Blood and Cupcakes - 2/2
Blood and Cupcakes - 2/2
Rating: Gen, R, Death fic
Characters: Dean, Sam, The Woman formerly known as Martha, and a special guest appearance by The Fonz.
Word Count: 5,884/11,261
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchesters for fun and angst. Sorry about the holes.
A/N: Coda to 3.16 No Rest for the Wicked
A SPN/HD multiple (depending on how you read the time changes) death fic crossover (but not).
For slazersc who asked for a sequel to Bread and Circuses “with Sammy never letting Dean live down the cupcake moment.” This did diverge a little from the original request - for which I take complete responsibility I blame my muse (she’s fickle, emo, and entirely too attached to angst-bunnies)
Apologies for the gratuitous misuse of HD’s lyrics, and some of the Fonz’s more famous sayings. But none at all for the character death(s), or screwing with the internal timelines.
Thanks to the fantabulous secret-seer for creating a retro banner that truly rocks.
Setting: Milwaukee, Wis., and elsewhere, 1955/July 2008
Summary: What do you mean, “I look like a chick in my apron?”
Part 1 | Part 2
Part 2
First select the perfect recipe.
Richard had a plan. He’d always had a plan. Get the low-paid waiter/kitchen hand/bus boy job at the dinner. Save money. Buy a car. Get a girlfriend. Or vice versa, he liked to think he was flexible about some things. Work his way subtly up to becoming indispensable to the boss. Write a brilliant exposé of the dark side of the food industry for the Bugle on the side. Watch every single move the cook made. Learn everything, especially about baking. Richard was sure he could cook. After all, how hard could it be? And maybe one day he too could create pies that people would talk about for years to come. Ginormous, incredibly scrumptious, totally brilliant pies.
It was a cunning plan-okay, maybe it was actually several cunning plans but Richard wasn’t bothered with maths or other pesky details-it was his plan, and it was a secret. Richard wasn’t sure if he was any good at hiding things from people, but for this goal he was going to do his very best.
In the end it was all about the food.
Bake cupcakes for 20 minutes.
‘I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill…’
Richard was feeling lucky. Only a few days into his new after-school job and life was good. He dodged the island workbench joyfully juggling dishes as he practiced his own unique version of the twist. Life was amazing. He could do this forever.
‘The wind in the willow…’
‘Cunningham!’
Richard just managed to catch the dirty plates before he dropped them onto the floor. Fu… Darn.
‘Ma’am! Yes, Ma’am?’
‘What have I told you repeatedly ever since I gave you this job?’
No singing. No dancing. No talking. No gum. No. No. No. Smile at the customers. Smile at me. Smile. Smile. Smile. In the kitchen-apron on. Serving-apron on. On. On. On. Faster. Faster. Faster.
‘Uh… no singing, Ma’am?’ Please, God, let that be the right answer.
His boss’s eyes narrowed dangerously under her disarming blonde bangs. ‘Precisely, Cunningham. No singing.’
Phew.
‘What were you doing, Cunningham?’
Uh. ‘Singing,’ Richard admitted in his smallest voice. Some things were a bit fuzzy right now, but he was sure he’d never had a little voice before. It must be because of Her.
‘Exactly,’ she oozed with annoyed satisfaction. ‘And what does that mean?’
‘I broke The Rules, Ma’am.’
He’d only been on the job less than two days and he’d been pink carded by his new boss three times. Pink cards were bad. Lavender was worse. According to Marsha, Arnold’s had once had an employee who’d gotten one of those. No one ever saw him again after that. Richard really hoped that was Arnold’s version of an urban legend, but he had his doubts. Looking at Her he had strong doubts. There was just something so familiar about that perfectly made-up face-strange, but known-something that made the hairs on the back of his neck want to pluck themselves free and run out of the building screaming for their little brother to save them. Which was plain weird because, Milwaukee? Home to Jefferson High-best darned school in the state. Home to Arnold’s Drive-In. Home to the Cunninghams ever since Mom and Dad became … well, Mom and Dad he guessed. Milwaukee was bowling shirts, basketball practice, and hardware stores; girls with ponytails, letter sweaters, and poodle skirts; roller skates, jukeboxes and milkshakes. Milwaukee was safe. Richard loved safe. Richard could almost remember what that felt like. Until Her. Richard needed safe. This isn’t sa…
‘Correction. You broke the rules again. How many times is that now?’
‘Uh.’
‘You can add, can’t you Cunningham?’
