I used to work for a trucking company. I was a dockworker, loading and unloading trailers. It wasn’t a bad job. It paid well but the shift was horrible. I mostly moved stretch-wrapped pallets, so there wasn’t too much manual labor. I had a lot of friends there and a lot of acquaintances; no one there I really didn’t get along with, except for Larry.

Larry was obnoxious. He wore cowboy boots with silver tips. Just the silliest kind of footwear you could wear on the dock. He never did a damn thing and when he got called out on it, he would pout like he was being treated unfairly. I couldn’t stand the guy. The worse thing he did though was to constantly lie. It wasn’t just that he lied. It was how outrageous the lies were. He told us that he was hiking one time and found a human leg in the middle of the trail, but he didn’t bother to call the police. He said that he was a professional boxer. Everyone would ask him when his next bout was so that they could go watch him, but it always seemed to get canceled. He was the boxer that never boxed. There were many more. I thought that maybe I should start writing these whoppers down. Seemed like that there were some good plot lines and stories buried in with the insanity.

We were in the breakroom one day when I just came up with the nickname Mr. Bullshit. I didn’t even mean it. It wasn’t like I put much thought into it. I just got tired of hearing it and then I just said it. After that Larry’s life on the dock was hell. Before my christening him with his new nickname most people just went along with it. They never called him out on any of his lies, but now they not only called him out, they routinely made fun of him for all kinds of stuff, even the things not related to his lying. Them boots became a sore spot for him, a constant source of ridicule. Over time he kept to himself. He stopped talking to anyone, and then one day as we were working in a trailer together, he confronted me.

“You did this to me. Everyone hates me because of you.”

I responded, “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Mr. Bullshit. You started it. You said it. You made me look like an idiot and it just gets worse.”

“That was a joke man. Calm down. Just messing around. You do it all the time, making fun of everyone, but when the table’s turned you can’t handle it.”

He didn’t say anything else. Shook his head and walked away.

I felt bad for the guy. Dockworkers and truck drivers aren’t the most sensitive people in the world. They don’t know when to stop. They’ll push you to the limit and the more you react the more they like it. The key is just to remain calm. Of course, Larry didn’t understand that. I started helping him as much as I could. I would help him build load boxes, strap in pallets, recoup overturned skids, just whatever he needed. He never said thanks or anything, but his demeanor did change, and he was less corrosive than before. And then it happened.

It was a Wednesday, and the shift was almost over. Jason, a supervisor, handed me a bill of ten pallets. He told me to load those and go home. I was worn out, but I was ready to get out of there, so I hustled and grabbed a forklift. I was loading from one trailer to another trailer across the dock. The pallets were too tall to see around. In those cases, you’re supposed to drive backwards so you can see what’s in front of you. I didn’t do that though. There weren’t too many dockworkers around. Most of them were working in another area, getting trailers ready to go deliver in the city. I was driving forward to save time. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew I was going in the right direction, and I had looked beforehand to make sure no one was in the trailer. There were two pallets on the floor, one with some sort of tractor attachment that had a protruding sharp bar. Above those was an empty deck. A deck is just three beams and two boards. It’s like a shelf. It allows you to load more freight above the freight on the floor of the trailer. I loaded the first pallet on the left side and then went and got the second pallet. I was going to load the next one right behind the tractor attachment. I should’ve put a board up to protect the boxes on the pallet, but I was in a hurry. I hammered down on the accelerator and crashed into the trailer without any hesitation. I felt some resistance and then heard a grunt. Someone started wailing and crying for help.

“Back up! You’re crushing me. Please! Please! Back the fuck up!”

I panicked. My heart started pounding. What had I done. I didn’t move at all. I felt a hand grab my shirt and yank me off of the forklift. Jason had sprinted over after he heard the commotion. He backed up the forklift, put it in park, and ran into the trailer.

“Holy shit. Oh my god. Hang in there man. Oh my god.”

I was laying on the dock, not able to see what was happening or who I had just crushed. I got up and slowly walked around the back of the forklift and into the trailer. There in the trailer was Larry with a sharp bar thrusting through his lower abdomen. There was blood all over the trailer floor and his head was crammed up under the first bar of the deck. He looked like a marionette with its head slumped over only able to stare at his feet. The worse part was the whimpering. It was grating on my soul. He was in tremendous pain and there was no way to stop it. No one knew what to do. They didn’t know whether to move him or not, in fear that he may bleed to death. I couldn’t stand it. I walked to the break room and sat down, waiting for it all to be over, hoping that he would survive.

Larry didn’t survive. He died with no friends, but I hear everyone from work went to the wake or the funeral. He had a big turnout. For once, he was the star of the show. It wasn’t the boxing match we were hoping for but at least he finally got a sympathetic audience.

I quit that job. I couldn’t be on that dock again. It made me sick just driving past the place. I never could relax or stop the memory from playing in my head. It popped in my head at the most unexpected times and frequently- all the damn time. The only way I could stop it was to drink and drink heavily. I got to where I was drunk more often than I was sober.

I started to see Larry. I would catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. I would turn and look quick in that direction, but no one would be there. One night I had drunk more than usual. I had binged all day. My head was swimming so I thought I would just go to bed early. I struggled to sleep but eventually my head stopped pounding enough for me to relax and dose off. At some point in the night, I felt my bed shaking. I looked up and there at the edge of the bed was a dark figure with one leg on my bed. It was tapping its foot on the mattress. There was a streetlight right outside my window. A low dull orange hue was enveloping the room and I noticed that the stranger was wearing silver tipped boots.

“You’re dreaming. It’s a one-hundred and eighty proof hallucination,” I told myself.

I closed my eyes and said a Hail Mary and a few Our Fathers. The shaking stopped. I opened my eyes, and nothing was there.

“I’m sorry Larry. I’m so sorry. It was an accident.” I said it out loud. I hoped he heard it and accepted my apology, but I’m all too certain now that Larry did not accept my apology. He torments me to this day. He bangs around my house causing all kinds of racket. When I fall asleep, he whispers in my ear. I never remember what he says because he doesn’t enunciate well, with the gurgling of the blood and the constant choking he can’t seem to stop. He slams doors, flushes toilets, and every now and then I hear him whimper in another room. I come to blame everything on Larry. If my car breaks down, I attribute it to Larry. If I lose my keys or bang my head or stub my toe, it’s Larry. Other people say they have nothing but bad luck. I say, “here comes Mr. Bullshit again.”