Chapter Text
When Benson first discovered that Burgers Burgers Burgers truly is a regional chain franchised by Hardy and not a heroin trafficking checkpoint off I-10 fronting as a family owned burger joint, he was genuinely surprised. Everything about it is so tacky and nondescript that it barely feels like a real business. He’s never seen another Burgers Burgers Burgers in his life. Yet, somewhere out there, a corporate office exists. And the people who work there are just as useless as the people who work here, apparently.
“And I don’t have to clock out?” Benson asks, for the third time.
“No, Benson, you don’t,” Hardy huffs in annoyance, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he stares at the completely barren space on the stockroom shelf that’s supposed to house bulk boxes of hand soap that corporate sends to them. When corporate gets around to actually sending it to them. “I’m not fucking with the timesheet over this. Call it compensation for the gas you’re burning.”
Alright. Fair enough.
“You might as well take Donnie with you, too,” Hardy says. “Fill two carts and bring me the receipt. If you lose the receipt, I will fire you.”
“No Donnie today,” Benson reminds him. “Just Carla and – and Bradley.”
The name Randy stays sitting safely beneath his tongue. It feels wrong saying it aloud to Hardy when the little dumbass himself is still walking around with his surname pinned to his shirt. If Hardy’s not gonna fix it, then he’s not gonna hear it.
“Bradley, then, whatever,” Hardy says with a noncommittal wave of his hand. “I’ll be out to cover the kitchen in a minute.”
And then he disappears behind the flimsy accordion door to his office without another word.
Well. An order’s an order.
Mornings in this joint are usually slow, since most people with all their mental faculties would rather drive ten minutes down the road for a place that actually serves breakfast. There’s only one person in the dining room, and another walking out with a greasy paper bag in hand. In the kitchen, Carla is leaning against the sinks, cheap jewelry clacking together as she gesticulates herself through whatever this morning’s riveting tale is. Randy, tending to a line of burgers that have no business being cooked without anyone around to eat them, nods politely every few words with a flat-lipped smile that pulls a little too tight at the corners.
Really, Benson is about to do him a favor.
“Hey, I gotta borrow this,” he tells Carla, clapping a hand down on Randy’s shoulder and making him jump.
“Not for long, I hope,” Carla says, as if the place isn’t a ghost town.
“Long enough,” Benson shakes Randy in his grip a little. “Hardy’ll be out to help you while we’re gone.”
“Gone?” Randy balks. “Where to?”
“Field trip,” Benson explains poorly. “Get your coat. We’re taking my car.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to just leave,” Randy says warily, always the perfect little by-the-book boy scout.
“Hardy told us to,” Benson gripes. “We’re officially a health code violation now that there is zero hand soap in this building, and those corpo dipshits aren’t any closer to sending us any. So we’re going to get some.”
“Oh, they’re gonna run this place into the ground,” Carla frets behind them.
“Not if we save the day first,” Benson assures her, and gives Randy a little shove towards the kitchen door. “C’mon.”
Outside, Randy stands ramrod straight next to Benson's car like he thinks he'll be doing something illegal by getting inside. The passenger side of the bench seat in doesn’t see much use as anything but a mobile landfill these days, so he starts chucking garbage in the back before giving up and swiping everything else to the floor. The whole time, Randy stares at him through the dirty window on the other side, shoulders hunched so tight that it's making Benson's shoulder blades ache in empathy.
When he makes no move to open the door and sit down on the graciously vacated space, Benson raps a knuckle on the passenger door window and jabs a finger down at the seat in a way that leaves little room for interpretation.
Benson doesn’t watch Randy scramble into the car and fumble with his seat belt. He just settles back into the driver’s seat and gets comfortable, slouching with his knees spread, basking in the satisfaction of an order well received.
He doesn’t even try to hide his laugh when he presses play on the stereo and Randy nearly jumps out of his skin
As they ride, Benson gives up on coaxing Randy into anything resembling a conversation when everything he says is answered with quiet grunts lost beneath the din of the music. So Benson jacks up the stereo, and lets the car do the talking. He pushes the speed limit. Cranks the window down and idles longer than necessary at stop signs to maximize his disturbance of the peace. Lights up a cigarette and blows smoke directly up at the ceiling to diffuse through the cabin.
Nothing. Randy does nothing. His arms are crossed in front of him, fingers twisted in the excess fabric of his jacket as he practically presses against the door. But there’s a tightness to his jaw, a jut to his lower lip.
Benson laughs a little and speaks when he’d ordinarily stay silent, because he thinks he’s earned the right to say whatever he wants to Randy after having two fingers down his throat – “I love it when you get that bitchy look on your face.
If Randy heard him over the music, he doesn’t say anything. He just turns his head away to stare out the passenger side window.
