken nose. It hurt when he blew the blood from his sinus cavity and reactivated his nosebleed. Several balled-up paper towels would decorate his nightstand for days, brown and brittle with dried blood. It was a weird miracle that he hadn’t lost his front teeth. 

He counted the colors in his bruise; blue, black, yellow and purple. Four. Four distinct colors and blended variations of each. He was a pus-weeping work of art.   

He went to work the next day wearing his bruises like body art. Like a cool new tattoo. He was met with dismay from everybody who saw him. His face was shocking, like a miniature suicide. Some people asked him what happened. Most did not. It was interesting. People, at the first sign of ugliness or trouble, hide. Ignore. Run away. Pretend nothing was wrong. 

Ted couldn’t help wondering what Melvin Lennon’s reaction would be. What would he say? He’d been partnered-up with Melvin to operate the consolidation hatch (the company rotated its employees around in a futile effort to keep them stimulated) and they would shoot the shit to combat the tedium of the tasks. Melvin managed to inject wisdom into the shit he shot. Melvin was good people. Ted admired his intellect and easy charm.    

The girl behind the counter at the coffee shop handed him his dark roast with wincing, inquisitive eyes but didn’t ask about his wounds. Most people would jump to the conclusion that such injuries were incurred from angry fists (probably deservedly). Or a police baton (probably deservedly).  

Ted found that he enjoyed wearing assumed infamy on his face. 

In fact he felt renewed. Reinvigorated. Like he’d been blessed with a new identity. The dark mystery of physical trauma. The pain he’d endured was a fair trade for this new shocking disguise.

“Yo, dude! What the fuck happened to your face?” Chuck Finster asked him in the break room before their shift started. Chuck was eighteen and his curiosity overpowered any polite workplace decorum he may have entertained. 

Ted considered spinning a tale of bravery and derring-do. Fending off a street- gang attack. Or rescuing a damsel from a crazed rapist. Maybe he hit a telephone pole during a drag race and (somehow) still won.     

But “I fell,” was all he told him. 

“From the fucking Chrysler Building?”

“No.”

“You fucking crippled your face.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you even fucking see out of your eye?”

Ted closed his left eye. His vision was blurred but still there. 

“Yes.”

“That’s a fucking miracle, dude.”

Their shift manager, George Plunkett entered the break room and zeroed in on Ted’s damaged face. George was in his fifties and a loyal, long-time company man. A lifer. Ted reckoned George would ultimately meet his demise on company property and they’d bury him under the machines.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked in the booming voice he used on the noisy work floor. George was always in work mode. He couldn’t shut himself down. His poor wife.

“I fell,” said Ted.

“Yeah? How many times?”

Chuck chuckled.

“Once.” 

“Can you work?”

“Yes.”

“Brave man. I like to see it. Okay then, punch in.”

“Okay.”

The employees left the break room and wandered to the work floor, lining up at the time clock. Ted looked around for Melvin Lennon but couldn’t find him. His other coworkers indulged errant glances at his disfigured face but only Chico Morales confronted him about it. Chico was around his own age (30s) and liked to talk. “Hey man, I heard about that spill you took,” he said. “You look like Harvey Dent!”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, no offense. It makes you look dramatic.”

Ted nodded. It was one of the coolest things anyone had ever said to him.

During the shift, as the other employees grew used to his new appearance, he had to hear the, “You should see the other guy!” joke several times. It wore thin after two. 

Melvin still hadn’t appeared so Ted worked the unsorted bivalves on the consolidation hatch with Pamela MacGregor, a single mom going through menopause. She liked to talk about her life changes and symptoms.

“You look like I feel,” she told him.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? What the hell do you have to be sorry about?”

Ted shrugged. “Nothing.” 

“My knees are killing me tonight. Don’t ever go through menopause, Ted.”

“Heh, okay.”

At midnight Ted broke for lunch. The lunch hours were staggered among the crews to keep production rolling without pause. Ted never ate. He always felt sick at work. He wondered if they were being exposed to toxins in this work environment. Maybe he had stomach cancer. Maybe he could sue the company and never have to work again. 

Ted plucked a tattered magazine from the rack, an old issue of Field and Stream. The magazines in the break room were all boring and terrible. Ted sat and looked at the ads.  

Melvin Lennon entered the break room, carrying a small bucket of food. 

He took one look at Ted’s face and sighed, shaking his head. 

“Do I have to ask?” he said.

“Hi Mel,” Ted said. He was eager to hear what Melvin thought about his scary monster face. His new tough-guy disguise.  

Melvin sat at the table across from him. Bob Huggins was at the table as well, eating pickled cabbage out of a glass jar. 

Melvin said, “It’s alcohol related, isn’t it?”

“What?” Ted tried to smile through lopsided pain. His face felt tenderized.

“Don’t play dumb, Teddy-boy. I work by your side. You stink of whiskey most nights. And beer on the others. Was it a car accident or did you just collapse in an alley?”

“Uh, n-no. Neither.” His crooked smile had dropped off.

“Bar fight?”

Ted shook his head.

“Then explain.”

Ted shrugged.  “A seizure. I had one.”

“You been getting those a lot lately, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, kind of. Not really.”

“How many different answers are you gonna give, Teddy?”

“None. Just those.”

“You need to get your shit together, my friend.” 

Ted noticed that Bob Huggins had stopped chewing cabbage to eavesdrop. When Ted rotated his eyes back to Melvin, he had to wipe away a yellow tear with a napkin. It was thick as snot. His eyeball burned. 

“Do you enjoy being a loser?” Melvin asked. “Are you looking forward to losing this job? Drinking yourself to death?”

“Uh, well no, Mel. Uh…”

“Thing is, Teddy. Y’know why I’m late today? I was in a meeting upstairs. I got promoted to shift manager.”

“Oh? Congra—“ 

“No. Shut up and listen. That means I’m your boss now. It also means that if you show up to work drunk or hungover one more time, you’re done. This is a dangerous place. People can get seriously hurt here. I can’t afford to keep people around that put others at risk because of their stupid, irresponsible behavior.”

“Uh, I….”

“No. Shut up. I like you, Teddy. That’s why I’m giving you this warning. Straighten out or you’re out on your ass. Understand?”

“Yeah, but….”

“No. Do. You. Understand?”

“Yeah, Mel. Jeez.”

“Good. Your face is disturbing and your vision is impaired. Go home, Teddy. Take tomorrow off and try to pull yourself together over the weekend. Come back on Monday. And you better be straight as a new nail. Got it?”

“Sure, Mel. Of course.”

“Good. Then go.”

Ted folded the magazine closed and returned it to the rack.

“Sorry, Mel.”

Melvin ignored his tepid apology. He was removing food from the plastic pail; cold fried chicken, a small bunch of green grapes, a carton of milk and a wax baggie of oatmeal cookies.

Ted left the building, feeling chided into oblivion, distraught. His face hurt worse than before. He wanted to vomit but there was nothing inside him worth purging. 

He drove home. He considered stopping at the 24-hour Debbie-Mart but felt too embarrassed by his face now. He had to hide. He needed to conceal his ugly mug until it healed. 

He’d look better on Monday. He’d be back to his old self then. And not so disturbing-looking.      

It was a good thing Melvin Lennon was his manager now. It was a real wake-up call. He’d have to improve now. 

And become a better person at work.