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"I exist," he screamed into his pillow, repeated in his head, etched into the margins of his homework, he said through wracking sobs.
Barkovitch wanted to be noticed, not perceived. He wanted to be seen, not exposed.
The dumpsters reeked. Paper cups littered the floor, weird juice stuck to the side of trash bags, it was an assault on his senses. The fact his boss was berating him wasn’t helping the headache.
“It’s your last warning. Gary, I can’t give you anymore chances, then you’re fired.”
Barkovitch wiped the blood from his nose, spitting red onto the pavement beside them.
“Do you understand?” Mrs. Ginny was the angriest he’d seen yet. Angrier than the other times he did stupid shit.
Barkovitch nodded. He understood too well.
She softened, “I’m sorry, hon, but this is your last chance. You have to clean you your act. You’ve already gotten into a fight this month, and we’ve been getting too many complaints. One more chance.”
“Yeah, yeah. I understand.”
She sighed, and tossed him a paper towel roll, “Clean yourself off.” Before walking back inside, leaving him alone, dripping wet, with the trash bags for company. (What else was new?)
It wasn’t Barkovitch’s fault some fuckin’ customer was complaining, and yelling—so loud, and shrieking, because Barkovitch got their order wrong. Who the hell cared if he put too much ice in someone’s iced frappe?It was supposed to be iced. God. The customer screamed at him, holding up the goddamn line, pointing and jabbing at him. He called her a bitch. (Among other things.) She grabbed her drink and threw it at his face. He swatted her hand away.
He wasn’t aware that a middle-aged woman could throw a punch like that.
She was screeching the whole time, and god—Barkovitch winced, it was too fucking much. Why the fuck did he even work here? With screaming customers, loud machinery, and having to deal with people all day long.
Because he needed the money. Right.
He wiped up all the blood, dabbing up all the coffee (most of it was ice anyway—that hurt) throwing it into the dumpster behind him, and walking back into the back room of the cafe.
After discarding the paper towel roll, he took his mantle at the cashier register, still a bit soggy and playing with the hem of his apron, and glared at the next customer to order.
“What?” He asked flatly.
“Um- can I get a coffee with two shots of espresso and caramel?”
“Small? Large? C’mon. I can’t fuckin’ guess this shit.”
“M- medium.”
“Barkovitch! Play nice!” His boss yelled from the back room.
Barkovitch growled, turning back to the customer, “Name?”
“Uh, Richard.”
“Your total is $5.89.”
Barkovitch didn’t wait for the receipt to print, turning around, grabbing one of the cups. The ding of credit card reader informed him the transaction went through and the customer indeed paid. (Though he wouldn’t have cared if the customer hadn’t.)
The next customer came up, and Barkovitch took their order, biting his tongue, just nodding the whole time. One blueberry muffin.
The bell above the door ringed, and Ray’s whole group came in, laughing and elbowing each other. Fucking fags. They were so fucking loud, and they came in everyday, with their whole- their whole group. Who needed that many fuckin’ friends? Why was there so many of them? They took a seat by the windows, while their backpacks crashing loudly against the floor made him wince. They had not a semblance of any sense of peace.
He bagged the other customers order—the muffin, and passed it over to them, then he pumped in the caramel sauce, while the water heated, pouring two shots of expresso and stirring. He then added the steaming water, watching it fill up the cup. He grabbed the lid and popped it on, finding Richard, or whatever his fucking name was, patiently waiting at the pickup counter. He slid the cup over, watching the coffee splash up and out of the lid. Goddamn it.
“Thank you.”
Barkovitch ignored him. He looked around for any other customers and found the cafe empty save for Ray’s friends. No more customers, thank God.
Richard took the drink, and Ray’s voice called out, “Hey, come sit over here!”
Barkovitch balled his fists. How come that fucking sissy had friends, and he didn’t? He was a real man. He didn’t wear glasses like a fucking nerd, he played sports, he wasn’t a faggot, he was strong, and still. He was so. Fucking. Alone.
Richard pushed up his glasses, a smile on his face as he made their way to Ray’s stupid friends. This cafe wasn’t for making friends. It was for buying coffee. The group immediately allowed him in, clearing a seat for Richard, and laughing at something he said. He probably didn’t even say anything funny. Stupid fucking-
“Hey,” the voice snapped him out of his reverie. He tore his eyes away, to find a person waiting to order.