-
The actual errand is quick and uneventful, because Benson would rather swallow nails than spend more time than necessary in a Walmart. He nearly throws his back out loading their carts full of bulk boxes of cheap hand soap, but it’s worth it if it means they can leave quickly.
Randy, for all his youth and vigor, is no help. Not when Benson can load two boxes in the time it takes Randy to load one. On the bright side, steering isn’t beyond his capabilities. Their carts squeal and rattle as they drag their haul across the pockmarked parking lot, and the Newport is sagging and dragging a bit with the weight of it all when they finally pull out.
“Thank Christ that’s over,” Benson grouses as he gets them back on the road.
“Do you think we got enough?” Randy asks. There's no music playing, so Benson can actually hear him now.
“One more box,” Benson says, “And the bumper would be on the ground. We got enough.”
“Okay,” Randy says. Benson catches his resolute nod out of the corner of his eye. “Good.”
“So,” Benson lets the word hang in the air between them as he makes a show of slowly straightening the rear-view mirror, “It’ll be no time at all before I have you back in that kitchen cooking up food poisoning for – what, five more hours? Six?”
“Five for me,” Randy says. “Five-ish.”
“Five-ish hours,” Benson nods sagely.
Five hours of running through the same old script they’ve rehearsed to perfection at this point. Both of them tend to keep to themselves at work. There’s a dozen little corners to tuck yourself out of the way of anyone you might not want to talk to. A dozen little tasks to hold your attention as the perfect excuse to stay quiet.
Right now, in this car, there’s only a long stretch of road in front of them.
“Want McDonald’s?” Benson asks. “My treat.”
The abrupt offer seems to throw Randy off. He makes an aborted pointing motion out over the dash, like he’s trying to show Benson something. “We have to get back to work now.”
“That’s not an answer to what I asked,” Benson says firmly. “Do you want McDonald's?”
“No,” Randy answers immediately. “Thank you.”
Benson drums his fingertips on the steering wheel. “Well, I want McDonald’s.”
He rolls into a patchy pull-over on the side of the road so he can turn them around and head back into town.
Randy sits up straight and whips his head around in anxiety. “What are you doing?”
“Going to McD’s.”
Duh.
“Why would you do that?” Randy glances over his shoulder at the stretch of aged tarmac behind them. “We already work at a fast food place.”
“We work at a burger place,” Benson corrects him. “We don’t even have a breakfast menu.”
“Hardy and Carla are stuck there alone without us,” Randy whines, and Benson is tempted to brake check just to watch him ragdoll against the worn seat belt. “We can’t be gone too long.”
“We’re always dead as hell until like, 11:30,” Benson points out, each word firm and unrelenting. “Do you know why we’re always dead as hell this early in the morning?”
Randy sighs, both parts petulant and nervous. “I don’t–”
“Because,” Benson says, “We don’t have a breakfast menu. I’m getting a McMuffin.”
And that’s that.
There’s a line at the drive-thru, because this place is blessed by both appealing menu items and a location close to civilization. The whole time they wait, Randy fidgets like he’s planning on making a break for it. Benson snaps at him to sit still once, which works, but seems to scare him into total silence. When they finally roll up to order, Randy has nothing to say when it’s his turn.
Benson rolls his eyes and turns back to the speaker. “Throw in a hash brown. And another cup of coffee.”
Five blessed minutes later sees them reverse parked smack dab in front of the building, enjoying the scenery of a bum pissing in the dead shrubs outside of the restaurant.
Randy is holding his hash brown like it’s a hand grenade with a loose pin. “We should really get back to work now.”
“Chill out, Randy,” Benson sighs. “They’ll be fine. You’re not going to get in trouble. You’re not doing anything wrong. This is the kind of thing you need to do more of.”
Randy looks hard at his breakfast. “Eating McDonald’s?”
“Taking a fucking break,” Benson says around a mouthful. “Bending the rules a little, especially when the rules are designed to screw you over.”
“The rules are there for a reason,” Randy keeps his eyes on the hash brown, apparently determined to have this entire conversation with it as a Benson surrogate.
Benson huffs. “Yeah, to benefit the guys who make more money than you.”
“It keeps things simple, and – and –”
“Simple is for idiots, Randy, and you’re not an idiot.”
“I’m reliable,” is the conclusion that Randy lands on with something like conviction. His voice comes out as a bit of a squeak, but he has the right spirit.
“Reliable,” Benson mocks. “You’re a pushover. And it’s really, really fucking irritating.”
He didn’t mean for that last bit to slip out, but his filter has gotten worse around Randy since tickling his tonsils with two blunt fingertips. He kind of hates it. It makes him feel like he’s losing control of something in him that was never supposed to rise to the surface in the first place.
Randy says nothing to Benson’s unkind admission. Benson rips a bite out of his breakfast to keep his mouth occupied. It's around this point that he realizes he probably shouldn’t be here right now, with a smooth-faced blond boy occupying the space next to him in timid acquiescence. But he is, so he's going to see it through.
