The Glass Fraternity

Issue 16

     Liberty Furnishings offered a full line of styles for apartments and houses, with their core customers being couples starting out. Sales were strong, but returns were a normal business reality. If and when merchandise came back, that’s where our crew of three got involved.
     At the central warehouse, the furniture, after being unloaded from the trucks, was placed on flat steel carts. Connected to a track embedded in the floor, the goods were hauled in a slow, single-row procession. A low rumble filled the cavern-like warehouse with a muffled hum, like that of a lone, distant airplane, which could be felt all the way to the upstairs records office. Returns veered into our bay for review.
     Watching as three carts rolled in was Sandy. Today was his first day in the department. He had transferred from the office. He wore new jeans, a clean shirt, and brown work boots. In time, they would be like mine—old, dirty, and worn. The first cart held a traditional-style desk with curved legs.
     “Sandy, help me with this.” He and I lifted it onto a long work table, high enough to study it at eye level. Even though his thinning blonde hair and spindly build suggested fragility, he displayed strength in picking up his end easily. “With returns,” I instructed, “we determine if the unit is fine as-is or requires some mending. To start an inspection, do a visual of the top and bottom, the sides, and the legs.”  
     “Hey Clay,” Rocco, the wrestler-sized refinisher, shouted from his work table. “Tell the new guy that it's like examining a beautiful woman.”
     The two of us laughed, but Sandy did not. Instead, he glanced at the concrete floor, as if embarrassed. Being his first day, no doubt he felt it was wise to remain quiet and project a serious demeanor.
     “With your hands—” I ran mine slowly over the desk— “we feel the wood for nicks and scratches or something worse, like a gash or a crack. Don’t go fast, you might cut yourself. Once we fix her, she goes to Rocco.”
   Wearing denim overalls over a white shirt splattered with shades of brown and maroon colors, Rocco waved a wide stain brush. “I’m the one who finishes the piece and makes it glow, like it’s a new morning, as if nothing happened the night before.”    
     The next cart, carrying a pair of small lamp tables, also held a large rectangular glass.
     “Glass is different,” I said. “It’s either perfect or not. Each one is sized to pair with a specific unit, say a table, a desk, or a cabinet shelf. However, occasionally one gets separated from its mate. We’ll look and try to match it to its partner, but since we have many styles and shapes, it can become a wild goose chase. We might not even know if the corresponding piece came back. One can waste time searching.”
     “Like hunting for that perfect woman,” Rocco chimed.
     This time Sandy laughed a bit. “So Clay, how do we find the right mate? Keep seeking?”
     “No. If we don’t find her quickly, what we do when the boss, the warehouse manager, isn’t around, is take the glass and tap a corner to the floor, just hard enough to clip it. That makes it garbage. Do it gently; you don’t want the whole thing to disintegrate on you.”
    
     Days later, Sandy stood before me, holding a round glass, the width of a sedan steering wheel.
     “What’s up?” I asked.
     “This top is beautiful,” he answered softly. “Look at the beveled edges. They're luminous.” As if caressing it, he held it close to his face and slid his hands along the sides. “It’s as if the colors of the rainbow were snatched from the sky and are now encircling the glass and making it glow. I’ve looked for almost an hour, but I didn’t find anything that matched.”
    “Sandy, it’s just a piece of glass. You’ve spent too much time. Give up after fifteen or twenty minutes.”
     “Clay, are you sure? Can’t we put it aside? Maybe the partner will appear. I hate to see it go.”
     “No, not unless you want to use your company discount to buy it. And what would you do? Lean it against a wall?”    
     He turned the piece over as if the other side might be different. “If I place it near my bedroom window, it could refract the sunlight and transform my white walls and ceiling into a plethora of colors.”   
     Rocco rose from his table. “Then get yourself a disco ball,” he boomed. “Even if it’s a Tiffany, it’s crap. Get rid of it.”
     “But I don’t think it can be recreated.” He wrapped his arms around the piece. “I think it’s unique.”
     Rocco lumbered over to Sandy. “Don’t get weird on me.” With one hand, he snatched it from him and bumped it against the concrete floor, breaking an end. “Know when to move on.”
     “Sandy, relax,” I called out. “Discarded glass gets recycled.”  
     “It’s not the same,” he replied, shaking his head and gazing at the floor. “It was one of a kind.”    
     Rocco tapped Sandy’s shoulder. “Hey, why did you come here? Why give up the cushy desk job in the office with the nice girls? It must be heavenly with all those women swirling around you, their perfume scenting the air, the pickings you have…”
     Sandy leaned toward Rocco’s face. “Transferring down here is considered a promotion and got me a pay increase.” 
     His response reminded me that I had once considered the reverse: moving upstairs to a more polished environment. However, going there limited my career growth. Down here, there were opportunities for advancement. Over time, I might even become the manager of the entire facility. That was key if I ever settled down and had a family.   
    