It was Parker. The shittiest customer he'd ever had. The worst one in Ray’s fag friend group. Everyone in the group was determined to ignore him, which was fine, whatever, pft, he didn’t care. But Parker was insistent on arguing with him on any given chance
He exhaled, glancing down and finding red marks in his palm where he’d dug his fingernails in too deep. Great. “What the fuck do you fuckin’ want you piece of shit?”
“Testy,” He chuckled, but it had no humour. He hated Barkovitch the same.
“I’m going to piss in your fuckin’ coffee.”
“I just want to order. Hmm… Can I get a double chocolate chip frappucino, triple shot, no whip, with light ice?”
He grinded his teeth together, “Is that all?”
“Hm, and I’d like two croissants, with butter.”
“Your total is, 10.85–“
“Wait, no change that to just one shot of espresso.”
“What size—“
“Oh yeah, and make sure there’s light ice.”
Barkovitch lost it. He probably looked like a fucking schizo, screaming and waving his arms around, “What FUCKIN’ SIZE DO YOU WANT, ASSHOLE?!”
Parker grinned.
“You KNOW, that fuckin’ dick Richard told you, didn’t he? You and your piece of shit friends are probably laughing at me right now, aren’t they? You just can’t give me a fuckin’ size for your goddamn coffee because you had to be—“ He heaved, “You just had to be fuckin’ difficult and now I’m— The FUCK they looking at? Maybe he should just shorten his name to fuckin’ Dick, the fuckin’ bitch!” Barkovitch almost launched his own hands around Parker’s throat, “That’s why his parents—“ when he felt someone touch his shoulder, he bristled. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me, freak—“
The colour of the shirt sleeve stopped him in his tracks, It was Mrs. Ginny. And judging by her face, she was extremely unhappy.
“FUCK!”
The sound of him swearing echoed across the entire cafe. Now that he’d stopped, it seemed incredibly loud in the small storefront. The only sound was his heaving breaths and the sound of his own fucking stupidity biting back at him like a bullet.
He slapped his face hard enough to leave a mark. “Fuck! Fuck! I’m gonna get fuckin’ fired! Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!” Everyone was staring at him. They were all disgusted! They were whispering and saying he was a fucking freak. He was a faggot who wanted to touch other boys. They said he had no friends and this was why. Everyone was STARING AT HIM. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his shaking hands grip the counter, his nails scratching against the marble as his hand continued to have tremors. Fuck! Fuck! He was so fired, he wouldn’t get another job because no one would hire such an incompetent idiot schizo like him. He wouldn’t be able to pay for tuition—
“BARKOVITCH.”
His head snapped towards the noise. His boss stared at him intently, arms crossed. Mrs. Ginny had stopped touching him at least, and instead of being pissed off, there was concern in his eyes.
“Stop looking at me like that. I don’t need your fuckin’ pity!”
“Gary, are you okay?”
He spat, “I’m fine.” He moved past, walking to the employee room to grab his backpack, taking off his apron and throwing it onto the counter.
She stared at him, “What are you doing?” Grabbing the apron off the counter and throwing it back at him. He let it fall to the floor with a glare.
“I’m fired, idi- did you forget?”
“You’re not fired, Gary.”
“What? But-“
“You’re not fired, come here.” She turned to Parker, still watching from the front of the counter, “We’ll make your order soon, Parker.”
Parker nodded, “No problem.” He glanced at Barkovitch. Fuck.
His boss lead him to the office, gesturing for Barkovitch to sit.
“Look, Gary, hon, I’m not gonna fire you for this, okay? But we can’t have you working like this—“
“I’m fine.” He snapped. Was she implying he was unstable or something?
“We can’t have you working like this, when you’re ill.”
He laughed, swear-to-god laughed, “Ill?”
“Unwell, unstable, whichever term you prefer.”
“You said you weren’t firing me.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying… it would be best if you went to therapy.”
“Therapy’s for sensitive little girls and queers. Are you fuckin’ kidding?”
“No, Gary, I’m not kidding.”
She was at the end of her rope. Barkovitch had fucked up the relationship between him and the only person who actually liked him. Fuck you doing, Gary?
“I can’t afford that shit.” He finally said.
“It’s okay. The university offers free counselling.”
“I don’t-“
“Not optional. You’re going to therapy, Gary, or you’re fired.”
This was a sick joke. Therapy? Mentally ill? Him? He wasn’t fucking sick, he wasn’t queer, he was a real man. He was normal.
“Therapy.” Barkovitch wasn’t laughing anymore. What type of sicko played a joke like this?