Richard immediately assumed the position of attention. He’d never realized how closely working at a drive-in resembled a military career. Richard was glad he was going to be a writer; he’d be a hopeless Marine.
‘Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am! Four times, Si… Ma’am.’ Eyes straight on her. Don’t let her know you’re afraid.
‘Four.’ His boss rolled the number around in her mouth before spitting it out in disgust at his feet as she tacked another card on the board in the already crowded column under his name. ‘What does that mean, boy?’
Eyes off the board. Too many rules, all too many chances to get things wrong. ‘Pay docked, and loss of privileges, Ma’am.’ Two more and it’s lavender. Holy s…
‘And what was today’s bonus, Cunningham?’
No. She wouldn’t? ‘P… pie,’ Richard stammered out. ‘Taking home the leftover pie.’
‘You like pie, don’t you, Cunningham?’
Don’t make me beg. Please don’t make me beg. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Yes, Ma’am, what?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. I like pie.’
She was smiling at him so sweetly. The customers loved her. The ultimate domestic Madonna glowing down on lesser mortals. Everyone had no option but to love her. Richard had loved her at first sight. Before.
‘Such a shame that your wanton disregard for a few easy rules designed to create a tranquil workplace has forced me to do this. You must know I take no pleasure in this.’
She was shaking her head so sadly, that Richard almost fell to his knees to apologize. That look made him feel utterly stupid and worthless. How was he going to tell his parents if she sacked him? And what about the pie? Richard had been lusting after that cherry pie ever since it came out of the oven. Dam… darn it, he’d been recommending every other sweet to the customers all day. He’d worked hard for it. By rights that pie was his.
‘Bu..bu.. but …’ the pie. Richard hated it that she could make him stutter with a simple lift of one well-maintained eyebrow. He couldn’t help it, he knew he was about to beg. And she was going to relish every minute of his public humiliation.
‘No buts, Richard. Or perhaps I should call you Nobody from now on? I think you’ve lost the right to your real name here.’
Nobody flinched. She couldn’t do that could she? Take away his name? He was Richard Cunningham. Always had been, always would be. Richard. I’m Richie. Aren’t I?
‘So many demerit cards, Nobody. One more word out of you and I don’t think you’ll be going home tonight, or tomorrow night, or … ever.’
She couldn’t just take his whole life away from him. Nobody was almost mad enough to tell her to sit on it.
The door slammed back on its hinges as the females in the diner all let out long dreamy sighs.
‘Mrs S. Looking fine.’
Richard bit back his own sigh, he was glad his friend had rescued him again. A high school rumble was one thing to be grateful for. Saving him from whatever terrible fate the suddenly sweetly simpering boss of Arnold’s Drive-In had planned for him? For that Richard was prepared to be the Fonz’s bitch for life.
When timer goes off check that cakes spring back when touched.
Richard’s world had shrunk to the security of Arnold’s Drive-In. It took him weeks to notice that he never went outside any more. He couldn’t work out what he was hiding from.
2 pm. The soda glasses were sparkling and lined up with military precision next to the fountain.
2.13 pm. He could never find the darned saltshakers. Pepper on every single table, which he topped up hourly according to Martha’s all-important schedule. But never any salt. Who steals salt of all things?
2.37 pm. He’d managed to construct a stunning semi-circular glassamid on the counter that was higher than his head. It was wonderful. He was also going to need a ladder to get up and fetch a glass down from the top of it the next time someone ordered a drink, but it was still freakin’ amazing.
2.58 pm. Arnold’s didn’t have a linen cupboard. That bothered him. When he got anxious he liked to tidy things, and sorting linen was calming. Meditative even. He felt a strange need to fluff, and fold, and tie pink ribbons around things. Or he would if he was worried about anything. Which he wasn’t. Fretting that is. Which he didn’t do. Because, what was there to stress over? He had great parents, even if he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at home with them. He had the best job, and good people to work with. Nice customers. Regulars. Friends from school. Girls. The Fonz as a role model of cool. That geeky Johnson kid with the seemingly bottomless appetite to use as a test subject for his cupcake creations. He had it all. Except for one thing. Arnold’s didn’t have a linen cupboard. Richard wished he knew why the absence of one upset him so much.
3.23 pm. Martha kept watching him. He couldn’t think why. He hadn’t been issued with a pink card in months. He was the perfect eager employee. He was on track to become assistant cook if his plan worked out. What was he doing wrong? She was nice, but she was starting to make him very nervous. If he turned around the next time and she had a hairbrush in her hands he knew he was going to snap and make a break for the door. He was a wuss. What did he have to be afraid of?
