Work Text:
Curtis suggested four low profile jobs to Frank during the first month of his life as Pete Castiglione. Hospital janitor, bus driver, gas station attendant, and, as a last resort, doing jobs around the church that Curt held meetings in. Frank got himself fired from every single one. Usually for insubordination, but the church gig didn't work out because the priest found out that Frank was Jewish.
He was good at the blue-collar work, but it didn't help quiet his mind. He couldn't get much more than an hour of sleep; all Frank wanted to do was fucking sleep but he was always thinking about too much. Gunfire let him sleep, running until he was on the verge of collapse and his muscles were trembling let him sleep, punching a sandbag until his knuckles were bruised to all hell let him sleep.
Curt pulled some strings and got him a minimum wage construction job. The company's name was some Greek word that Frank never bothered to learn, because he didn't expect to be there for more than two weeks.
Two weeks passed. The foreman knew Frank was 'slower than the average fellow' (Curt had tied Pete Castiglione's autism diagnosis to one of the strings he pulled) and let him knock down wall after wall for a halfway decent paycheck. It paid the rent, at least, but there wasn't much left for anything else. He could've stolen the things he needed, but that was an obvious way to get caught by some do-gooder Red knockoff and getting caught would blow his cover.
No, Peter Francesco Castiglione was a retarded construction worker who didn't commit crimes or buy any shit that cost more than a decent pair of shoes. When his neighbors started talking about how they thought they saw the guy next door on the news, he let his hair grow out, and after a week his beard as well. Most importantly, Pete always slept like the dead, bone-tired from swinging a hammer all day. Dawn till dusk, the sledgehammer swung through the dusty air and the bricks fell. He never cleaned them up, that was how someone else was earning their paycheck.
Eventually, the muscles Frank used to knock down the walls strengthened to the point that even starting at four in the morning and finishing around ten at night wasn't tiring him out as much as it had. On his way home one night, he bought a calendar. He hung it up on his door and flipped to May third, the day Curtis had told him the Greek company had hired him. Now, it was July, and it was after the fourth because the fireworks had been some time ago. Maybe it was the fourteenth, the seventeenth, the twenty-first. Specific dates were useless to Frank now.
It seemed like two months of heavy-duty hammering had made him stronger, and he was doing the same amount of work as before but it wasn't making him as tired as it had been. That explained the nightmares coming back. Only two or three nights ago, Frank had dreamed that the body he and Gunner were dumping into a pit was his little girl. He'd woken up clutching his pillow like it was a weird, shapeless gun. He hadn't gone back to sleep.
As much as it pained him, Frank was gonna have to ask for help. Curt would know what to do.
He found out the date from a man sitting in the hall who said his girlfriend had kicked him out. It was the nineteenth. Felt unlucky. Frank circled the next Sunday and wrote ASK CURT - DREAMS in the box. In the meantime, he had four nights to kill. Time to get creative.
-
His lack of sleep must be starting to show, because a highschool dropout named Sandy sits down beside him and asks him if he's okay. She also offers Frank a can of Sprite, says she's got a gajillion more in her car (it's a Ford Fusion, so he doesn't doubt it. There's also a trans pride bumper sticker in the rear window, which Frank saw when he was late and the cab he was forced to take got stuck behind her) and it won't matter if he takes it, so he accepts. The pop is almost flat, but it's wet and he keeps forgetting to buy a water bottle.
He's almost done with the Sprite when the kid opens her mouth again and asks the million dollar question, "Me and some of the boys're gonna hit a few bars after work tonight, if you wanna come."
Well, it's not exactly a question, more of an invitation, but Frank still nods and figures what the hell, he’s been working with this guys for two months, it’s about time he got to know them. The alcohol’ll help him sleep.
“Okay! We’re gonna check out that Friendly Folks place by the Wendy’s first.”
“Okay.” Frank wants her to leave and it shows, so Sandy grabs her lunch and heads back down to mingle with the rest of the crew. He hears one of the guys greet her and make a joke about how flat her afro is gonna be tonight, since she's been wearing a hardhat all day. Frank tunes out the others' chatter and eats the cold slice of pizza that he brought. He wipes the grease from his mouth on his pants and now it's hammer time.