Mrs. Ginny slid over a folded piece of paper to him. When he unfolded it, it had a phone number, he looked up to speak but Mrs. Ginny found his questioning look and spoke before he could, “It’s the number for the office if you had any questions—I’m sure they could answer them better than I could. Don’t worry about scheduling an appointment, dear, you already have one on Monday.”
“What? You already set up an appointment?”
Her faltering smile was answer enough.
What the actual fuck?
Everyone knew how psychotic he was, didn’t they? They all thought it. They saw his break down minutes ago. She was just the first one to do something about it. Gary Barkovitch was a dysfunctional, unbalanced, pathetic fuck-up who had nothing going for his life.
And the whole world knew it.
He was going to be sick.
Barkovitch weakly nodded, snatching up the paper and stumbled out of the room. Mrs. Ginny telling him to have the rest of the day off he vaguely heard from behind him, or maybe not. He was a schizo after all.
Locking the employee bathroom door, he splashed water on his face, ignoring what he must’ve looked like in the mirror. He knew what he would've seen. Another ugly, country crackhead with unbrushed, stringy blonde hair and grey circles under his dull brown eyes. He even dressed like a crackhead too.
He went out the back door, briefly considering to grab his apron to be ready for his next shift, though he wasn’t sure he would survive until the, nor was he sure he would still be employed. Therapy? What a joke. He fished out his student ID from the pocket ofhis backpack, letting the plastic edges of the card dig into his palm as he walked back to his dorm. The cafe was on campus, so it wasn’t far. He tightened his denim jacket, the chilling breeze of autumn unforgiving.
Leaves crunched under his ratty boots as he walked, laces untied. The feeling of shoelaces underneath his sole made him growl and stop, angrily tie his shoelaces, double tying and making sure each shoe had the same amount of tightness.
The stinging on his palms burned when he unclenched his fist, raising the ID to the scanner at the dorm entrance.
What a joke.
The Student Services Hub was a small, sparse building at the heart of campus—Barkovitch couldn’t see a person at the desk. It would be so easy to turn around now. He could lie and say he went, make up the whole thing, push past the doors without having been subjected to feeling akin to a frog getting dissected. But he needed this. He liked Mrs. Ginny. He had to get better.
So, he walked up to the desk, not finding anything—or anyone behind it, he looked past to the hallway, finding all the doors closed but one.
He went to the second door on the left and knocked, the door easily opening. A woman looked up from where she was stapling a stack of papers from a large printer at the back of the room, “Oh, hello! Did you need anything?”
Barkovitch bit the inside of his cheek, “Uh, I’m here for the… appointment.”
“Huh?”
“For counselling.”
Her face lit with recognition, “Oh, yes! Sorry, hon. Take a seat at the waiting area and I’ll ring up Dr. Bryant soon,” she straightened the papers, banging the bottom against a table.
Barkovitch nodded, closing the door, returning to the front desk.
There were two chairs in the corner, pressed up against the large windows of the Student Services Hub. The room filled with mostly natural light, with an approachable and airy atmosphere. He bit his nails while waiting, watching the people outside walk by, or bike by. The sound of shoes scuffling made him look up, and the lady from earlier was taking a mantle behind the desk, setting down a stack of papers.
She looked up at Barkovitch with a smile, “Looks like you’re a bit early for your appointment! Dr. Bryant is heading over right now, so feel free to just do whatever while waiting. Should only take about 5 minutes.”
Barkovitch shouldn’t have gotten here so early. For it was general knowledge the more he had time to spend worrying himself into an anxious breakdown, the worse it got. He scratched the back of his neck, nails scraping against the already sore skin. Pain burned, but not enough to shut his brain up. He looked up at the desk-woman. She was too engrossed in her work to notice him, thankfully. Barkovitch continued scratching, digging deeper and harder. The uneven ridges of his nails hit some parts dull and sharp. He squeezed his eyes.
He opened them again shortly, not wanting to get caught.
A few more moments of waiting later, and the doors were pushed open by a white woman with dark brown hair pulled up into a bun, and the general air of being a lot more intelligent than Barkovitch. The therapist was here. He could almost hear the bells ringing their death knoll. She caught sight of him, and with a nod, gestured for him to stand and follow her. Even with an armful of various papers and a briefcase, she managed with ease, walking down the hallway and opening her office door gracefully.
“I apologize, I’m not usually so hurried. Some management issue with subbing for another teacher.” She shrugged, quirking a smile, “Imani may have told you, I’m Dr. Bryant, and your preferred name?”
“Barkovitch. You can call me Gary, I guess.”
She dumped her papers on her desk and came to sit in one of the armchairs across from him. “Barkovitch is what you’re comfortable with?”
