Resonance

An alarm rings in the warehouse. Ricky turns his head and spots a red light atop a large beam over an enormous machine. The light starts blinking slowly and spins. Unsure of what it could mean, he takes a cautious step back. That thing must be starting up, he thinks to himself. He looks around to see if others are retreating or clearing way, but only sees the pallet jack full of castings he left by the big garage door. A thunderous sharp boom and shake hits as Ricky flinches, covering his ears instinctively. He’s now facing the gigantic hammer. There’s ringing in his ears and his teeth are tingling. Even his legs are buzzing after feeling the shock through the ground. He doesn’t move. Struck by awe, he continues watching as the gargantuan weight slowly rises as if by magic. The industrial hammer looks far too huge to be lifted so quickly. A faint voice is heard behind him. “RICKY!” the man yells out. He waves his hands, beckoning him over. Ricky looks back over his shoulder but doesn’t see anyone else. “Ricky! Get your ass over here!” The man closes in quickly, grabs Ricky’s sleeve, and pulls him hard. Another deafening bang erupts; Ricky feels his eyes vibrate, his hands clench up. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again wide to reorient himself. His hands didn’t cover his ears in time. The forge rears up again for another strike, mechanically slow and massive. He’s shoved again and pulled through a doorway. He falls hard onto his ass, scrambles to get up. The floor’s filthy. “The fuck! All I told you to do was set the pallet of binsoutsidethe forge. I come looking to see what the hell took so long, and Tracy tells me you just fucking walked in there? You can NOT be by the forge without proper hearing protection! What were you thinking?” he says as he angrily lets down his large earmuffs and hangs his safety glasses in his shirt pocket. The man’s voice goes on and on while Ricky leans back against the wall, trying to shake the vibration in his feet. His vision won’t focus; it’s like he can’t fix his eyes on a single point. The ringing in his ears won’t stop. Then another tug on his shirt. He looks up, finally recognizing the man’s face. “Jesus Christ, Rick, your ears are bleeding. Can you hear me at all?” The man squares him up, turning his face to check. “Yeah. I can hear you. It’s just real stuffed up. Like I’m underwater or something. The doors were open so I just wanted to look around. Sorry.” Ricky brings his hand to his ear, feels warmth on his fingertips. When he looks at them, they’re streaked red. He brings them to his lips—tastes iron. It smells like static. The supervisor starts walking, and Ricky follows. “I didn’t know we had a forge. Is that what that was?” he asks as they travel through the hallway. A dulled bang reverberates through the walls, and Ricky flinches. He wipes his ear with his shoulder and sees the red smear. “What do you mean? What do youthinkthat loud banging is every day?” the man snaps, brows furrowed. “I… I don’t know. I just figured it was machines or something.” His voice sounds strange in his own head, distant, foreign.Do I always sound like that to people? “You work at a damn foundry! You see all the shit we ship out every day. C’mon, man.” The man sounds angry, but there’s a smile anyway. They step out into the fresh air but it still carries the faint scent of oils and metal. He uses the radio on his shoulder to mumble something, then freezes in place, staring at the ground while he waits for a reply. “Just because it’s a foundry doesn’t always mean there’s a forge…” Ricky mutters, running a hand over his face. His voice sounds young, almost like a kid being a smart-ass. Radio chatter crackles, and the man moves again. “C’mon, we’re going to see Sarah. She needs to check you out.” Ricky follows, taking a few quick steps to catch up. He only saw Sarah once—maybe when he first got hired. She was nice. Some kind of doctor.Would the on-site medical staff even be a doctor?Funny how she’s probably seen all their dicks during the physical exam. “Is that the doctor lady?” he asks, shaking a finger in his ear, trying to pop the weird pressure. Pain spikes; the ringing grows louder. He stops and wipes his finger on his pants. “Sarah, is that her name?” he asks again, louder this time. A forklift stops at an intersection as his lead jogs across. Ricky hurries after him but stumbles. He looks back— but nothing to trip on. The ground seems to rotate beneath him. Arms catch him as his vision blurs. “Hey. Hey! Maybe you need to sit.” The man’s face looms over him.Am I laying down? “Yeah, sure. Guess I’m just a little clumsy today.” Someone helps him up. He braces his hands on his knees, but the ground tilts again. He feels them hold him steady as his legs tremble. He sits slowly, closing his eyes. Everything keeps spinning. Voices blur around him. It’s been such a long day. Everything’s getting warmer. Didn’t we just have snow? He opens his eyes. His boss is on the radio again, frozen in that strange way while waiting for a reply.Weird dude.The man from the forklift says some things to the supervisor and hops back on to leave. His gut stirs. A headache blooms in his temples, tightening his neck. He rolls his head to stretch it but nearly tips over.What the hell’s going on? No way I’m drunk, right? I don’t even buy beer. He shakes his head. Dizzy again. He pulls his knees up, rests his head on his arms. A nap would feel incredible right now. Taking deep breaths, his thoughts are loose, hard to concentrate on. This isn’t typical for him, he realizes, then tries to recount his steps to figure out how why he fell. “Richard? Can you hear me?” A