"Something is wrong with him. He can't cry," Carlene murmured with a sage nod with her gnarled old hands on her cane. I chewed on a banana chip, comtemplating the past couple days, wondering if something was wrong with me for not crying. Women were walking around the store either without make up or smeared mascara; Maria started crying hard into the dip of my shoulder when I hugged her; I haven't once truly teared up.
One of my coworkers was killed, and I can't stop asking if something is wrong with me.
I was walking to work on Friday morning. It was the clearest and coldest day we've had for weeks, and I reveled in the frigid sunshine. Walking down Arcadia, I passed East High School, and noticed two news cameras on the brick sidewalk, pointed at the school building. A tall man with glasses and a long grey overcoat came out of the school and his path intercepted mine. As I stepped around the cameramen, a young brunette reporter with a sympathetic face greeted the man who seemed to be the principal. Something inside me wanted to ask them what was going on, but I was running late, so I didn't.
Getting to work, David gave me an uncharacteristically big hug. Please, I pulled away confused. "You mean you don't know?"
"Know what?"
He pulled me aside into the aisle with the condoms and the band-aids. "Last night someone broke into Dennis' home and he was shot...and killed."
My lips formed a quiet "O" and he walked away with a friendly arm pat, but my brain was saying. Dennis? Identical twin with Derris, Dennis? That can't be right, I just saw him a couple of days ago. He and his brother were talking about becoming front end coordinators because they turn eighteen at the end of this month...Dennis is the past bagger in the store, sweet, polite, cool. With braids and a tattoo on his forearm, he made sure to be himself but still to maintain his bond to his brother.
It just didn't connect.
But the hours and days have been adding up. It started with the mingled flurry and absences of the managers all that day, and talk of bringing deli meat and flowers to their home. The store manager left for a while to contribute his camera bit. People clustered in the store Starbucks to watch the news, hoping for a glimpse of the story. I lingered there with several other managers - none of them felt compelled to shoo me away. An old manager showed up later in the day who had rushed over as soon as she heard. Bonnie, who butted heads with me sometimes, embraced me, saying she felt like she had to come and be here.
I snorted when the obligatory paperwork cropped up and started being passed out. Paperwork teaching us how to grieve. Pink papers with cheesy flower icons and a poorly chosen quip to memorialize Dennis (that could only be hung in the break room). Notices about an EAP grief counseling representative that would coming a couple hours a day for the next couple days.
Paperwork...I understand that a company needs to cover their ass in that area, but it left a sour feeling on my fingertips when I was handed the grieving tutorial. At work today, they had posted a few good pictures of Dennis in the break room. I overheard talk of the funeral and that there are supposed to be 400 people attending, that the school band (whom Dennis played the sousaphone for) would be coming and playing at it.
The grief counselour brought that sour feeling back, that sensation of patronizing and paperwork for the sake of covering one's ass. With a condescending lilt, she agreed with Carlene's declaration that something was wrong with his twin, Derris, for not being able to cry, how crying is so very therapeutic. Woman, you make me want to throw up. A middle-aged guy from the deli started defending Derris' lack of yet crying, from the freshness of the situation and from being raised as a man, but all this woman wanted was to see all of us break down in tears. Perhaps she could've put a checkmark in her professional leather folder, after having to ask us what our names were.
Not for a moment have I truly wanted to cry, except when Maria began to cry, but then only with empathetic tears. Yeah, there's sadness and anger. But from the beginning all I've wanted to do is see what was written and said about it. I've read article after article online about it. I intend on cutting out the article from the paper. Now I want to find video reports of it. I'm almost obsessed with trying to see if the media is treating my coworker right.
And there was something about that sympathetic reporter that retroactively resonated in me, her sympathy. What if I could be that sympathetic reporter someday?
...
I process things weirdly
One of my coworkers was killed, and I can't stop asking if something is wrong with me.
I was walking to work on Friday morning. It was the clearest and coldest day we've had for weeks, and I reveled in the frigid sunshine. Walking down Arcadia, I passed East High School, and noticed two news cameras on the brick sidewalk, pointed at the school building. A tall man with glasses and a long grey overcoat came out of the school and his path intercepted mine. As I stepped around the cameramen, a young brunette reporter with a sympathetic face greeted the man who seemed to be the principal. Something inside me wanted to ask them what was going on, but I was running late, so I didn't.
Getting to work, David gave me an uncharacteristically big hug. Please, I pulled away confused. "You mean you don't know?"
"Know what?"
He pulled me aside into the aisle with the condoms and the band-aids. "Last night someone broke into Dennis' home and he was shot...and killed."
My lips formed a quiet "O" and he walked away with a friendly arm pat, but my brain was saying. Dennis? Identical twin with Derris, Dennis? That can't be right, I just saw him a couple of days ago. He and his brother were talking about becoming front end coordinators because they turn eighteen at the end of this month...Dennis is the past bagger in the store, sweet, polite, cool. With braids and a tattoo on his forearm, he made sure to be himself but still to maintain his bond to his brother.
It just didn't connect.
But the hours and days have been adding up. It started with the mingled flurry and absences of the managers all that day, and talk of bringing deli meat and flowers to their home. The store manager left for a while to contribute his camera bit. People clustered in the store Starbucks to watch the news, hoping for a glimpse of the story. I lingered there with several other managers - none of them felt compelled to shoo me away. An old manager showed up later in the day who had rushed over as soon as she heard. Bonnie, who butted heads with me sometimes, embraced me, saying she felt like she had to come and be here.
I snorted when the obligatory paperwork cropped up and started being passed out. Paperwork teaching us how to grieve. Pink papers with cheesy flower icons and a poorly chosen quip to memorialize Dennis (that could only be hung in the break room). Notices about an EAP grief counseling representative that would coming a couple hours a day for the next couple days.
Paperwork...I understand that a company needs to cover their ass in that area, but it left a sour feeling on my fingertips when I was handed the grieving tutorial. At work today, they had posted a few good pictures of Dennis in the break room. I overheard talk of the funeral and that there are supposed to be 400 people attending, that the school band (whom Dennis played the sousaphone for) would be coming and playing at it.
The grief counselour brought that sour feeling back, that sensation of patronizing and paperwork for the sake of covering one's ass. With a condescending lilt, she agreed with Carlene's declaration that something was wrong with his twin, Derris, for not being able to cry, how crying is so very therapeutic. Woman, you make me want to throw up. A middle-aged guy from the deli started defending Derris' lack of yet crying, from the freshness of the situation and from being raised as a man, but all this woman wanted was to see all of us break down in tears. Perhaps she could've put a checkmark in her professional leather folder, after having to ask us what our names were.
Not for a moment have I truly wanted to cry, except when Maria began to cry, but then only with empathetic tears. Yeah, there's sadness and anger. But from the beginning all I've wanted to do is see what was written and said about it. I've read article after article online about it. I intend on cutting out the article from the paper. Now I want to find video reports of it. I'm almost obsessed with trying to see if the media is treating my coworker right.
And there was something about that sympathetic reporter that retroactively resonated in me, her sympathy. What if I could be that sympathetic reporter someday?
...
I process things weirdly
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