He nodded.
“Well, Barkovitch, sit down.”
He was beginning to feel like a dog, with how many times people have told him to sit recently. He sat.
“Let’s start with you talking about yourself. Do you have any siblings?”
“Can we just get on with it?”
“As you wish. Wh-"
“I have to be here. ‘Cause my boss is gonna fire me from my fuckin’ job if I don’t fix myself. And obviously I need the job or I wouldn’t be here talking about my feelings and shit. I don't want to be here, okay?"
“And what would you say you need to fix about yourself?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know.” He growled. Weren’t doctors supposed to know this shit?
“What would your boss say you needed to improve on?”
“That I’m a stupid fuckin’ neurotic mess who can’t do anything right, who always disappoints people.”
“…and your boss said this?”
“Well, no.” He paused, “She just said I was mentally unwell.”
“And you see this as being neurotic and stupid?”
“I don’t fucking know. Sure, I guess.”
Dr. Bryant nodded slowly, seemingly taking it in. Barkovitch wondered why the hell she was nodding and what the hell she was nodding about. Her posture was the complete opposite of his, she sat up straight in her couch, legs crossed, while Barkovitch hunched over, fingernails in his mouth.
“Do you have anxious thoughts?” She finally.
“Yeah. Like everyone.”
“About?”
Barkovitch scowled, “I don’t have to fuckin’ tell you anything.” Stupid therapists making him talk about himself.
“Of course. But you’re here for a reason, Barkovitch. You need help.”
“Shut up.”
She warned, “Barkovitch.”
He dragged his nails across the skin on his forearm. “Fuck. S- sorry.”
“I won’t tolerate any verbal abuse towards me, do you understand?”
Fuck! He cast his eyes down to his scuffed boots, “Yes.”
“I’m not upset, okay?”
“Okay.” He repeated, avoiding meeting her eyes.
She clicked her pen a few times, writing on a notepad. “I think you have some neurodivergent tendencies. Have you heard of that before?”
“Not really.” He shifted in his seat, looking up to catch her unrelenting eye-contact, and flushing, before looking down again.
She hummed, “Things like Bipolar Disorder, or BPD, OCD, autism.”
He shook his head, “I’m not retarded.”
“Do not say that word.”
“Why the fuck does it matter?”
“It’s harmful, and mean-spirited, Barkovitch. It’s unacceptable language for anyone to be using. It won’t lend you any favours socially, either.”
He laughed—it hadn’t even been 15 minutes and she’d already figured out how much of a loser he was, “Sure. Whatever.”
“My theory is that you have trouble talking to others due to your neurodivergence. Does that sound familiar?”
“No.” Yes.
“Things like, not knowing what to say in conversations, not knowing how to reply to someone? Feeling like you don’t quite fit in?”
She forced his eyes to meet hers by just sitting and watching him for a minute, and if she continued with the way she was studying him, the closer she was to unlocking him each passing moment.
Barkovitch shortly looked away. Just cause he didn't know how to talk to people didn't mean had OCD, or some shit. He wasn't some sort of clean freak. Maybe other people were just too goddamn annoying for them to be worth his time. Maybe, they, were the neurodivergent ones. Fuck if he knew, and if she was so smart, why didn't she think of that?
Cause you know it's not true.
He made an uncomfortable noise, shifting around again, "I fuckin' guess."
Dr. Bryant nodded knowingly—of course she knew this shit. “Do you feel anxious when talking to people?”
He bit the inside of his cheek. He felt his face get hot, and his skin started to itch. He scratched up the back of his hand to his elbow, and he took a deep breath in. “Can I go?”
“Of course. I’m not going to keep you trapped here. But we can take a break if you're feeling overwhelmed, also."
“I have- fuckin’ homework to do.” He didn’t stay long enough to hear what the doctor had to say, he got up, walking briskly to the door and pushed it without much care for the noise, or the strength in which he did so.
He shook his head involuntarily. Being seen wasn’t as nice as he thought it would be. He walked past the front desk and exited into the campus courtyard, trying to get as far away from the building as possible as if it would relieve him from the feeling of being perceived. Known and stripped bare for what he was.
When he was fourteen and staying with his meemaw over the summer break Barkovitch had took off his clothes and jumped into the lake that sat behind her house—the humid July air cloying. He could forget everything about school, be swallowed wholly by the water. Submerge into the deep sapphire, embraced by the kelp wrapping around his legs. He allowed himself to entertain the fantasy of never returning back up.