     Although quiet and introspective, Sandy proved to be a quick learner, and in about a month, for the most part, he mixed well with us. Like a good newbie, he asked for more work. If overtime was offered, he took it. He preferred to be busy; he’d become unsettled if there wasn't enough work on a given day. While Rocco and I could always shoot the breeze, Sandy would often just listen and drum his fingers, anxious to be doing something with his hands. He’d clean his area, sweep the floor, or reorganize his tools over and over again. At times like this, he became withdrawn. In those silent moods, he might go and take his lunch in an isolated part of the warehouse, a lonely soul almost hidden amid merchandise stacked high on racks. Once I came across Sandy lying on a recliner, staring at a customer order in his hands. I usually didn’t pry, but I could tell by its color that it wasn’t a return document, therefore not our responsibility. 
     “Sandy, what are you studying there?” He lowered the sales slip and raised his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine as if he had discovered something profound. 
     “It’s a huge order for Iris Swann,” he murmured. “Like she’s furnishing a whole house.”
     “Iris, the customer files clerk? So what? She’s taking advantage of the employee discount.”
     Rubbing his fingers gently across the paper, he said, “Do you know that Iris is also the Greek goddess of the rainbow?”  
     Huh? Iris was nice, but certainly no goddess. Then again, to each his own. “Sandy, just give me the paperwork. It’s not our concern until, if ever, any of it comes back.”
     As he handed it to me, he looked up at the rafters. “None of it will ever return.”
     I didn’t know how to respond but I started to comprehend that something was eating at him. Frankly, I was never that sensitive to other people’s interior emotions—at least that was what my last girlfriend had insisted. For a while, her assertion bothered me, but in time I grew a thicker skin about these things. It helps with the job. As long as my guys don’t let personal issues affect their work, I don’t ask probing questions. If you need to resolve a problem, take a day off; fix it on your own. It’s how I run an efficient department. That discipline makes for good managers.
     I mentioned the incident to Rocco, who then said to me, “Clay, I know you’re my supervisor, but I strongly suggest you keep an eye on this Sandy dude. You might be missing something.”
    Often, we grabbed lunch with the other guys in the building. Depending on the weather, we hung outside near the loading dock or inside in the receiving area. Maybe play cards, discuss our favorite teams, or banter about girls, real or imagined. With women, Rocco liked to boast that he met a new girl every weekend. He’d get up, walk back and forth before us, holding his soda cup like a microphone, and act out his latest bad date, turning it into a slapstick comedy. We knew he exaggerated, but he knew how to tell a yarn and kept us in stitches. We all looked forward to the weekly Rocco Show.     
    
     A month later, returning from the office, I brought back a flyer. “Hey guys, the boss is having the company cater a lunch for Iris Swann. She’s getting married and is moving out of state.”
     Rocco slapped his forehead in mock sorrow. “Oh no, not Iris! The rainbow goddess never got to know me.”
     Sandy, a small glass table top in his hands, suddenly trembled and the piece slipped down, struck the floor, and shattered. I had betrayed his privacy by informing Rocco of his rainbow comment.
     I glared at Rocco. I wanted to shout Big mouth! Why did you say that? Instead, I said,
“Was there something between you?”
     Sandy walked over to a closet and returned with a broom and dustpan. 
     “There was nothing,” responded Rocco, “but I admit, I did ask her out a few times, but the answer was always a sweet, delicate no.”
     Sandy carried the broken glass to a garbage can near Rocco. He held the dustpan before him. “Rocco, you never had a prayer with her. She’s had a ring on for months.”
     Rocco shrugged his shoulders. “I never noticed. It doesn’t matter. End of story.”
     Sandy dumped the trash into the receptacle.   
     “Anyway,” I said, trying to defuse the tension. “On Friday, let’s have some fun. Let’s party,  stuff ourselves, and bid farewell.”
     “I’ll pass,” Sandy said.
     “Really? We never miss an event when the boss is hosting. And you could help the girls to get to know me better.”
     “Clay,” he chuckled, “you’ll do fine without me.”
     Rocco slapped his knee. “And another one bites the dust.”
     On Friday, I called Sandy on his phone. “Hey man, it’s a good party. We’re having a great time. Some really good food, too. Your old office mates miss you. Why not come up?”
     “Thanks, but no. How are you guys doing with the girls?”
     “We’re doing great. I think they find us fascinating. Except for Iris. She’s upset that you didn't show up.”
     “Wish her well for me.”
     Before I could react, Sandy turned off his cell. I thought of him sitting alone in the warehouse, possibly in one of his moods. I then felt the drone rumble of the conveyor lines, which had been shut off, start up. Something wasn't right. You don’t run the units without other staff present. I signaled Rocco to follow me as I hurried out of the office and down the stairs. I made my way through the long aisles, past the receiving department, and heard a crash. Reaching my section, I found Sandy crouched by a mound of broken glass, staring at the smashed pieces. The high shop lights, shining down onto the fragments, created a swirl of prismatic colors that reflected across his face. He slid his hands back and forth, skimming the top layers of the shards. That his fingers were scratched and cut did not concern him.
     Additional glass tops and shelves were lined up in the carts. I realized that he had intended to destroy those too if I hadn't come.
     Rocco arrived. “What’s going on?” 
     “I’m not sure.” Taking Sandy’s arm, I pulled him up, and he followed, like a sleepwalker, away from the rubble to a nearby chair.                                        
     “Sit down,” I directed. “Take a deep breath. Now, tell me, what’s happened?”
     Rocco grabbed a broom and began to sweep up the debris.
     “How was the party?” Sandy asked, the look in his eyes hollow. “How was Iris?”
     I knelt alongside him. “She appreciated everyone’s good wishes,” I said, “but Iris was very hurt that you didn’t go up to see her. She said that she considered you a close friend and that she had been honest with you. Saying goodbye was the least you could have done.”
      Staring at his pants, he smeared blood onto them. “It was something I could not bear to do.”        
     With my handkerchief, I wiped one of his hands. “I see,” I said. “I’m sorry, but if you follow our lead and hang tough, over time, you’ll get over her.” 
     “He’s right,” Rocco said. Using the broom as a crutch, he got down on the other side. “But it depends how you bear it,” he continued. “You have three choices. You can remain as soft as sand or thicken into clay, or better yet, become as hard as rock.”    

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Joe Del Castillo​ lives on Long Island, New York and is member of the Long Island Writers Guild. He has been published in New Pop Lit, Home Planet News, October Hill Mania, Arts for the People and Macrame Literary Journal.

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