Cracked

The man before me was wearing a hat. I felt the frustration rise in the back of my mind. My fingers stuffed errant blond strands underneath my own stocking hat as my breath puffed out in fluffy white mists. It was cold out here. Winter. All four of the men were wearing the same orange hat coupled with the same orange jacket and black work slacks. Darn uniforms. I can never tell anyone apart this way.

It all stems from my Traumatic Brain Injury. One of the symptoms I suffer is the inability to distinguish between faces. I rely on other visual cues such as hair color and length, beards, and such. All four of these men look exactly the same to me. They could be anybody--or somebody I know really well. But I have no idea. I fought back the instinct to frown with mild panic, schooling my features into cool nonchalance instead. I’m known as a playful, easy going, unflappable person—very few people know I’m faking it.

I had to mull over what the man said. “You can’t throw that part at me this time. I didn’t order it!” Well. That tells me two things. At some point, he teased me enough that I threatened bodily harm, and he knows who I am. Which means that I should know who he is. My cheeks cooled as panic drained the blood from upper extremities, sending it toward vital parts to fuel a fight or flight instinct.

My weight shifted from one foot to the other, an action intended to stretch time for the construction of a plausible, but generic, response. “I threw something at you? I don’t remember that.” I squinted sideways at him as though weighing his worth. “What did you do wrong?”

The other three laughed. The man that spoke had glasses—I’d noticed that detail rather late. The finer points sometimes elude me. His lips pursed in a mock pout. “What makes you think I did something wrong? What’s to say it wasn’t you?”

“Because I threw and you… well, you don’t have anything broken, so I’m assuming you caught.” More laughter from the others accompanied sidelong glances and gestured allusions to vague vulgarities. Come on guy, give me a clue here. I don’t know who you are. I set the aircraft part on the ground in another play for time. These mechanics thought I was just ribbing the poor guy, but I really just wanted to know who the heck he is. Without having to explain the whole brain injury thing and then get the standard twin reactions of obligatory pity and awkward social distance. I use humor and evasiveness to mask my symptoms.

Mr. Glasses cracked a grin. “You didn’t throw it hard enough.”

“Must not have been that mad then.” I offered a shrug.

“Or you can’t throw for squat.”

My blue eyed gaze snapped up to his face. A smirk laced across my mouth. I jerked the part off the ground, “Wanna test that theory?” All four men jumped a few steps back, nervous school boy giggles chasing their placating, outstretched hands.

Glasses chirped, “Nonono! I’m good!”

I smiled sweet satisfaction. I still had control of the situation. It was the only thing I really had any control over. Inside my broken mind, I was frantically trying to dig through scattered and half formed memories for the last time I threw something. Maybe it would help if I knew what I had thrown. More likely I had only threatened to throw something. My cool demeanor generally didn’t allow for such acts of violence unless thoroughly provoked. I dropped the part at my feet to give myself time for reorganizing my face. Panic was trying to widen my eyes and tighten my mouth.

Dismissing Glasses, I turned to the man on the far right. He had an air of authority emanating from underneath all that glowing orange. “So. Here’s your stuff, yo.” My fingers tapped the top of the part box resting against my leg. “Love to stay and play, but I gotta get. Supply’s running full tilt tonight. I’m double teaming: driving and picking in the warehouse. Dispatch is gonna start crying for me in a minute.”

Mr. Authority flashed a big smile with a wink. They always took my playfulness as flirting. All the better to hide my mental disabilities. I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth and glanced over my shoulder at the other three men. “Keep ya boy on his leash, ah-ight?” Authority laughed. Two mechanics shoved at the third.

I headed for my truck, allowing my face to morph into my real emotions. Panic tugged at the corners of my lips while frustration pulled my brows together and narrowed my eyes. My fingers brushed tufts of blond hair under my own hat. I still didn’t know who that guy was. The only comfort I could take reassurance in was that he would undoubtedly remind me of the conversation next time I came across him. Maybe then he wouldn’t be wearing that darned hat.