Cockeyed Read Free

good gamble. You’re a bit of a bumbler, Bumbleton. You have to admit you miss a lot of stuff.”
    Pat’s smile broke loose and he let out a guffaw. “Bum-bleton.”

    Greg knocked Pat’s legs off the table. “You’re a pig. You know that, don’t you? A pig.”
    â€œBetter than a Bumbleton,” Pat jeered, “I’d be a pig before a Bum-bleton.”
    Time would measure Pat to be twenty years old, but part of him remained back in those developmental years when the word “bum” is a thrill.
    I didn’t know how to defend myself. “What do you mean I miss stuff? I work hard, don’t I?”
    â€œYeah, you do,” he said, “but although Pat here is an accident, a walking, talking error, you are accident-prone, and that’s not a good thing to put behind the forks.”
    Pat nodded with sage and serious agreement.
    â€œC’mon, you must have noticed it,” Greg continued. “Sometimes you trip over stuff right in front of you, like that box of scraps this morning, the one that was blocking the door to the sales office. Or, like the other day, when I pointed to that case of PH chemicals and said, ‘Knighton, grab that for me,’ and you’re like, ‘Grab what?’ And I pointed again, and I’m like, ‘Grab the case right there. It’s right there, sitting in the middle of the aisle,’ and you’re like, ‘Where?’ It makes me crazy. Then there’s the matter of taking down the wrong liners. I don’t know if you need your glasses checked or what, but, for chrissake, you get them wrong more often than Pat does, and—”
    Greg paused, perhaps sensing he’d crossed a line, gone from presenting his reasons to ranting. I was burning red, embarrassed and confused, which hadn’t been his intention, so Greg tried to repair the damage in a way we could all appreciate. He inflicted damage elsewhere.

    â€œI mean, you read them wrong more than Pat, and you and I both know Pat’s illiterate, so I want you to stop making him look good.”
    Pat shot up from his chair and scowled. “Fuck you, Greg, fuck you and your love for Bumbleton.” He stormed out of the lunchroom and humped back down to the shipping area. Within minutes our boom box belted out Pat’s favorite hurtin’ ballad, Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog.”
    I knew two things at that moment. The first thing I knew was I didn’t want to work as a shipper-receiver for the rest of my life. Warehouse work was hard, crappy; the pay was lousy; and the Pats outnumbered the Gregs. The other thing I knew, and didn’t want to admit, was Greg’s insight. He had hit the target when he called me a klutz. I knew deep down he was right. How could I account for it? I hadn’t always been inept, not at home, not at school. I commented when Judy in sales cut her hair; I caught footballs; I had a good eye. So, I did the next best thing to explaining my flubs. I tried to worm my way out of them.
    â€œThe liners,” I began, “it’s just that it’s so dark up there. It’s hard to see the numbers, you know? It’s black felt in the shadows, that’s all. And the box I tripped over, I was carrying a bin of filters and I couldn’t see around it and then, well—but I pay attention, Greg, and I work hard—”
    Greg’s lunch still sat untouched on the table between us. He took a sandwich out of the brown bag and began to unwrap it. “I never said you don’t work hard, Ryan. You do.” His tone shifted. He became quieter, concerned even. “If hard work was an issue, Pat would go before you. But I just
don’t know if I can trust you behind the wheel when you are, well, so clumsy. Sorry to say it, but I don’t know what else to call it. We need someone to drive, though, a lot of orders to load in the summer peak weeks, so I’ve either got to trust