The Dislocated Man, Part One by Tim Greaton, Larry Donnell

 
    Jack Werth slid into the men’s room and saw a young man, probably one of the new mailroom trainees, slamming his palm repeatedly against the sink. His shaggy blond hair, red cheeks and uncontrolled anger reminded him so much of Emil that Jack paused by the door and just stared.
    Angry blue eyes swung his way.
    “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
    Jack shook his head. “I’m okay. How ‘bout you?”
    “Do I look okay to you?” He stripped his blue tie off with one vicious pull.
    Jack raised his hands.
    “Hey, I was just trying to help.”
    “Well fuck you, fuck your help and fuck that Boonsen bitch who just fired me!” With that, the early twenty-something exploded past him .
    They could be twins .
    The eerie similarity to Emil clotted Jack’s thoughts in place. Then, a s though through someone else’s eyes, he watched his hand follow the angry young man and hover near the doorframe . The door slammed shut .
    Jack came to his senses and yanked his hand away, but not in time!
    White hot agony shot from the tip of his pointer finger.
    "Goddamn it!"
    He gasped and pulled his finger out of the impossibly small gap between the steel door and the jamb. It was as though an elephant had stomped on his finger. He clutched his thumb and squeezed the sharp pulsar. It didn’t help. A part of his brain luxuriated in the throbbing which seemed to thrum through his whole body.
    "Goddamn it, I’m not going back to that.”
    He dampened the perversion inside of him and willed the pain to lessen. There came a languid sense of focus as his breathing slowed and he squashed all thoughts of that horrible time from his mind. Approaching the sink, he pushed the lever and doused his aching finger. The cold water shocked then soothed the dented flesh around the bruising knuckle. He shook it and doused it again.
    At least there aren’t any client reports due.
    Typing was going to be out of the question for a few days…maybe longer. He cupped both hands and splashed cold water on his face, neck and stared into the mirror. No way could Hannah find out about this.
    Through the closed door, he could hear laughter and the first strains of “ Jingle Bells . ”
    Remembering he had come for a reason, Jack relieved his bladder then returned to the mirror where h e stared at the reflection of his dark eyes and tried to understand how the past had crept up on him again . It had been years—well, at least months—since he had even thought about acting that way. He dunked his finger several more times, took a deep breath and wiped his face with his good hand.
    His therapist would have a great time with this.
    “Time to go back, Jack old man.”
    One more deep breath then a practiced smile slid onto his face as he exited the bathroom and flowed back into the maelstrom of co-workers and plus ones pretending to have fun. He waved to catch the attention of the nearest overgrown elf. Everything about the T. Boonsen Equities’ Christmas party — right down to the waiter’s green costume, replete with fur boots and a floppy green hat — was ridiculous.
    “What can I get for you, sir?”
    “Double scotch.” Jack said. He fought the urge to suck on his sore finger.
    “And I’ll have a triple martini with a splash of cranberry juice , ” Derrick added as he stepped up to Jack’s table.
    “No problem , ” t he young waiter said, brushing his hat’s white puffball from his forehead and moving back through the balloons and streamers. They would have been more suited to a birthday bash than a Christmas party.
    “Ten to one, he screws our order up ,” Derrick said. “T he kid never wrote anything down.”
    Jack feigned a smile. Leave it to the Director of Sales to complain even at a Christmas gathering. Why couldn’t Hannah understand this was why he needed a glass glued to his hand tonight ? How else would he survive so much face time with T. Boonsen management?
    Dressed in the same red tie and inexpensive blue suit he’d worn