3.49 pm. He was kind of sick of cleaning tables. Didn’t these kids’ parents ever teach them basic manners? Chairs all left helter-skelter. Crumbs, syrup trails, and milkshake spatters everywhere because they all thought it was fun to blow bubbles through of their straws at each other. And he was the one left to clean up the mess, and his apron always ended up getting so darned dirty.
3.59 pm. Those windows really did need a good cleaning. Goodness knows where all that black soot and yellow powder came from. Wasn’t like the Drive-In was located in a high pollution area or anything. Richard spent all his spare time scrubbing the place down-Martha had this obsession that everything should be clean enough to eat off, and after a few days he was beginning to see her point. But it seriously irritated him when he’d thought he’d eradicated all the dirt only to turn around and find it all the same as it was before he started. Richard refused to admit he was becoming slightly paranoid, but he couldn’t help having a sneaking suspicion that the dirt was out to get him. Plus the yellow stuff stank like rotten eggs, and every time he got a whiff of it Richard got blindsided with the kind of migraines that only a third serving of pie could fix.
4.00 pm. Almost here. He was an annoying kid. Always hanging around, getting underfoot. Head buried in those stupid books all the time. Richard couldn’t work out why the kid didn’t just study at home. Must be the cupcakes. Richard didn’t know why he let the kid monopolise him so much. He took up valuable work time chatting while Martha glared at them from the corner. One of these days he knew that kid was going to earn him a lavender card. Here. He’s almost here.
4.01 pm. He should be here by now.
4.02 pm. What’s wrong? Is he hurt? In danger? Got to find hi…
4.03 pm. Thank God! Tires skidded to an awkward standstill outside the door, old tin pail banging out a maddeningly familiar rhythm on his handlebars over the distant howl of dogs; and here he came, dashing inside, all legs, hair, and melancholy smile.
‘Pomegranate time. I’m going a’picking. Want to come?’ Those puppy-dog eyes were working overtime. He looked scared but resolute.
I … can’t…
‘Sorry,’ he choked out. ‘Got a double shift. Marsha sprained her ankle attempting rolling splits. I’m stuck here forever. I can’t…’
Go with you.
Melt over a low heat.
‘Wendy! Quick!’
‘What? The Fonz here already?’ She mysteriously managed to whip her lipstick out of her patch pocket, tuck her shirt tighter into her waistband, and swap her skates for heels within the space of three seconds while Richard watched with amazement. It must be a girl thing. ‘He usually doesn’t get out of the garage till after 4.’
‘No. It’s not Fonzie. It’s him.’ Richard couldn’t help the shrillness as his voice lifted to disturbing heights.
‘Him, who?’ Wendy asked sensibly, as she leaned forward over his right shoulder and smacked her freshly lacquered red lips loudly together next to his ear.
‘Gee whiz, Wendy. Warn a guy next time!’ Richard eased himself back to the window after his startled jump.
‘The paperboy? You’ve been watching him all week. Is there something you need to say to me, Richie? Tell Auntie Wendy all about it,’ she said soothingly.
‘Shut up,’ Richard muttered. Darned carhops wouldn’t stop teasing him. Thought his interest was funny. It wasn’t funny. It was a little freaky though. There was something odd about that boy. Richard just had to work out what it was, preferably before he ended up with a permanent dent in his head from the afternoon paper delivery.
‘Oh, my God! He’s coming in!’ Richard hissed as he crouched down behind the corner booth.
Wendy merely giggled, and offered him the loan of her lipstick.
It. Just. Wasn’t. Fair.
The kid got off the bike and stood up. And kept on going. Up.
Whoa-tall.
Richard couldn’t work out why someone with legs that freakishly long was riding around on a bicycle that looked like an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot trikini when he was on it.
It wasn’t right that the paperboy was taller than he was. He was younger. He delivered papers, while Richard held down a much more responsible job at the Drive-in.
Richard knew then that there was something seriously wrong with his universe. One look at those lanky legs and Richard had this weird sense of déjà vu. He knew this kid, but he didn’t. His head hurt, and it was so darned hot in the diner.
Richard groaned. If only the kid wasn’t quite so tall, maybe he wouldn’t be feeling so flustered about meeting a complete stranger.
It.
Just.
Wasn’t.
Fair.
He was tall. And he was still coming in.
He knew he was blushing again. The kid had bounced up to the counter that Richard had quickly ducked behind for the psychological protection it provided, and said, ‘Hi!’ with this low rumble that resonated right through Richard. He knew this kid.
