“Fred, I’m sorry,” Blake, his supervisor told him. “You’re
just too volatile. We have a lot of alarms on the machines in this plant and
they go off frequently. You freak out every time, and then you start throwing
things when someone says something about it. Ed had to restrain you today to
keep you from hitting a fellow employee. We’re going to have to let you go.”
Blake spun a piece of paper around in Fred’s direction and laid a pen across
the pink sheet.
Fred sat, stone-faced, showing no emotion at all, as Blake
stared at him expectantly. At last, he reached out, took the pen and signed the
separation paper. He spun it back around to Blake so he could sign as witness
and then stood up, shoulders back, chest out, chin up slightly, as he had for
years when at attention in the marines, with his eyes straight ahead.
Blake stood up and motioned to the security guard in the
outer office who had been watching through the window to come in. “Tom is going
to go with you to your locker to make sure you clear everything out. Take
everything with you, Fred. Because of your violent outbursts, you are no longer
allowed on company property; not even to pick someone up. Do you understand?”
Fred gave a quick nod and turned to leave. He opened the
door and waited for Tom, but Tom just pointed for Fred to go first. The lockers
were near the employee entrance and the time clock. “Do I punch out before or
after I get my stuff?”
“After,” Tom answered. “Leave the gear.”
Fred removed his wrist guards, hard hat, and safety glasses
and placed them on the table. He pulled out his overcoat, ball cap, sunglasses,
and lunch box. The locker being empty, he clocked out and was escorted to the
parking lot.
Fred climbed in his truck and started the engine. As he was
about to back out he saw Tom step back and salute. Tom mouthed, ‘Good luck
soldier’. He nodded and drove away.
Fred sat at his kitchen table with his head in his hands. He
looked around the empty room that had once been filled with his wife cooking
dinner while his boys did their homework. She helped them with it between
stirring pots and flipping meat in the skillet. He studied the photograph of
his wedding day, him in his dress uniform and her in that fabulous lacey white
dress that came off so easily later that night. Fred closed his eyes as tears
filled them and spilled down his face.
“I should just go on and get it over with. They’d be better
off without me,” he said. “Where did she hide that gun?”
Fred heard a knock at his door. He sat there ignoring the
knock, until it got more insistent. He pushed his chair over as he stood up. He
stared down at it and then starting kicking it until it turned to splinters. He
never heard the door open.
“Corporal!” he heard a voice shout. “Stand down!”
Fred stopped stomping what was left of the chair and spun
toward the voice. He recognized the lieutenant from when he went to the base
for reserve maneuvers. He stood at attention.
“At ease,” the voice said calmly. “Fred,” he said casually. “I
got a call from someone named Tom Epps. He told me you have been having violent
outbursts at work and today you lost your job. He was very concerned.”
“Yeah, well, did he tell you my wife left and took the kids
with her too? It’s just a matter of time until the divorce papers show up,”
Fred said angrily.
“No, but I’m not surprised. Didn’t you just get back from
your fourth tour in Afghanistan?”
Fred nodded. “Yes, sir. They’re talking about sending us
back in six months. I don’t blame Leslie for going. I’ve been sulking and
angry. I break things. I yell and swear at the boys. I’ve broken dishes. The
bedroom door is off the hinges. I think I’ll have to replace the frame to fix
it.”
“Fred, I want to you check into the V.A.” Lieutenant Brown
patted him on the shoulder and motioned for him to sit on the sofa. “Have you
been having bad dreams? Do they wake you up? I understand the alarms at the
factory spook you pretty good. You take cover and shiver in the corner. It
sounds like you have PTSD.”
“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?” Fred asked.
Lieutenant Brown shook his head. “Have you thought about
killing yourself? Do you do it often?”
“Every day,” Fred admitted.
“Go pack a bag, son, before this gets any worse. I’ll go
with you and make sure you get checked in.”
“Why are you so concerned, lieutenant?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been in your shoes. I’ve done seminars
for company executives all the way to the security sector so they know what to
look for. I’ve left my card around town. That’s how Mr. Epps got my number. He
was worried you’d hurt yourself or your family.”
“I don’t know about PTSD, but I’ll go with you. It might
show Leslie I’m willing to try to get help. Even if she doesn’t come back,
maybe she’ll let me visit with the boys. Right now I’m not allowed to be with
them unsupervised.”
“That is rough. They offer family therapy too so they can
understand what’s going on with you.”
Fred let out a deep sigh and nodded. “Give me a minute.” He
stood and went to pack a bag.
***********
22 veteran’s commit suicide each day. Stop the cycle! Please
visit these websites for further assistance in helping veterans.
Stop 22: www.stop22.org
Veteran’s Administration Veteran’s Crisis Line:
1-800-273-82550(press1)
