Callused

The morning was crisp and biting. His face was etched by an aversion to sunscreen and a life spent primarily exposed. His eyes once felt kind and alive, but they had retreated to the back of his sockets, sunken and cold. His clothes were dusted and worn. A simple button-up shirt with a vaguely plaid pattern tucked into blue jeans with an all-too-large belt buckle. He wore a trucker hat he'd acquired from a dive bar several years prior. The pocket of his jeans featured a worn circle from the can of chew that used to occupy it. He stopped chewing three years ago and missed it more than anything.

"John! You just staring or you wanna help here?" A gruff voice echoed from his right.

"Yeah, shit, just lost in thought," John said, half annoyed.

He grabbed a bale of hay near his feet and started carrying it the short distance to throw it on the stack. They were 110's; John preferred 40s but always enjoyed the pressure the twine put into his palm with a 110. The way the twine bit into his hand was comforting.

"Hey, how many trucks we got coming in today?" John yelled.

"Two more. It's an easy day... I think it's only 2 ton."

John tossed the bale onto the pile and shifted it into place. He looked at his hands, worn and leathery. He never wore gloves anymore. John would often claim gloves hindered his ability to feel, but in reality, it wasn't his gloves but his calluses that deadened his feeling.

Feeling wasn't something John was good at. His father's voice still echoed in his memory: "A man’s job is to work and provide, no time for whining." Twenty years later, and he still flinched at displays of emotion. Emotionally, John only knew how to be stoic or angry. He tried to exist entirely in his stoicism, to treat his mind like his hands and deaden all feeling. That way he could just work, eat, sleep, and pass on to nothingness.

Due to the pressures of community, John attended church regularly. He didn't like it and often just fell into what others would call a meditative state. John liked to think he was simple; he formed what opinions he had based on this desire for simplicity. If he could be left alone, he would wake up, have coffee, work, eat a sandwich, work some more, and then head home for 2-4 beers before falling asleep on his small mattress.

John never much liked women or really being around them. He would accept dates to appease his friends who set him up, but they never amounted to anything. John wasn't much of a looker, or a talker for that matter. Beyond women, John didn’t really like people. He saw them as an unfortunate side effect of existence and preferred to be alone.

"HEY! The fuck is wrong with you today? Grab a fucking bale!" John's coworker Bill yelled.

"Yeah, I got it, Bill. Second truck isn't even here. Calm the fuck down."

John pushed himself into a faster pace. Grabbing bales, throwing them on the stack, quick shift, repeat. The day moved from a biting morning to a mid-day muggy heat as the dew started to dry off the blades of grass. The smell of all things horse hung in the air.

John's auto-pilot that got him through most scenarios seemed to be malfunctioning. He kept losing himself in thought, when typically he was able to push any and all thoughts down. But today they kept leaking, like the lid wouldn't stay completely sealed. The rhythm of work that usually quieted his mind now felt like a drumbeat amplifying his thoughts instead. He found himself, for the first time, distracted by how boring his job was, saddened by how stupid Bill was, and for the first time, John wondered if there was more.

More... this was a new and dangerous thought for John. He'd never wanted more, or at least never admitted to it in his own mind. The world outside of the four stop signs and roughly 800 people in this town was not one John had ever really taken interest in. He had been raised to fear it. Those people will hurt you, those people will take your things, those people don't respect you. John had never actually met "those people." What if they wouldn't?

"Hey! How many bales you got left on that truck? Ted's probably coming in with the last load in 25 mins," Bill called from the side of the barn where he was taking a quick break to smoke 3-4 cigarettes and pace back and forth as he was known to do.

"Ten. I can have it done, and you can move this truck when you're done smoking," John called back.

"Well, aren't you just my knight in shining armor," Bill said in a put-on accent.

A sharp tinge of anger ran up John's spine, and he felt as though he was close to losing his control.

"Hey John, since you're so generous, want to actually do some work on the last truck so we can go home before the sun bakes us? Lazy fuck," Bill kept calling.

The sharp tinge struck again, this time more intensely. John felt his hands clench and tears form in the corner of his eyes. His jaw tightened as he held back words that seemed to want to explode out of his mouth. Flashes of violence entered his mind; he pictured slamming Bill's face into the mud and horseshit before kicking him in the ribs.