A few kids older than him had turned up on their bikes, and when he resurfaced, were watching atop the hill. Their gazes raking over his naked body, lingering on the long cuts on his torso. They saw the way his ribs poked out from under his skin, the belt imprints on his back and hands.
Like hide scraped off by a dull knife, every nerve in his body was exposed when he was sitting before Dr. Bryant on Judgement Day. It made him think of his meemaw, raised catholic. He didn't think he'd see her when he died—
He’d always wanted to be realized for what he was, he just hadn’t realized what he was, was unwanted.
That night he lay in his bed, thinking of that summer swim, the dumpster's stench, therapists and their clipboards, and tantrums that bit back.
Barkovitch clutched his pillow tighter. He couldn't fuck this up. He couldn't go back home. He pressed his eyes shut,
I exist
Barkovitch got a fucking shock when he walked into work the next week, and got a clap on the shoulder from Mrs. Ginny. He jumped and whirled around, finding her beaming at him. He schooled his expression.
“I knew you could do it! How was it?”
“How are you getting this fuckin’ information?” He scowled. He could’ve not gone, she didn't know that.
“You wouldn’t have skipped it.” That showed how much she really knew about him, if after all this time, she still trusted Barkovitch. Maybe she had people following him. Barkovitch furtively glanced around, then narrowed his eyes at her, "I could've."
She huffed, “So? Was it good?”
“It was fine," Barkovitch brushed past her to put his apron on, yet for an old lady, she sure was spry as she bounded up to him. "I’m proud of you, hon. I know that this is probably hard.”
He cleared his throat, mumbling an affirmative.
"I'll bake some cinnamon rolls tonight to take in tomorrow morning," she winked at him, "To celebrate."
"Oh. Uh- thanks."
Mrs. Ginny clapped her hands together, "Alright, let’s open.”
He swept the floors, picking up a stray straw wrapper and tossing it. At 10:45, the cafe was empty, the morning rush passed, and the lunch rush had yet to arrive.
I’m proud of you.
Christ, he was acting like a sissy. Even if it wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words directed at him, it didn’t give him any right to get so emotional over them.
I’m proud of you.
No one had ever said that to him. Except Ginny. It was all fucked up. She was fuc- she was odd.
As usual, Ray and his idiot friends bounded in at around lunch time. They kept staring over at Gary, for fuck knows what. Gary glared at them as he made them their order. He only got a few things wrong.
“Roasted hazelnut latte for Ray,” he set the cup on the edge of the counter. He would’ve slammed it, but the fucking thing would've burned his fingers when it splashed. Guess how he knew.
“Thanks,” Ray told him, with an expression Barkovitch knew far too well.
“You're fine," he barked, "I won't bite you." His scowl certainly did nothing to convince Ray otherwise.
Ray's wariness changed to annoyance in a split second, "Fuck's sake, Gary—"
"Don't call me that." You're not my fucking friend.
"Okay, Jesus, Barkovitch. I wanted to know if you were fine."
"Yeah? Why the fuck wouldn't I be?"
Ray shifted his gaze. Right, yesterday's blow up.
Gary scowled, leaving Ray to go to count pennies from the register or something. They weren't busy, ever, really—it was only Ray and his friends who must've kept the thing in business with their ungodly amount of lattes. So God must've been fucking smiling at him because there was actually someone he could serve. He rang up their order and turned around to toast their bagel. Parker was leaning on his counter.
"Dude, get off that," Barkovitch glared at him, shoving the bagel inside their toaster oven.
"Hmm. I heard you got in trouble yesterday."
"What the fuck are you talking about, Collie? You were there."
Parker scoffed, brushing his long hair out of his face, "I know, jackass, I was referring- nevermind. You burnt my coffee, by the way. I said I wanted it medium hot. This is scalding."
"Okay? I don't give a shit."
"You probably should. You know, every day I walk in here I expect there to be someone different at the counter. But no, there you are."
Barkovitch stepped closer, and leaned on the counter too, "I don't know what your goddamn deal is, Collie, but I'll sock you in the fuckin' face right now."
He burst into a wide grin, "Oh yeah, blonde boy? I'd like to see you try. Come on."
Well. Parker was a lot broader than him, but they were the same damn height. He could take him on a fight- the toaster oven beeped incessantly behind him.
"You gonna get that?"
Barkovitch glared at him, then whipped around to fish the bagel out
He burnt it.
He called over the customer, handing over the bag with the ash-black bagel. "I made it extra toasty for you," Barkovitch grimaced.
"Thank you?" The man looked inside and then frowned.
Well, fuck.