Moments: A BWWM Short Story Collection

XXVI. Loser (Pt. 1 of 5)

"No, I'm sorry, Mr. Grayson, we can't keep employing you here any longer."

"So it's "Mr. Grayson" now?" I asked, desperation leaking into my grizzled voice. "Not "Shawn"? Come on, Andy! I've never missed a day and I work twice as hard as anyone! Ask whoever you want, they'll tell you that my integrity is above reproach!"

Andy shot me a dark look as he jabbed a finger in my chest.

"Integrity, huh?! This company expects honesty from its employees, not covering up the truth! The fact remains that you're an ex-con and you failed to report that when you signed up with us! You're fired, Grayson; so get out of here before I call the cops!"

I opened my mouth, but Andy was already walking back to the loading dock. The heady smell of fresh timber burned in my nose as I made my way back to my car, and I kept my eyes to the horizon so as not to see myself as I changed out of my uniform.

It wasn't that I was ashamed of my body. Actually, considering hard labor was one of the best options available to me, I was more fit than I'd ever been. I also liked the way my heavy blonde beard constated with my close-shaved hair for a strong, yet approachable appearance. It was the tattoos I'd gotten in prison sheathing me from the neck down that weighed upon my soul like chains of black.

I was stupid; I'll be the first to admit that. I wasted my youth in anger and cheap beer, bitter that my dad had left my family without an explanation. When my friend Brian's crew went to rob a convenience store ATM, I thought it sounded fun. What we didn't know was that the owner called the police the moment he saw us pull up, and I soon found myself handcuffed in the back of a cruiser speeding off to county.

We all got sentenced to ten years, but after six months of impotent anger, I decided to try going straight. I became a model prisoner, and the warden nominated me for parole after I served minimum time. But fast-forward another four years and sixth months, and here I was, still struggling to earn a living in this cold world.

As it turned out, being an ex-con wasn't good for your job prospects. No matter how I pointed out my good behavior and qualifications, I got nothing but doors slammed in my face. So I started lying about my past, hoping to slip under the radar while I scraped out a living in my run-down apartment.

I squeezed my eyes shut as I pulled my long-sleeved tee over my chest. I was overdue on rent already, and now that the lumberyard had kicked me out, I was back to square one. I'd have to pick up another round of classifieds on the way home, then...

Honestly, there was no "then." I had little to my name except my phone, a few changes of clothes, and a sedan that was so beaten up you couldn't tell the make or model. I wrenched open the door of said car, feeling that familiar sensation of walls closing in around me as I backed out of the gravelly parking lot.

I managed to get the radio on after the usual difficulty, and the morning highway stretched out before me as a back-masked acoustic guitar blared from the speakers. I groaned aloud as I recognized the song, cursing the cruel irony fate had handed me.

Breathe in right away, nothin' seems to fill this plaaace. I need this every time, so take your lies, get off my caaase. Someday I will find, a love that flows through me like this... and this will fall away, this will fall awayyyyy!

Normally I liked 3 Doors Down; but having "Loser" blasting in my ears after getting fired for the third time in two months was nothing short of torture. I turned the dial to shut the radio off, only for it to snap in my hands and turn the volume up louder. I hurled the knob into the shotgun seat, seething as I stopped before a red light.