And then a miracle happens: Randy leans forward and takes an honest-to-god nibble out of his hash brown, right as a school bus pulls up and the stink of unburnt diesel wafts in through Benson’s open window.
“Aw, hey, come on,” Benson bitches idly, trying to engineer a casual atmosphere. “I was enjoying the view of the fresh piss stain on the wall there.”
“Must be a field trip,” Randy says, in one of his characteristic attempts at making small talk by stating the obvious.
Lo and behold, the bus pulls away a moment later to reveal one harried looking grown up holding the door open for a single file line of young kids, while another, even more harried looking adult seems to be trying to complete a head count on them before they all stampede the place.
“You should try to slip in the crowd,” Benson teases. “Get us some free food.”
“I think I’m a little too tall for that,” Randy says, and Benson gives him a pity chuckle for that approximation of a joke.
“Then pretend to be a chaperone,” he suggests. “You got that aspiring kindergarten teacher vibe going on.”
“Not really,” Randy refutes meekly. “I don’t like kids.”
“Huh,” Benson grunts around his breakfast, genuinely surprised and strangely irritated.
About what, he’s not sure. Plenty of people don’t like kids. Plenty of people flat out hate them. But as far as Benson knew a second ago, Randy didn’t like or dislike anything. Not working the morning shift, not the particular shade of yellow wrapping around Burgers Burgers Burgers, not even the hash brown in his hand.
“No shit?” Benson asks, just to keep him talking. “What, did you have one too many bad babysitting experiences? I bet you’d get dogwalked by your average six year old when it comes to negotiating bedtime.”
“No, I just,” Randy explains lamely, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them.”
“Just give them a Pepsi and tell them their Snoopy drawing looks cool,” Benson says, incredulous, “And pray they don’t bash their little skulls open from falling off the monkey bars. Ain't rocket science.”
Randy sighs. “You know how working the register is kind of hard for some people, because they can’t fake a customer service voice?”
“Don't like where this is going,” Benson says through another bite.
“You kind of have to do that with kids,” Randy says. “Right?”
“Uh, pretty sure you shouldn’t have to fake being nice to little kids,” Benson says. “Unless Chris was right about you being a psychopath.”
Randy sighs again, frustrated. His earlier anxiety seems to be overshadowed by a mounting irritation. At least they’re approaching a level playing field now.
“It’s not that I fake it,” Randy says defensively. “It’s like… Little kids come up to me and I just – I freeze up. Like, what if I say something wrong, and –”
“You are shitting me,” Benson can’t quite keep the mocking laughter out of his voice. “You’re scared of oil popping. You’re scared of taking the trash out to the dumpsters at night. You’re scared of lifted trucks–”
“Okay, I’m not – I’m not scared of lifted trucks–”
“And now you’re telling me you’re scared of itty bitty children?”
“I just think they’re unsafe, because they are–”
“Of doing something wrong in front of a dumb little kid?”
“Kids aren’t stupid,” Randy says, still huffy. “Kids deserve really good, you know…”
He waves his hash brown around in front of him like it's a magic wand that will conjure the point he's trying to make.
“Communication!” he finally says. “Kids need help understanding things, and I’m bad at it. I try, and I say the wrong things. And If I say the wrong things...”
Randy trails off, but his meaning is clear. No one wants to be responsible for fucking some child's life up.
“I’m bad at it,” Randy repeats, slumping backwards in his seat and drawing his arms close to his sides again. Slipping back into his shell.
"Huh," Benson says, because he feels like he's supposed to say something. Over the course of one McMuffin, he's seen more of Randy's elusive underbelly than he has in a year of working together. So he stares openly at Randy for a minute, but he’s not even sure what he’s searching for. A loose thread, maybe. Something he can pull on, stripping more of Randy’s defenses down one neat row at a time, until his armor is unraveled and every hidden unpalatable part of himself spills out to settle amid the garbage on the bench seat.
But nothing is there, so Benson balls up the greasy foil in his hands and tosses it over his shoulder into the back seat.
Without a word, he shifts the car out of park, and they lurch forward into a crawl across the cracks in the parking lot. When he glances sideways before pulling out onto the road, he catches the softened curve of Randy’s shoulders, the palpable relief that they’re finally on the move and this little adventure will be over soon.
Can’t let him get too comfortable, though.
“So, are you just gonna be the kind of jackass who dumps your kids off on their mom so she can raise them by herself?” Benson asks. “That’s how you get a cock-sucker who punches holes in the wall.”
Randy sounds exhausted when he asks, “What?”
“You don’t like kids,” Benson says, as if Randy needs to be reminded of his own newfound personality, “So what are you going to do when you have one?”