soft voice. A woman’s. He opens his eyes, and she’s right there, kneeling. Gold frames on her glasses catch the light. “Do you know where you are?” she asks, slipping on medical gloves and resting a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, I can hear. I’m, uh… I’m at work.”Stupid. Of course I’m at work. “Can you tell me the name of the company? What day is it?” She turns his face to the side. He winces, eyes shut tight to fight the spinning. His hands press against the ground—it feels like they sink right through it until he feels the gravel and asphalt. He forces himself upright. “It’s Thursday. This is Tanning Foundry Inc—no, Falls Metal Works. Tanning Foundry was the old name.” He clears his throat, blinking until things finally settle. The world stops spinning. Sarah studies him closely, eyes darting around his face. She has really nice blue eyes, he realizes, before she flashes a bright light into his own. “Wow, that’s really bright,” he mutters. “Richard, sit tight for a bit. I don’t think there’s any serious injury, but we should check you out in my office.” Her voice is smooth, calm. “Okay,” he says, louder than he means to. She rises, speaking quietly to Jeff. Jeff’s always been kind of a prick, but Ricky gets it—man deals with crap workers all day. Ricky sees Jeff point at him, then toward the forge. “I told him to drop it off outside and to not go in. Yes. I told him about the hearing protection.” Jeff says. Told me what? All he’d said was to move the pallet to the big doors. No warning of wearing earplugs, or to stay out of the forging building. Maybe Ricky wasn’t listening or paying attention then. Sarah walks off, and Jeff sits on a stack of boxes a few feet away, pulling out a cigarette. Ricky reaches into his pocket for his own pack—it’s crushed. A few broken ones left. He finds one that’s bent but still smokeable and pats around for his lighter. Nothing. A whistle. Jeff holds up a lighter, gestures that he’s tossing it. Ricky cups his hands, misses completely, and it clatters to the ground. He reaches for it, scoots forward, finally grabs it. At least the ground feels solid again. He lights the cigarette, takes a slow drag. Pressure builds in his ears. Strange. Whatever. He tosses the lighter back—it falls short. He flexes his hand a few times. Maybe Jeff will chalk it up to whatever’s wrong with him. His body feels sluggish anyway. He finishes the cigarette, snuffs it on the ground, and tucks the butt back into the pack. The afternoon light seems unusually bright. Sarah returns with a security guard pushing a wheelchair. Ricky tries to stand but sways, lightheaded. He steadies himself on the wall as they help him down into the chair. Sarah’s hand on his back is warm, steadying. As they roll toward the main building, Ricky glances over his shoulder. Jeff’s already gone—just a smoldering butt and a faint ember on the ground. The guard wheels Ricky along the pavement of the complex. The warmth of the sun hits his clothes, absorbed into the fabric and warms him up. His fingers interlock in his lap, thumbs pressing into each other as he considers using the wheel chair by himself. There wasn’t a time that he has used a wheelchair before besides messing around with one that his friend had when they were younger. “Have you been in that building before? The forge?” Sarah asks as she walks beside them. “No, I only heard the bangs sometimes. I’m usually on the other side of the factory, in the shipping warehouse.” he replies. It’s not often that his department moves materials around. They’re usually moving things onto trucks and vans, taking inventory, rarely leaving the warehouse to other buildings on the grounds. Before long, they enter the main building and he’s wheeled into Sarah’s office. He moves to the chair next to a desk against the wall while the guard leaves with the wheel chair and Sarah thanks him. Ricky takes a deep breath and wipes his ear again with his shoulder. This time the texture on the skin of his ear is rough, the blood is mostly dried. He observes the documents framed on the wall and sees some kind of certification or degree that is addressed to a “Dr. Sarah Parson.” The doctor grabs a light off the wall and leans closer to look into his ears. He turns his head to the other side for her to check both ears. He sits back, trying to sit straight instead of his usual lax slouch. She jots some notes down and turns back to face Ricky. She sets her hands down on her knees with a soft slap. “Okay, looks like it was minor hemorrhaging, your ear drums seem fine. Probably some tinnitus. Your ears might be ringing for a day or two but I don’t think you need any further medical attention. Take some ibuprofen or acetaminophen if they cause any aches or pain. I do recommend taking the rest of the day off to get some rest.” “Thanks Doc, I’m glad you’re around for guys like me.” He says as he starts to get up. “Just make sure to take it easy. The sound could’ve affected your balance, thus your fall.” She fills out a form and hands it to him. He reads the top and sees that it's some kind of note for his supervisor, like a doctor's note. “Take care, let me know if anything changes.” She then returns to her notes. He leaves, closing the door carefully and heads down the hall they came from earlier.She didn’t even hear me thank her. He makes his way over back to the warehouse where it's unusually quiet. People are still going on about their work, a couple of glances from others come his way, none paying much attention. He sees Jeff standing, speaking to two others. Sean and Jayce. Ricky has been working with them since he started a few years ago. They’re both nice