‘Hi!’ He squeaked back, feeling like a complete dork. Which was something else that kept knocking for admittance at the back door of Richard’s mind. He was sure he wasn’t supposed to be the dork. He couldn’t work out what was wrong. It wasn’t as if he was meeting some God-like being like the Fonz for the first time. This was someone young enough to be his kid brother and he was getting this wave of expectation, angst, and love that didn’t make any sense at all. And he didn’t know if it was coming from him, the kid, or both of them. To make things worse the kid was just standing there like he was the long lost final piece of some obscure jigsaw puzzle that was miraculously slotting back into place. Everything felt right.
Wendy coughed. Loudly.
Oh. ‘Uh. Anything I can get you?’
‘Cupcakes?’ the kid inquired hopefully. ‘Chocolate cupcakes?’
Richard could feel his face falling. He knew he was about to ruin this kid’s day. It made him feel awful, but, ‘We don’t have cupcakes on the menu,’ he whispered, not looking up because he didn’t want to see what that face looked like when it didn’t get cupcakes. ‘Sorry.’
Then Richard made the mistake of looking up. Now he knew what it was like to kick a helpless kitten. It was a bad feeling. He was a monster.
Richard decided he really needed to learn how to make cupcakes.
Ensure mixture is smooth and without lumps.
‘Richard?’ Her voice oozed like maple syrup through his bones until they shuddered with the sweetness.
‘Yes, Ma’am?’ Richard’s sweet tooth seemed to have disappeared.
‘What are these things doing on my premises?’
She never said Diner. Richard figured Arnold’s was a step down for her. She certainly acted as if she was used to something much more palatial.
‘What…?’ Christ. She’d found them. The kid had only been gone a few minutes and she was here. Missed him for once-lucky for the kid-but she’d found his present.
‘Fr…fr…ui…t,’ he stuttered out, hating what she did to him. How small she made him feel. ‘Fresh fruit. Thought I’d make …’ cupcakes for the kid. He asked me for cupcakes… ‘something seasonal for the rush hour,’ he finished, knowing instantly that his white lie was in vain.
Her fingers came to a halt a bare inch from the red fruit. ‘Pomegranates. Tell me, exactly how did you find pomegranates here of all places, Richard?’
Fuck. ‘Customer left them. Said they had too many. Said it would be a pity to let them go to waste.’ Please believe me.
‘Ah. A customer. How kind of them. Shame the fruit rots so fast in our summer heat.’ She pulled back her hand to reveal a pile of blackened and mould-ridden flesh suppurating their putrid juices into the bottom of the container. ‘I’ll just have someone get rid of the mess for you, shall I? Health regulations, you know.’
She nodded and Mr Balam was there behind her. Silent. Waiting. One withered old arm reaching forth at her signal-hawk tattoo writhing and struggling to life between the raised veins and tendons on his left fist-swooping down to pluck the decomposing fruit up, his mild face flickering, changing from bull to ram, before he subsided back into his original inoffensive visage and vanished.
Muffins and Earl Grey tea. Harmless. Old. There every single day with the perfect answer to everyone’s crossword puzzles. Watching. Not just a customer. Keeping as far from the kid as humanly possible. Always there. Watching me. Watching us.
Martha smiled; eyes almost black with a fierce joy as she turned back to him once more. ‘And Richard? That Johnson boy won’t be coming back here. You don’t need to worry about him taking up any more of your work time. He won’t be bothering you ever again.’
Spoon mixture into tins.
‘…hard?’
Leave now.
‘So what makes you’d like to work here with us, Richard?’
Don’t tell her.
Richard carefully avoided a betraying second look at the luscious peach cobbler sitting on the bench. Don’t say it’s because of the pies. He couldn’t help his nostrils flaring because… Oh God, that smells so good. Sugar and cinnamon, and all that ripe golden fruit oozing out onto the plate; the rich fragrance just managing to cover that odd lingering scent of sulphur, aniseed, and cinders.
Not safe.
Don’t tell her your parents don’t give you enough pocket money. That’s so embarrassing when you’re in high scho… Christ, but his head hurt so much.
Don’t tell.
Don’t tell her you’re saving to get a car because chicks only date guys with a cool set of wheels.
No! That was wrong. He could remember a black car, the most amazing car ever. If he could just shut his eyes and block out all this pain, he knew he’d be able to imagine what it felt like to hold that steering wheel in his hands, turn the engine on, release the brake, and just drive.
Turn around.
Don’t tell her you have no idea why you suddenly found yourself standing here in the middle of the diner of Arnold’s Drive-In six minutes ago with a Help Wanted! Apply Within sign clutched in your hands.
