Johnny
I hang up the phone when my dream guy starts cussing me out.
Pushing the button on the panel for “Do Not Disturb,” I curl back up on my futon to cry some more.
Right now, my office is the only safe place to let go.
My thumb rests against my bottom lip, and I have to fight the urge to let it slip into my mouth.
Oral fixation or not, grown ass men don’t suck their thumbs.
But is it so wrong to not want to be a grown up sometimes?
It seems like all being an adult means anymore is a bunch of don’t do this or don’t do that.
Why is it inappropriate for me to watch Paw Patrol long after my niblings grew out of it?
And Bluey is one hell of a show. No one can tell me otherwise.
The world may want me to be a manly man with manly hobbies, but I like building things.
Legos and Duplos might have laid the foundation, but the creating and fitting of pieces together to make something more awesome or efficient has always been the core of my fascination.
I used to create elaborate scenes and vehicles from jamming together pieces of the blocks my parents didn’t manage to throw out when I became a teenager.
When I discovered what being a mechanic entailed, I was fascinated. I could build a car from pieces, just like with Legos... Only now, it feels hollow working on the cars. I spend more of my time on spreadsheets and invoices than I do on the actual vehicles that come in.
Throwing the blanket over my head, I give in to the urge to suck my thumb.
It will be only for a minute. Then, I can get cleaned up and head back down to box up all of the stuff from inside the Aveo.
That adorable car has some interesting things in plain sight, and I’m kind of curious about what might be hidden away in there.
A loud crash from below has me bolting up and out of my office without thinking. I’m at the top of the steps when the raised voices register in my brain. I freeze when the actual words hit me.
“You know it’s a problem, Steve-o. Goose ain’t never been like the rest of us and your Pops was just too much of a softie to do anything about it.”
I’m not surprised that Paul is starting shit again.
I had asked Steve if we should think about cutting him loose because he was the most vocal against the changes I suggested when Mike retired.
The man has more sexual harassment complaints against him than tools in the shop.
But Steve said that he wouldn’t make any personnel changes until after the holidays – when the clauses for the transfer of ownership take full effect.
He said he doesn’t want there to be any legal loopholes that we miss by rushing things.
If it wasn’t for the grumble of assent I hear coming from the general area of the shop, I wouldn’t worry about the douche running his mouth again. But from what I’m hearing, I don’t have as many allies in the shop as I thought I did.
“That’s enough!” Steve yells and slams something hard enough that I hear a cracking noise echoing in the resultant silence. “Pops made John an owner – just like me. You don’t have to like it. You just have to respect it. If you got an issue with that, there’s the door.”
From my spot at the top of the stairs, I watch as Steve storms out of the bay door toward our designated smoking area. He’s been trying to quit for the baby’s sake, but I get it. If the choice is lighting up a smoke or punching through Paul’s face...
Not gonna lie. I’m pretty sure I would rather he lay into Paul.
“Lay off, Paul,” Ricky’s voice floats up as I start to descend the stairs.
“You know you can’t catch the gay off Goose or nothin.
He’s a damn better boss when it comes to treating us right compared to Pops.
When was the last time Pops worked a double on a holiday so that we could spend it with our families? ”
My eyes start itching and I hurriedly wipe at them before continuing down the stairs, but Paul opens his mouth again to destroy any hope I have in holding onto my chosen family.
“Pops had his own family to spend the day with. Who’s gonna want to spend time with a fairy boy that plays with toys my eight year old has abandoned? I mean, I wouldn’t trust him around my kids that’s for damn sure.”
I don’t even remember deciding to leave.
I run down the stairs and jump in my personal truck, ignoring the yells chasing after me.
The next thing I know, I’m at my house with a sledgehammer in my grip, tearing through the wall in what I planned to make the master bedroom.
I want a door. I want a secret room – a special place where I can be me, be Johnny instead of John or Goose or Mr. Gander or J.
I don’t want to have to worry about having people over and them thinking I’m trying to groom their children or something.
A secret room means that I can be safe liking what I like.
My phone lights up with another message from Steve, but I ignore it.
Swinging the hammer with everything I have, I let go of everything inside.
My scream of frustration would probably bother the neighbors, if I had any beyond the few duplexes on the other side of the woods.
But people would be at work or school right now, so it’s safe to vent – at least for now.