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]