Open the door behind you, and run.
Richard shook his head. Weird. It was a drive-in. Arnold’s Drive-In. He knew every inch of Arnold’s. He’d been coming here since he was a kid. They’d put up a sign inside the front window. He was here. He had the sign. Logically he was here about the job. Everything was fine. Nothing hurt. It was all in his head. He was just nervous about the interview. Sitting here trying to figure out why it was called Arnold’s instead of simply Martha’s. Wasting time when he should have been mentally rehearsing the answers that would get him this job.
Don’t tell.
He just needed to breathe. Forget that stupid phantom pain and answer her questions. Richard concentrated on her calm and smiling face. He could do this.
Just tell her.
‘I really need a car, and your pies look awesome!’ He babbled out helplessly. It was what she wanted him to say. It was the truth. Wasn’t it? Nothing wrong with being honest with this woman. She looked so kind, and wholesome. The perfect boss.
He’d blown it. Should have said he wanted a career in the food industry. Told her he’d always dreamed of owning his own diner one day. Anything other than the simple truth that he liked pie.
Huh. She was smiling serenely at him as if that was exactly what she wanted to hear. She didn’t seem to mind that he liked pie. Oooh, maybe I could get to take some home after my shifts…
She stood up and leaned over to shake his hand. ‘Congratulations, Richard. I think you’ve just got yourself a job for life.’
A job. I got a job. With pie! How good was this? And he could save up for a car and he could…
Forget the smell of blood everywhere. Forget the taste…
‘Richard?’
My name’s not Richard. It’s…
‘You still with me, Richard?’
‘Yeah. I’m good. Just excited about the job, that’s all.’ Of course he was excited. He had it all, parents, school, and now a job. It was a good day to be alive.
‘Glad to have you with us, Dean.’
That wasn’t right. My name’s Richard. ‘It’s Richard, Ma’am. Richard Cunningham.’
‘Sorry, my mistake, Richard,’ she said apologetically. She didn’t look too bothered though. More contented, strangely happy.
‘Cunningham? You must be Howard and Marion’s son.’
She was smiling at him again. She kept doing that. Richard found himself trembling unreasonably in the stuffy air. She was just so nice.
‘I know your parents. Known them both for years. You probably don’t remember me, but we met a long time ago.’
Richard shifted restlessly in his chair. God. His parents knew everyone; sometimes he wished he lived in a big anonymous city like New York. He vowed to be very good at his job, for his parent’s sake as well as his own.
‘Welcome to Hel… Arnold’s, Richard. We’re all very glad you’re here at long last.’
She was smiling at him proudly. He liked that. He knew he’d made the right choice coming here.
Let stand 15 minutes before turning out.
Richard had finally done it. The ultimate chocolate cupcake. Six months, six weeks, and six days of testing, and there it was. His crowning glory. The Death-By-Chocolate-May-You-Rest-In-Peace Cupcake.
The kitchen benches were piled high with bowls, eggbeaters, spatulas, measuring cups and spoons, baking trays, cupcake tins, and a ton of half-empty packets of flour and chocolate. The rest of the ingredients were unevenly distributed all over the floor, and Richard. Aprons could only cope with so much. Today was not a good day to be an apron.
Richard pumped his clenched right fist up to the uncaring ceiling. ‘I. Am. A. Genius!’
‘You. Are. A. Slob,’ snarled the cook as he came in the alley door to start his shift. ‘Look at the state of my kitchen!’ He flung his motorbike helmet on top of the sink in disgust. It bounced twice in sycophantic sympathy with its owner.
‘I’ll clean it up,’ Richard promised serenely. He’d done it. The search for the final perfect combination of ingredients was over. He only had one nagging worry. Will it be too much if I ice R.I.P. on top?
‘You used to be such a nice, neat, biddable boy,’ Cook muttered. ‘Before the cupcake invasion. Men don’t eat cupcakes. Men eat meat, and…’
‘Pie!’ Richard said much too cheerfully for the glare he was getting. He agreed with the cook wholeheartedly. But…
‘The kid likes cupcakes,’ he admitted bashfully.
‘The kid likes cupcakes? Thought it would be a cold day in… uh… never thought Arnold’s would ever come down to this. It’s not … natural,’ the cook growled. ‘Glad it’s our last day. If we’d stayed open any longer I was afraid you were going to stencil a cupcake on your undershirt and stand in the doorway touting your wares.’