“I’m not going to have kids,” Randy says, so quickly and self-assured that it nearly startles Benson. That might be the most firm his voice has ever been.
“Everyone says that when they’re twenty,” Benson says. “Parenthood sounds like no fun, responsibilities are scary, blah, blah blah. But then one thing leads to another, you pull out too late, she turns out to be a psycho who pokes holes in condoms, and suddenly you’re in charge of this entire living breathing human being that will die or turn out wrong if you fuck up.”
Randy shifts uncomfortably. “Then I guess I’ll just avoid that.”
“Avoid what?” Benson laughs. “Fucking? Forever?”
Randy ignores Benson to fiddle with the hem of his jacket.
“Ran-dy Brad-ley,” Benson says, sing-song, “You might not be a horned-up moron like Chris, but you can’t just stick a cork in your dick and hope for the best.”
“I think this counts as workplace harassment,” Randy mutters. When Benson glances at him, he’s scowling and his ears are burning. Cute as a kitten.
“Good thing we’re not at work,” Benson says.
“Wish we were,” Randy mutters, so quietly that Benson barely catches.
But Benson does catch it, and the bitchy venom in it makes him laugh. “Actually, you know what? It’s better this way. Seriously."
A beat passes before Randy asks flatly, "It is?"
"Yeah," Benson nods, "Think about it - how many girls got knocked up by their shit-for-brains boyfriends when you were in high school?”
“I wasn’t keeping a tally on pregnant classmates,” Randy grumbles, chewing idly at a hangnail instead of his breakfast.
“Get your fucking fingers out of your mouth,” Benson says, and Randy drops his hand to his lap immediately. “The last thing this shithole needs is more teenage moms and deadbeat dads. The world has enough meth babies dying in their cribs or, god forbid, surviving long enough to make more meth babies. Can’t even abort them in this shithole state unless you’re good with a coat hanger. Nah, just keep jacking off to VH1 in your room or whatever. Definitely better this way.”
“Nothing good would come from it,” Randy agrees lamely. “Even my mom thinks I should avoid–”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what?” Benson cuts him off. “Your mother – what? Exactly why does she give a shit? She got you in a chastity cage or something?"
“No, it’s like,” Randy is squirming so hard at this point that Benson can hear it in his voice, “She just knows that it wouldn’t be a very good idea for me right now, even though it’s like, supposed to be our duty–”
“Your duty?” Benson hates the sound of that. “It’s your duty to drag some poor child into the world even though your ma doesn't want you to?”
Randy sighs, half embarrassment and half exasperation. “We’re supposed to have families. To – to be fruitful and –”
“Oh,” Benson sits up straighter in his seat, tail practically wagging as another puzzle piece slots into place. “Oh, that’s fucking it!”
“What?” Randy asks, verbally cowering from the sudden surge of manic energy.
“You were raised fundie,” Benson accuses, jabbing a finger in Randy’s direction. “Mommy and daddy think you should knock up some nice girl a billion times to overrun the world with the good word. But, what, not until you stop being so fucking neurotic? Shit, man, do you even jerk off, or did she tell you that’s an affront against god because of all the little baby christians you’re wasting in the meantime? This makes so much sense.”
“Don’t be gross about my mom,” Randy says. “Please.”
“I’m not being gross about your quaker mommy, Randy,” Benson rolls his eyes. “I’m being gross about you.”
“Oh,” Randy says.
“Jesus.”
“She’s a Baptist.”
“Jesus.”
“And she’s just worried about me,” Randy adopts an edge of desperation, like he’s trying to defend himself. “She doesn’t want to see me go out and…”
“And?” Benson shrugs, waiting on Randy to start making sense. “Be a whore?”
“Never mind,” Randy huffs. He tries to cross his arms, holding himself awkwardly with the half-eaten hash brown still clutched between his fingers.
“Come on, I’m just fucking with you,” Benson says. “None of my business. None of hers, either. You’re grown, you do whatever you want.”
Randy seems to find an invitation to end the conversation there, judging by the way he shuts his mouth and stays quiet for a long stretch of road. The beats of silence wear on into something uncomfortable, and Benson is about to reach for the stereo when Randy finally pipes back up again.
“This one time, there was, ah,” he begins unsteadily, “A chlamydia outbreak.”
Benson lets that baffling little nugget of information hang in suspense for a moment. “Uh – okay? There’s probably a chlamydia outbreak happening in the stockroom back at work right now, Randy, what about it?”
“When I was in high school,” Randy explains, “A bunch of my classmates got chlamydia. My mom freaked out and made me get tested, even though I told her I never did that kind of thing. With anyone. She took me out of school for a full day just so I could pee in a cup. And – and wait to be told what I already knew.”
“Huh, that’s,” Benson is actually at a loss for words for a moment, “Really fucking weird.”
“I guess,” Randy agrees lamely.