whenever they went out after work, but never really hung out for real. He’s not even sure where they live. As he approaches Jeff, note in hand and waving at his friends, Sean and Jayce wave in return but leave quickly. Jeff turns to face him looking mildly happy but it soon dissipates to his cold stare. “Here, it's from the doctor. She wants me to leave and rest.” he hands him the form. Its silent as Jeff reads the notes. Ricky picks at his ear again, clearing out some of the dry blood but stops as it causes some dull pain. “Alright. Wash up and head home. Coming in tomorrow then? You’ve got sick time to use if you want. Up to you.” His frustrations from earlier seem to be gone. His tone is oddly friendly. “Yeah, I might as well. I’ll be good for Monday then. See you.” he turns away and heads to the locker rooms. As he sits on the bench to take his shoes off, an energetic voice fills the quiet space. “Ey-yo! Ricky! What, part-timer now and leaving early?” He rubs his hands together excitedly as he sits next to Ricky, straddling the bench and facing him. It’s Santiago, a younger new employee that trained with Ricky last month. Short, thin, and athletic, Santiago has this energy to him that’s just fun to be around. Like that friend in group that would always be the one to suggest bar hopping or finding some girls. A little hot headed, but a good kid. “Hey dude. Nah I’m just taking off. Had some extra PTO. Weather’s getting nice, you know?” He says while the kicks off his boots and puts on his normal shoes and puts on a jacket. “Tight, tight. Listen, that’s good timing. I’m having a get together tomorrow night. Couple of friends comin’ over. Drinks, food, you know, the works. Bunch of chickas too, my guy. I’ll text you my address. Bring some stuff if you want, everyone brings some good shit!” He says as he takes out his phone. Ricky reluctantly exchanges numbers, its really not his crowd, especially going to a party where he only knows one person. “Aight! Take it easy bro! See you then!” Santiago holds a fist out and Ricky bumps it with his own. As Santiago leaves the locker room. Ricky puts on his jacket and leaves. He gets into his car, a silver japanese sedan. Old and faithful, nothing unpredictable, safe. He takes a deep breath and thinks about the party, wondering if Santiago would notice if he didn’t show up. The engine starts up and there’s a screech of a belt under the hood that disappears after a few seconds. It’s a short drive home, enough time for exactly one cigarette. He takes one out of the crunched pack and uses the lighter that’s in the cup holder. After a long sharp drag, he holds it between his index and middle finger, his hand on the top of the steering wheel. He cracks the window open and watches the smoke evacuate quickly. He drives past a park and middle school that he went to. Thoughts of running on a play ground without a stress or care only hangs on for a moment before the song changes on the radio to something he hasn’t heard in awhile. Tapping his finger on the steering wheel. He finishes the smoke and flicks it out the window as he pulls into the parking lot of his apartment. Locking the car behind him with a beep from his keys, he walks up 3 flights of stairs to his door. 337 on the door. He always thought it was funny to be a digit off of being epic. Once in his apartment, he stores the keys in his pocket, and tosses the jacket over a stool. He kicks his shoes off and goes to the bathroom to look in the mirror to check on his ear. His eyes a dark brown, tired with bags under them. His skin is pale, he pats his stomach and notices the little bit of weight he gained over the winter. He turns his face and runs his nails across his short beard and looks closely at his ear, turning to see the other and then scratching his face with both hands. No signs of blood, but the mark on his shoulder says it might’ve been the most of it. He takes his shirt off and undresses to take a shower. He looks back at the mirror and pushes his short hair so one side then to the other, trying to figure out if he should change things up. Steam fills the air and he enters slowly. He stands under the warm water as it hits the back of his neck. He stares at his feet, seeing slight discoloration in the water that runs off of him. He gently washes his ears and finds some remnants, but is glad there isn’t more. After some time, he finishes and gets dressed. Sitting on the sofa after getting a can of cola, he turns on the tv. He flips through his usual channels. Documentaries, music videos, science, whatever has some digestible information. An hour passes, then another. His ears ring loud as he’s suddenly aware of it. A little pain but nothing else. He realizes he took off for the next day as well.People barely notice me. When did that become normal? A memory enters his head. It was middle school when we came back after a car accident when his mother died. All of the teachers were so nice. His friends were extra nice. Even his dad took him out for pizza more often. Another memory floods in as he lays across the couch, his hand behind his head as he lazily watches the tv. It was in college. He was robbed at knifepoint. The look in the guy’s eyes through a balaclava, the shimmer of the blade as cars drove by. He lingers on the thoughts of how people didn’t believe him. He wonders why. Was he not trust worthy? Was he too excited? Was he not enthusiastic? Times like this, he wishes he could call his mom. He can hardly remember her voice now. They never had time to talk about being an adult. His Dad has his own life after getting remarried.If they don’t notice now, what would it take to notice I’m not here?