‘Hmm?’ Richard asked disinterestedly. No, not letters. He needed something more subtle. Something pretty. ‘Cachous!’
‘Don’t sneeze on the food!’ Cook snapped protectively.
‘The silver balls!’ Richard said, waving a dusty jarful in explanation. ‘I can do patterns.’
‘Whatever I did, I’m sure it wasn’t nearly bad enough to get assigned here to spend eternity watching a Win… Cunningham go girl-side,’ the cook complained bitterly.
‘Huh?’ Richard was happily marshalling his precious miniature balls into a star pattern on top of each one of the thirteen cupcakes on the display stand.
‘Boss is shutting up shop. The word is she got time off for … good behaviour. She’s going back to her old job. Apparently the world can’t get enough of her. As of 4 pm, this place is dead.’
A thousand years of scintillating silver balls went flying, rebounding from one messy surface to another until they all came to temporary rest in a tarnished heap over the recessed sewer grating before they began jostling to earn the right to be first to throw themselves down into the abyss.
‘But… she can’t! My … job and …’ The kid is coming. ‘I made cupcakes,’ Richard finished forlornly.
He should leave.
The cook had reversed the Open sign thirty minutes ago. An hour early, but no one seemed to care. They’d had no customers all day. Even the rest of the staff hadn’t bothered to come to work. Word must have got around. Richard wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that his parents had heard the news before he had.
The street was unusually quiet outside; the only sound was those damned dogs howling up a storm in the distance. Richard made his selection on the jukebox; he had to have something to block them out. Might as well end the show on a high note.
‘Gonna cruise her round the town,
Show everybody what I've found
Rock'n'roll with all my friends
Hopin' the music never ends.’
‘Well, can’t say it’s been real.’
Cook was standing behind him pulling on his leathers. If he hadn’t known him so well, Richard would have run then. He looked … almost predatory.
‘I won’t bother saying goodbye. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you around here for a long time to come.’ His mouth tilted up into a lupine grin, eyes flickering hungrily, as one giant heated paw clapped Richard on the shoulder. ‘Be interesting to see how long you last in … town. Never thought you’d stick it this far. Guess it runs in the family. Your father was a tough one too. Try and hold out another year, will you? I’ve got a lot riding on that bet.’ He picked up his helmet and shouldered his way out through the back door, leaving Richard alone in the diner with just the last chorus as company.
In an effort to be neat, biddable, and damn it, nice, Richard went slowly around the room stacking up unwanted chairs, and putting away napkin holders, and all those sad orphaned peppershakers.
In the end he was left with an immaculate, glaringly empty, diner; and one all too lively a record on endless repeat. That, and two orange stools pulled up close together next to a counter where his magnificent cupcakes lingered in solitary splendour.
Richard peered hopefully through the clouded windows in search of that ridiculous midget bicycle and its geeky owner. It wasn’t stupid to need to say goodbye was it? He just wanted…
Christ! He recoiled from Mr Balam’s brooding reflection in the filthy glass.
He spun around to confront their only customer. ‘God! You nearly gave me a heart attack. I didn’t…’ see you.
He was talking idiotically to himself in a vacant room. First sign that you’re crazy, dude.
Except that now he had this image, an echo of that elderly man vanishing in front of him-tattoos that moved…a man with three heads…politely smiling monsters…an escape ripped away from him before he even had a chance to understand…the death of hope, and love… and a scorching sense of loss-before his mind shied away from that mirage when the grief became almost real enough to drown in.
This is Arnold’s. That’s just a dream.
‘I’m...’ right here.
He had to leave.
Nothing to stay for. I can go home now.
That comforting thought shouldn’t have hurt. Suddenly all he could see was flames and hear someone yelling...
‘Richard!’
‘Mar... Ma’am?’ How the heck did she do that? First he thought he’d seen the old guy who wasn’t there, then he hadn’t seen her, and she was. There. Right in front of him. Smiling.
Go.
Richard stood his ground. Couldn’t let a little bitty blonde woman frighten him, even if she was his boss. And. She. Did.
...outside as fast as you can...
‘What?’ That voice. He knew that voice.
‘Richard? You’re still here. I must say, I’m surprised. Didn’t you read the notice?’ Martha was pointing accusingly at the ribbon board on the wall next to the kitchen through-window.
‘Uh.’ No? Surely she wasn’t going to punish him with a lavender card on his last day? What kind of bi... who’d do that?
‘All permanent staff are to assemble outside at 4 pm to await transportation to their new workplace.’
I’ve still got a job! But... ‘I’m just a casual,’ he said hopefully.