“She didn’t believe you?”
“I guess not.”
“Stop guessing and start knowing,” Benson snaps.
“She didn’t,” Randy snaps back, albeit with less bite. “Okay? She didn’t. That’s all.”
“Well, that sucks, Randy,” Benson says, “But what the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
Randy swallows so loud that Benson can hear the click of it in his throat. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“No, come on,” Benson flaps a hand in Randy’s direction, tapping his shoulder to urge him on. “Don’t bottle that shit up, or you’re gonna snap some day and go postal.”
For a moment, there’s no sound between them but the hum of tires on tarmac. Benson sighs with his whole chest, and it seems to spur Randy on.
“I’m an adult,” he says, “But sometimes I feel like nobody wants me to be one.”
“Well, nobody is going to treat you like one until you start acting like one,” Benson points out.
“I do,” Randy insists. “But she still brings the chlamydia thing up sometimes. She always mentions that people from Church keep asking when I’m going to start a family, and then she makes me feel guilty for… For the sex I didn’t have.”
Benson nods in understanding. “Another set of impossible rules to follow.”
“Yeah,” Randy says, turning his face away and retreating to his favored tactic of giving up absolutely nothing. “Sure.”
Benson thumbs idly at the edge of his beard and says, against his better judgement, “Ought to start bending those rules, too.”
Predictably, Randy doesn’t have anything to say to that. He keeps his mouth shut and stares out the window where fat grey clouds are hanging over the horizon. It bothers Benson. He’s greedy now that he’s had a taste of what’s been poisoning Randy’s brain chemistry. He wants to keep probing deeper, like fingers at the back of Randy’s throat.
“You know,” Benson says in a much lighter voice, “Maybe your insane fundie mom is on to something. Abstinence-only sex-ed is stupid because hormones turn most teenagers’ brains into toxic goo, but we’re never going to make it out of this alive until we’ve beaten the virginity back into this nation’s youth.”
It’s a stupid enough statement to confuse Randy into speaking up again. “Make it out of what alive? The car?”
“The, I don’t know,” Benson swipes his hand in a wide arc before the windshield, gesturing at the beautiful sight of fuck all lining the miserable little highway they’re on. “The housing crisis getting worse with overpopulation. All that extra airport security bullshit that was supposed to go away after we invaded Iraq. Minimum wage being capped at $6.55.”
“They’re changing that,” Randy supplies helpfully. “Apparently, they want to increase it to $7.25.”
“Shit, look at you, Mr Local Government,” Benson claps a hand down on Randy’s knee, patting him hard enough to make him jump. “That’s what, seventy cents? And I’ll bet it’s all thanks to you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Randy asks, more desperately confused than snappish.
“Stay on topic, Randy,” Benson scolds, “This is about your staunch chastity, remember? You dodging the clap got a raise for all of us peons.”
“Can you drive faster? Randy pleads. “We need to get back to work.”
Benson keeps the needle hovering at 45 on a road where he usually does 60. “Right, gotta make our $6.55 before you manage to get laid and minimum wage actually decreases. I mean – you are still a virgin, right? I haven’t misunderstood anything? If we keep you pure a little longer then maybe it’ll fix the housing market.”
“You don’t have to bully me about it,” Randy says, fully sulking now. “I get enough of that from Chris.”
“It’s not remotely the same,” Benson insists. “Chris bullies you, because you’re low hanging fruit. You make it too easy for his carnivore pea brain to resist. I’m firm with you because you need toughening up to get jackasses like him off your back. I mean, shit, Randy, did no one ever take you over their knee before? Ain’t that serious.”
Randy stays quiet in a way that answers the question for him.
“‘Course not,” Benson nods. “Never felt a firm hand in your life, I bet.”
To punctuate that, Benson claps a hand back down onto Randy’s knee and smiles crookedly at the way Randy’s thighs instinctively clamp together. It would be so easy, Benson thinks, to find the inseam of Randy’s uniform khakis with the tips of his fingers. Get a good strong grip on him, drag those thighs back open. What Randy needs is a different kind of firm hand–
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Just as abruptly as that thought comes to him, Benson jerks away like he just touched a hot stove and not a warm knee.
Randy flinches in Benson's peripheral vision.
A storm surge of silence floods the cabin.
And that’s that.
For the rest of the drive, Benson keeps his mouth shut and his sweating palm on the gearshift as he tries to think about absolutely nothing. The wind whipping up the humid air in the front seat. The tense muscle of Randy’s legs. The cold, half-eaten breakfast only a few shades of brown away from looking like day-old ground beef. The sickening prickle in the back of Benson’s throat, like he needs to puke something up, or at least tamp something down with the foggy weight of a mouthful of cigarette smoke.
He doesn’t think about any of it.
Next to him, Randy is smart enough not to question the abrupt stillness that has moved in like the eye of a hurricane.
