Heteroflexible

Behind my scrunched-shut eyelids, I hear the commotion stop right away. “Bobby?” comes Jimmy’s voice, soft and worried.

“I’m fine,” I say, not even sure if it’s true. “I’m fine.”

“Bobby, fuck, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.” I’m not even sure if I’m facing him anymore, totally blind, my vision blurred by tears every time I try to open my eyes.

“Mr. Parker,” comes the drawling voice of my manager Mr. Lemon, appearing at my ear so suddenly, I jump. “Please go to my office. Mr. Strong, if you would kindly leave the theater, I—”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Jimmy blurts at once. “I was … Anthony and I were … I was just—”

“Mr. Strong, please leave. Mr. Myers, a fresh batch of popcorn please. I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, for the disturbance.” His voice is right in my ear again. “Mr. Parker, please go upstairs and wait for me in my office. I have a fallen customer to assist.”

Still cradling my nose, I back away from the scene and make way for the stairwell leading up to the projectionist booth and the office, amidst the tune of Jimmy still protesting: “None of this was Bobby’s fault. This wasn’t his fault. I’m leaving, alright? I’m going. But Anthony started this, and—Are you listening to me? It wasn’t Bobby’s fault! It was that fucker, him, that arrogant-faced fucker behind the concession stand. I’m going, I’m going, I said I was going, and I’m going!”

And so am I.

The noise of the lobby shuts when the door at my back does.

Up the stairs, I go.

By the time I’m seated in the one chair in front of Mr. Lemon’s desk, my nose is weirdly numb and cold, and it feels like I have a big shard of stone caught in it somehow, like a dumb toddler at the beach who keeps pushing sand granules up his nose for no good reason. Everything’s still blurry. The office is eerily silent. All I hear is my own pulse beating in my ears—thump, thump, thump. Unable to breathe properly through my nose, I just sit there dumbly, mouth open as I drag in one slow breath at a time. I stare at the back of Mr. Lemon’s last-generation Mac, a wormy brain of cables and fat wires and Ethernet cords coming out its back.

I’m totally numb, even in my mind.

I taste blood on my upper lip.

Jimmy didn’t mean to hurt me, I remind myself, even though it’s a strangely difficult concept to swallow at this point in time. He was blind with rage and was trying to hurt Anthony.

I sniffle once.

It sounds gross and clogged and clumpy.

He didn’t mean to hurt me.

There’s a buzz in my pocket. I pull out my phone and give the screen a glance.

JIMMY

Dude I’m sorry. I’m in my truck. Don’t let them blame U. It was that A-HOLE’S fault.

I stare down at the text awhile.

Suddenly a spot of red appears right in the middle of his text.

Oh, it’s blood that dripped from my nose.

I grab a tissue from a box on Mr. Lemon’s desk, wipe the drop off my phone, then gently apply the tissue to my sore, sensitive nose with an open-mouthed grimace.

The office door opens behind me.

I twist around in my chair to face Mr. Lemon as he comes in. “I’m sorry,” I say at once. “Jimmy and Anthony have had this very aggressive rivalry thing ever since—”

“I know. Everyone does. How is your nose?”

“It’s …” I dab a bit more with the tissue and inspect it. “Almost stopped bleeding.”

“Here.” Mr. Lemon reaches on a high shelf and pulls down a small first aid kit, pops it open, and sets it down. While he leans on the front of his desk, he starts to treat my nose as best as he can. After a few cotton swabs and a small one-hit-wonder of me hissing and wincing, Mr. Lemon sighs and says, “You’ll probably want to make a quick trip to the clinic, just to make sure it isn’t broken. I don’t think it is, but that’s just my opinion. I would still—”

“Am I fired, Mr. Lemon?”

He sighs, then folds his hands in his lap. He doesn’t say a word for a while, studying the floor, gathering his words.

I say some first. “I swear, I’m doing my best. I’ll tell him not to come here anymore. He and Anthony, they got into a fight about me, and it was stupid and petty, and—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Parker, but …” He shrugs, then finally decides to face me. “Some jobs, they just aren’t for everyone. Some people don’t fit every role. Some of us are better built for one thing or the other. I just don’t think this work environment suits you anymore. Maybe next summer, you should consider looking for—”

“W-Wait. I am being fired?”

“—a job as a coach of one of the soccer teams at Spruce Park,” he finishes anyway. “They’re always looking for coaches.”