She patted him on the back reassuringly. It didn’t make him feel better. Not at all.
‘Oh, Richard.’ She was smiling at him as if he was nice, but a little dim.
He wasn’t dim. He was just confused, and so damned tired. Felt like he’d been awake and slaving at Arnold’s forever.
‘Didn’t you know? You were made permanent the day you arrived.’
All of a sudden Richard didn’t want to be permanent, not the way she phrased it as if his head was about to be mounted on the wall above the soda fountain for all to see. He didn’t want this job, or this life. He just wanted to go home.
‘Yes, Ma’am. Thank you for the ... opportunity.’ Marion Cunningham hadn’t raised an impolite son.
He had to go. He had to smile, make nice, wait for her to leave, and then he had to go.
‘It was my absolute pleasure,’ she said as she minced towards the door in her favourite Christian Louboutin vermillion pumps.
‘Oh, and, Richard? Don’t be late. You really don’t want to be here past the deadline.’
He had somewhere to go. Why didn’t that make him feel better? He had another job. Same boss, new workplace, the transition would be easy. His parents would…
Family.
He was missing … something. What?
Home? 565 North Clinton Drive. No.
Someone? Mom, Dad. No, that wasn’t it.
And it wasn’t some foolish dream of slicking back his hair, easing his arms into a leather jacket, and kick-starting a motorbike with his awesome boots and driving off into the sunset with an adoring chick riding pillion as if he was the Fonz.
No.
That kid.
Always there.
The kid.
Who climbed off that stupid, damned bicycle, and walked tall into the diner like a young-well, Richard couldn’t think who, someone from the movies or one of those new television shows-a hero come to rescue the damsel in distress. Richard was prepared to go to his grave never admitting that he had a sudden flash of himself tied to railroad tracks in a white petticoat.
That kid.
Who he’d known his whole life.
The kid.
Who he met for the first time here in Arnold’s.
That kid.
Who had always been here.
The kid.
Who brought him fruit, made him bake cupcakes, and poked fun at his apron as if he had an inalienable right to do so.
That kid.
Whose gangly legs, and face, and eyes, and most strangely of all damnit-those bangs-he. Just. Knew.
The kid.
Who was always here at 4.01 pm on the dot.
That kid.
Who was late.
As was Richard.
All permanent staff are to assemble outside at 4 pm…
It was 4.02 pm and Richard was late. Martha had issued a deadline. Martha meant it. Martha always followed through. No matter what. No matter where.
The kid was late.
Richard was late.
Martha would be more than pissed.
Richard knew there was only one sensible thing to do. Run for the bus. Bow down before Martha’s pointy red shoes. Get on with his new life. Forget some damned kid he couldn’t possibly even know.
Well. Richard only had one sensible thing to say.
‘Screw you, Martha!’
It probably would have been more impressive if she’d been there. But Richard figured it was the thought that counted.
As he stood silently waiting inside the diner, thoughts were the only thing Richard had left.
None of his thoughts made any sense whatsoever.
He couldn’t remember how long he’d been here. He remembered days. He remembered months.
There were things he couldn’t possibly remember, but he did. Others that he should, and couldn’t.
Sometimes he remembered dying. And blood. He remembered blood.
He remembered pain. And howls flying on edge of the wind. He remembered those.
He remembered hooks.
He remembered pain.
He remembered heat.
He remembered blood. He remembered blood.
He remembered being happy. And he remembered blood.
He couldn’t remember his own name. He was Nobody. But he remembered blood.
He remembered blood.
And he remembered that he was waiting.
The kid was coming. He had to wait.
The kid would come. He was late, but he would come.
All he could remember was the smell of burning.
All he could hear was a voice.
… outside as fast as you can…
All he could see now was light as the walls seared, and twisted, and tumbled down around him. All he could see was light, and it was red.
Don’t look back.
All he could feel was the fire furling itself around him, holding him tight; taking him deep.
No! Have to wait. He had to stay for the kid. Couldn’t let him be hurt. Couldn’t leave him. Not here. Not alone. Not now.
He had to wait.
Now, Dean. Go!
He wasn’t Dean. He was...
He didn’t know who he was any longer. He wasn’t Richard. He was Nobody.
He couldn’t go.
Have to wait.
The kid was coming.
Sammy...
Rating: Gen, R, Death fic
Characters: Dean, Sam, The Woman formerly known as Martha, and a special guest appearance by The Fonz.
Word Count: 5,884/11,261
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchesters for fun and angst. Sorry about the holes.