-
The worst of the tension between them has worn off by the time the burger joint comes back into view like an oasis.
“Home, sweet home,” he says, killing the engine and looking at Randy for the first time since his fingers started itching to touch. “Bet you can't wait to get back in front of the fryer.”
Randy spares him a single sideways glance, so quick that Benson nearly misses it. “Yep.”
“‘Course you are,” Benson pushes his door open with more force than necessary without taking his eyes off of Randy. “Hop to it, then.”
Burgers Burgers Burgers, in all its converted gas station glory, uses a shitty little double-unit garage to receive product on truck days. It’s the kind of place you could go to get an oil change or a tire rotation done by some fuckup high school dropout you probably shouldn’t trust to refill your windshield washer fluid. The cracked concrete floor is permanently as stained and sticky as the floor in a porno theater. Thick grease, mineral oil, machine lube.
Randy grimaces the particularly loud sucking sound of his shoe rubber peeling away from a dense patch of grime. For all of his annoying overachiever tendencies, he avoids coming back here if he can help it. The closest thing to a boundary he’s ever tried to enforce in his life, probably. Yet here he is, shifting boxes around to clear out a path.
There’s so much shit stacked up everywhere that the Chrysler doesn’t even fit in the bay.
“Leave a few bottles out by the door so we can fill up the dispensers inside,” Benson says, kicking an empty box with a chewed-up corner aside. “This place is such a dump.”
“Should we start on the lower shelf?” Randy asks from where he’s blending in with the garbage in the room.
“Who is we?” Benson lifts one of the boxes from the trunk, feeling the strain in his back. “You just sit pretty and stay out of my way. Christ, this cardboard is rough. My hands are gonna be drier than Hardy’s wife on their wedding night.”
“I can help,” Randy insists. “I can do it.”
“Not asking for help,” Benson dismisses. He had enough of watching Randy struggle to deadlift 30 pounds back at Walmart.
“I can do it!” Randy barks.
And, well, bark might be giving him too much credit still. It’s a bark in the way one of those malformed purse dogs barks, a distressed animal bred to be useless, just trying to tell someone that it hurts somewhere and it doesn’t know why.
It still stops Benson in his tracks.
He turns on his heel, looking at Randy through the shadow cast by the bill of his hat. “Is that so?”
“You think I can’t do anything,” Randy points out, fidgeting anxiously with the hem of his windbreaker, “And then you won’t let me do anything.”
Benson stares hard at him in a moment of quiet consideration before he says –
“Okay.”
– and drops the entire box straight to the concrete with a noise so loud that it echoes like a gunshot. Randy jumps. A couple of the bottles probably just broke open. Benson doesn’t care.
“Go on, baby,” Benson urges, snapping his fingers and pointing down at the box. “Let me see you do it.”
Randy steps forward, but not without a healthy dose of hesitation and a truly withering glare at the derogatory pet name. The cardboard might as well be hiding copperheads for as cautiously Randy approaches it. He kneels down, knees popping like he’s decades older than twenty-one, and glances up at Benson from beneath his brim. Seeking reassurance for the simplest task.
Benson only raises his eyebrows, expectant.
And we have lift-off.
To Randy’s credit, he only breathes a single quiet grunt of exertion as he straightens his back and adjusts the heavy box in his arms. Each step he takes is slow and measured, and Benson finds it deeply pathetic how hard Randy is clearly trying to make his gait look natural. The windbreaker ripples with reflected light as Randy lifts the box up to the height of his shoulders and carefully, achingly carefully, slides it into the empty spot on the shelf.
Benson resents that stupid jacket. He wants to watch the muscles shift beneath his thin shirt instead, to see the tremble in Randy’s shoulders as he gingerly balances the box on the chest-high shelf and slots it into place.
When it’s over, Randy turns back to look at Benson with the open expression of a novice looking for praise. There’s a hopeful set to his face, not quite a smile, but something like pride.
It falters a little when Benson takes a few lazy steps towards him, soles clinging to the disgusting floor like he’s wading into quicksand. Benson walks close enough that Randy has to take a timid step backwards, but there’s nowhere to go. He’s cornered against the shelf and looking straight at Benson with that pride washed away by uncertainty.
Benson plants a hand on the box right next to his head, watching closely as Randy’s trembling pupils nearly go crossed in order to keep his focus on Benson.
“Next time,” Benson musters some real gravel in his voice, “Push it back the whole way.”
He shoves the box hard enough that it collides with the dirty brick wall, and Randy finally flinches away.
“Got it?”
“Got it.”
“That’s what we like to hear,” Benson grabs Randy’s bicep, making sure to squeeze hard enough to crush the muscle into bone, and shoves him towards the garage bay door. “Only five more boxes. Get a move on.”