He doesn't realize that he's making noises until Cole yells his name and shouts, "Shut up, Castiglione! If the boys wanted to hear those damn retard noises they'd visit a special help school!" at Frank. Damn retard noises, that's a new one. Usually, someone makes a joke about how Frank sounds like a monkey because he's stupid like one too. He prays to Red's god that Cole isn't one of the people Sandy asked to join the night's drinking crew. With Frank's luck, though, Cole was one of the first people she asked.
Hours pass. Frank knocks down another wall and doesn't make any more noises. When he puts the hammer down, it's getting dark and the other workers are packing up. He joins the flow of people going down the stairwell and finds himself walking behind Sandy and a Filipino guy named Howie. When he reaches the parking lot, Sandy says goodbye to her friend and asks Frank if he knows the way to drive to the bar she mentioned during lunch.
"I don't drive to work," he says, and this is the first sign that his decision to come along was a terrible one. But Sandy just smiles and tells him that it's alright and he can catch a ride with her. Frank has his heart set on getting wasted, so he accepts her offer of a ride. They don't talk much during the car ride, but it's short so there's not a lot of time for Sandy to feel awkward or regret her offer.
The bartender at Friendly Folks clearly knows Sandy. He flashes her a bright smile when she walks in, and the smile stays in place when Frank comes in behind her. As more of the crew starts to trickle in, each one is greeted with the same cheery smile. Maybe they're all regulars, or maybe this guy is just a friendly bastard. Goes right with the place's name.
Frank's having a good time. Nobody's talking to him and the vodka this place serves isn't half bad, which are the two most important things to him right now. Minimal interaction and a way to get his ass to sleep. He's thinking about just leaving now, buying some beer on the way home, and getting shitfaced in private, but if he left now it'd be rude and people would dislike him even more. Frank's glass is almost empty for the second time when Paulie sidles up to him and starts mouthing off about baseball. Does Pete Castiglione look like the kind of guy who cares about baseball? You learn something new every day.
"And this wimp's just missin' every pitch this guy chucks at him like it's nothin', no sweat on his face at all or nothin'. And I'm watchin' this game at my place with my buddies and I get up to get some more chips 'cause Ryan makes the best fucking dip in the world, right? And I'm up for three seconds, gettin' my chips, when the guy finally hits one and I fuckin' missed it! Shit's retarded, man, the best hit of that game and I was stuck getting my chips!"
"Hey, don't say retarded around the retard, Paulie!" another man yells from a few seats over. Frank never bothered to learn his name. His comment is received with laughter and a few slaps on the back from the guys around him.
If he was sober, this would definitely not be happening, but he's a damn bit more than tipsy, so Frank's getting off the barstool and walking over to the guy whose name he doesn't know. He raises his hand to hit the son of a bitch and he's swinging his arm through the air to teach him a lesson when another one of the bastards kicks his right leg out from under him. Frank goes down hard and hits the tile floor with enough force to cut him on the forehead. He can hear the bartender asking what happened and the bastard that he was gonna knock out says that he doesn't know why Pete was gonna hit me, sir, I was mindin' my own business and he came up to me all mad but he's got autism so ya can't be too mad, y'know, since they can't think right and some of 'em can't even think at all.The bartender believes every word and tells Frank that he has to leave.
He downs the vodka that's left in his glass and stumbles out the door. Nobody, not even Sandy, follows him out. Curt probably would have, but that lucky fucker's got a cozy insurance job where the employees have office parties instead of bar nights, and yelling slurs gets your ass fired instead of slapped on the back and encouraged.
Frank doesn't know where he is, exactly, but he remembers the way to the site so he starts heading back there to knock down another wall or two. Call it homemade NyQuill: alcohol and a sledgehammer. Do not use before carefully considering the lecture your one-legged insurance agent friend will give you when you tell him.