"John, do you hear me? Or did you just go take a nap somewhere? Jesus, I hope they fire your ass... 'bout time we get some real help around here. Must be nice keeping a job that you don't even do," Bill continued loudly in between drags from his cigarette.

John, without thought, slammed his hand into the side of the barn. The cracking sound of the old wood seemed to shake his thoughts free for a brief second. What was he doing? This shit doesn't matter. Bill is an idiot; don't let him get to you, John thought.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? You having a tantrum in there, John?"

His name felt like a light switch for his consciousness. John felt his vision fade. This was similar to his typical auto-pilot in that he felt serene and seemed to be transported through time and space without a complete understanding of the world around him. There was a notable difference this time. Instead of just flowing through repetitive tasks until he could drive home to a cold beer in the fridge, this auto-pilot feeling was filled with a swirl of emotions.

The leak had turned into a full-on dam break flooding his system. Pain, sadness, despair, boredom, anger, laughter, joy... they all filled his system in a rush. Like any mixing liquids, it became impossible to separate them.

Lost in the rush of emotion, John felt his legs propel him forward. He was moving quickly, distinctly, and aggressively toward Bill. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, and the edges of his vision darkened like a vignette around a photograph. John felt as though he was swimming in the flood of emotions behind his own eyes, unable to control anything that was occurring. He felt as though he was screaming "Don't!" inside his own skull, but his body wouldn't respond. He watched in horror as his hand slapped the cigarette out of Bill's mouth and followed immediately by kneeing Bill in the stomach. He felt a launch of hands and feet punching and kicking at Bill, sending him reeling to the barn wall.

Bill, out of confusion and shock, had resorted to curling up in a defensive position. John's body didn't seem to care, though. He kept launching punch after punch until Bill crumpled to the ground, calling out for help while he fought to remain alive.

John, trapped inside his own body, had begun to notice that there was blood splattering. It was a mixture of Bill's and his own. He wanted to stop; he didn't even want to be doing this to begin with. John tried to stop his body—he wanted to end this, to run away, to just not be trapped behind his own eyes.

"WOAH! JOHN, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? STOP! STOP!" A voice shouted, and John could hear the noise of the truck door slam and footsteps crunching the dry grass on their way over.

"JOHN, JESUS! HE'S DONE, JOHN! STOP!" The voice rang.

John felt a firm grip on his shoulder rip him to the ground and pin him down before a thick hand slapped him on the side of the cheek.

"Holy shit, John, what happened?" said the voice, who John could now see belonged to Ted, the truck driver.

John felt his rage slip into something he wasn't used to expressing—sadness. His eyes welled, and he felt shame and guilt for getting lost in his emotions. He felt dread as he realized he was regaining control. He didn't want control now.

"YOU PIECE OF SHIT..." Bill shouted as he stumbled to his feet and rushed as best he could over, kicking dust at John.

"HEY, GO SIT IN THE TRUCK! NO NEED TO MAKE THIS WORSE. YOU KNOW IT WAS YOUR FUCKING MOUTH THAT CASHED HIS TICKET," Ted shouted.

Ted was large. He made Bill and John look like saplings beside an old-growth oak. Ted was built for the harsh reality of farm life. He was tall, stocky, and if you were to hit him, it would hurt your hand more than his face. Ted was also kind, but most people knew that you didn't want to test the limits of that kindness.

Bill listened to Ted and shuffled off.

"John, you good? I'm going to let you up, then you can just get in the truck, and we will go chat about this," Ted said calmly, with a sense of authority that demanded respect.

"Yeah, I just..." John started a thought.

"No, we're going to cool off before you say anything. Just get in the truck. The day's over," Ted said.

John crawled into the truck, unable to look up for fear of making eye contact with anyone. He sat feeling deep shame and regret. Bill was an idiot, but he didn't deserve this. John could hear Ted tell everyone he was calling a friend to unload the last of the hay and that Bill needed to get home and lick his wounds. John slumped in the bench seat of the old truck. Nothing's going to be simple anymore, he thought as he awaited whatever would come next, his hands still trembling with the aftermath of finally feeling something real.