Randy’s gait falters, and for a second, Benson thinks he might talk back. Tell Benson off. Ask for some help. But he doesn’t. He just walks out of the shadows of the garage and into the pale sunlight that washes out his sallow skin enough to match the faded yellow paint job on the Chrysler.
Oh, well. Maybe next time.
While Randy works, Benson lights a cigarette, folds his arms, and simply watches. This is fine. Looking is different from touching. Benson has spent a year looking at Randy, and nothing ill has come of it. It’s recon, plain and simple. Gathering information as he watches Randy traipse back and forth like a zoo animal unbothered by its audience.
What he notices is that Randy keeps his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him, instead of his destination. He pushes every box back as far as they’ll go. He seems to unconsciously push the thick sleeves of his jacket up his forearms, but he never thinks to take it off. And when the last box slots into place, he turns towards Benson with his arms ramrod straight. There’s sweat at his temple, where his hair sticks out from under his cap, and Benson is taken with a deranged desire to find out what it smells like.
“I’m done,” Randy says, as if that’s not obvious, before adding, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
And then he tries to make a break for it before Benson can even speak.
“No, you don’t,” Benson reels him in by the scruff of his jacket and throws an arm over his shoulder, shaking him hard enough to watch his head flop limply on his neck. “What’s the rush? I wanted to ask you something real quick.”
“Oh,” Randy shifts sideways, but Benson reels him in tighter. “What do you need?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Benson wiggles his fingers in the direction of the Chrysler. “Our little outing today was pretty rough for you, huh?”
“No, it was, uh,” Randy falters, “It was fine.”
“Great, that’s great,” Benson nods. “Now how about you give it to me with less bullshit.”
Randy stares into the middle distance, frozen beneath the weight of Benson’s arm. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Benson drags Randy closer, practically putting him in a headlock, and speaks directly against the sweat at his temple –
“I want you to tell me how you actually feel,” he says, squeezing slightly, “For once in your shitty little life.”
He leans back and plasters on a smile, something smarmy and annoying and obviously fake. Randy doesn’t smile back. No, he practically glowers at Benson, eyes shining with indignation as his gaze struggles to settle on one single part of Benson. His eyes, mouth, neck, and back up again. Randy drags that glare all over every inch of Benson like a pinball.
The attention is heady.
For as long as Benson has known him, Randy has been trying his damnedest to convince everyone in the world, including himself, that he does not exist. Here’s this guy who spends every day of his public life standing a few paces outside of his own body. An automaton of a man, going through meticulously designed pre-determined motions to survive every day without incident. Every action and inaction measured out to leave the smallest impact on the world around him.
It’s simple. That’s what Randy had said about following rules – it’s simple to meld into the fabric of the world around you, stitching yourself seamlessly into everyone else’s routines and expectations. But for as practiced Randy is at playing his role of placid acceptance, Benson can see a conflict building in the hardness of his gaze. He wants something now. Something ugly, maybe, or unkind. Something disruptive.
What Randy wants doesn’t matter, because desire always complicates things.
“You think I’m an asshole,” Benson prompts, “Right? So say it.”
Randy’s pinballing gaze sinks like lead. Game over. He’s staring somewhere around the dark t-shirt peeking out of Benson’s uniform when he shrugs.
“I guess… You’re kind of a jerk.”
“That’s good,” Benson cackles, and adjusts his hold on Randy so he’s splaying his fingers over the spot where his collar meets the flushed skin of his neck. He’s not even sure if he’s trying to intimidate or comfort. “That’s real cute, Randy.”
Those fingers shift higher of their own accord. The only thing Randy does to dissuade the touch is hunch his shoulders. It’s still far too easy for Benson to dig his fingertips into the tender arc from Randy’s jaw to his ear, denying him the refuge of a lowered gaze.
“Try it again with your chin up.”
Randy’s skin is burning under Benson’s touch, and there’s a flush across his cheeks to match. He keeps his eyes on Benson, begrudging but obedient. They’re close enough that Benson can feel rapid, shallow puffs of breath against his mouth. Randy’s little rabbit heart must be beating out of his chest. If the angle were better, Benson might check his pulse.
“You’re a jerk.”
That tiny mustering of spite is better than nothing. Benson breathes it deep, and treasures it. “Attaboy. Was that so hard?”
Randy shakes his head. It makes the bills of their hats knock together slightly.
“Then go piss,” Benson thumps Randy on the back and steps away so abruptly that Randy stumbles a bit into the newly vacated space next to him. “And refill the hand soap in the bathroom while you’re at it. I’ll get the kitchen.”
The rickety old door that adjoins the garage to the burger joint sticks a bit as Benson yanks on the handle, so he leaves it wide open for Randy to follow.
Oddly, though, Randy doesn’t show his face for nearly half an hour.
In the meantime, Benson wanders back into the kitchen. Catches a tongue-lashing from Hardy. Mumbles some bullshit about Walmart being busy. His hands move through the menial day-to-day tasks, and it takes him five minutes to realize Randy still isn’t in the kitchen. Ten minutes to start getting annoyed. Fifteen minutes to duck out between customers to find the little shit.
He’s not worried about Randy. He’s irritated that Randy is suddenly deciding to flake out on work.
It’s always dark in the back where the scant few windows are covered, shadows clinging to the walls like black mold. It makes the strip of white light pouring out from under the bathroom door stand out like a neon sign. Benson crosses his arms with a sigh and meanders forward on slow steps, considering whether or not he should knock.
A whispered noise stops him in his tracks, so quiet that he can’t even be sure that it's real. He steps closer, the dull scrape of shoe rubber over dirty linoleum sounding too loud in this dark nub of a hallway as he presses his ear to the door.
On the other side, Randy is breathing a jagged rhythm. It’s unfortunately familiar. When Benson closes his eyes and listens hard, he can see Randy bent over the toilet and shaking. Purging something foul from his body.
Benson bangs on the door and gets certifiable proof that Randy is there in the yelp that bounces off the walls.
“Hurry it up,” Benson grouses.
“I will,” Randy squeaks back. “I am!”
Benson pries himself away from the door and reminds himself he’s not responsible for anyone else’s bullshit.
Randy, when he returns, is red-eyed and a little distracted. Benson tries not to care. He flips burgers and shakes fryer baskets. He leans out the drive-thru window for the jackasses in diesel trucks who pull up too far away. He brings orders to Randy at the register and tries not to let it bother him when Randy doesn’t so much as glance at him.
Benson swears he doesn’t see Randy’s eyes for the rest of the day, hidden as they are beneath the downturned bill of his cap. It’s not just Benson, either. He’s short with customers. Not rude, just short. Like he’s got a stick up his ass and all his nerves are pulled taught. Even Hardly comments on it, like Randy being anything but the perfect employee is a massive inconvenience for him.
At the end of Randy’s shift, he walks out the door without a goodbye towards anyone, and leaves behind a strange sense of irresolution.
The rest of the day sucks.
Donnie fucks up and oversleeps, so Benson gets roped into staying for three more hours to cover his ass while Hardy blows up his landline. Even when he finally leaves, work follows him home in a deep ache in his back that begs for some painkillers. He swallows four ibuprofen on an empty stomach and pays for it in the nausea that lands him in the bathroom, sitting on the side of the bathtub with an untouched cigarette burning away between his fingers.
He keeps his eyes closed. Not out of light sensitivity, but because his vision is all fucked up right now. Like a flashbulb has gone off, and now the sight in front of him is cleaved in half.
The black smeared cigarette stains in the sink turn orange in sliver of early-evening sunlight, like decades of hard water stains and neglect. The toilet seems too close to the sink right now, like the room has contracted tightly around him. There's dirty plastic wrap beneath the tank lid where it has a tendency to sweat and leak. And bent over the seat is a shadow that shakes like the trees when they're bracing for a hurricane to slide across the coast.
Benson keeps his eyes closed, but the image remains, shifting and swaying in front of him like he’s seeing it through a field of CRT static.
He can’t stop thinking about Randy alone in that dingy bathroom, heaving and shaking with his forehead resting on the filthy toilet seat without Benson there to hold him upright. He cracks his neck, trying to shake off the sound of that wet, stuttering, hiccuping breathing that seems to bounce endlessly through the fragmented image in front of him.
In anyone else, it might feel like guilt – the inescapable echo of his nauseous conscience. But there’s nothing righteous or penitent in the way Benson digs his fingernails into the back of his wrist to carve out tiny pink welts in the skin. He craves it like he needs it. Fiending for it, even as his cigarette burns down to the filter.
He doesn’t feel bad because he made Randy feel bad. He feels bad, because it feels so good to imagine being there to witness it. It feels fucking incredible to remember what it was like to have Randy clinging to him like a lifeline, because he’s the only one who can help. He’s the only one who gets it.
Of course Benson gets it. He’s the one who did this to Randy.
Benson blinks hard, and shakes his head like he’s trying to shake those stupid thoughts loose. It turns out to be the worst possible idea right now. His brain feels like a boulder knocking against the brittle dome of his skull, and his vision is swimming with silver streaks.
Just to make the day a little bit worse, Benson seems to have an honest to god migraine brewing.
So he stands up, and turns on the sink long enough to grind out his cigarette against the wet porcelain. The hallway is mercifully dark as he slinks through the shadows quietly enough that he won't be heard. In his bedroom, he doesn't have the energy to do anything more than burrow under the sheets of his unmade bed, shrinking away from the light outside like a little kid hiding from someone.
But right now, there’s nobody here but himself.