A/N: Coda to 3.16 No Rest for the Wicked
A SPN/HD multiple (depending on how you read the time changes) death fic crossover (but not).
For slazersc who asked for a sequel to Bread and Circuses “with Sammy never letting Dean live down the cupcake moment.” This did diverge a little from the original request - for which I take complete responsibility I blame my muse (she’s fickle, emo, and entirely too attached to angst-bunnies)
Apologies for the gratuitous misuse of HD’s lyrics, and some of the Fonz’s more famous sayings. But none at all for the character death(s), or screwing with the internal timelines.
Thanks to the fantabulous secret-seer for creating a retro banner that truly rocks.
Setting: Milwaukee, Wis., and elsewhere, 1955/July 2008
Summary: What do you mean, “I look like a chick in my apron?”
Part 1 | Part 2
Part 2
First select the perfect recipe.
Richard had a plan. He’d always had a plan. Get the low-paid waiter/kitchen hand/bus boy job at the dinner. Save money. Buy a car. Get a girlfriend. Or vice versa, he liked to think he was flexible about some things. Work his way subtly up to becoming indispensable to the boss. Write a brilliant exposé of the dark side of the food industry for the Bugle on the side. Watch every single move the cook made. Learn everything, especially about baking. Richard was sure he could cook. After all, how hard could it be? And maybe one day he too could create pies that people would talk about for years to come. Ginormous, incredibly scrumptious, totally brilliant pies.
It was a cunning plan-okay, maybe it was actually several cunning plans but Richard wasn’t bothered with maths or other pesky details-it was his plan, and it was a secret. Richard wasn’t sure if he was any good at hiding things from people, but for this goal he was going to do his very best.
In the end it was all about the food.
Bake cupcakes for 20 minutes.
‘I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill…’
Richard was feeling lucky. Only a few days into his new after-school job and life was good. He dodged the island workbench joyfully juggling dishes as he practiced his own unique version of the twist. Life was amazing. He could do this forever.
‘The wind in the willow…’
‘Cunningham!’
Richard just managed to catch the dirty plates before he dropped them onto the floor. Fu… Darn.
‘Ma’am! Yes, Ma’am?’
‘What have I told you repeatedly ever since I gave you this job?’
No singing. No dancing. No talking. No gum. No. No. No. Smile at the customers. Smile at me. Smile. Smile. Smile. In the kitchen-apron on. Serving-apron on. On. On. On. Faster. Faster. Faster.
‘Uh… no singing, Ma’am?’ Please, God, let that be the right answer.
His boss’s eyes narrowed dangerously under her disarming blonde bangs. ‘Precisely, Cunningham. No singing.’
Phew.
‘What were you doing, Cunningham?’
Uh. ‘Singing,’ Richard admitted in his smallest voice. Some things were a bit fuzzy right now, but he was sure he’d never had a little voice before. It must be because of Her.
‘Exactly,’ she oozed with annoyed satisfaction. ‘And what does that mean?’
‘I broke The Rules, Ma’am.’
He’d only been on the job less than two days and he’d been pink carded by his new boss three times. Pink cards were bad. Lavender was worse. According to Marsha, Arnold’s had once had an employee who’d gotten one of those. No one ever saw him again after that. Richard really hoped that was Arnold’s version of an urban legend, but he had his doubts. Looking at Her he had strong doubts. There was just something so familiar about that perfectly made-up face-strange, but known-something that made the hairs on the back of his neck want to pluck themselves free and run out of the building screaming for their little brother to save them. Which was plain weird because, Milwaukee? Home to Jefferson High-best darned school in the state. Home to Arnold’s Drive-In. Home to the Cunninghams ever since Mom and Dad became … well, Mom and Dad he guessed. Milwaukee was bowling shirts, basketball practice, and hardware stores; girls with ponytails, letter sweaters, and poodle skirts; roller skates, jukeboxes and milkshakes. Milwaukee was safe. Richard loved safe. Richard could almost remember what that felt like. Until Her. Richard needed safe. This isn’t sa…
‘Correction. You broke the rules again. How many times is that now?’
‘Uh.’
‘You can add, can’t you Cunningham?’
Richard immediately assumed the position of attention. He’d never realized how closely working at a drive-in resembled a military career. Richard was glad he was going to be a writer; he’d be a hopeless Marine.
‘Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am! Four times, Si… Ma’am.’ Eyes straight on her. Don’t let her know you’re afraid.
‘Four.’ His boss rolled the number around in her mouth before spitting it out in disgust at his feet as she tacked another card on the board in the already crowded column under his name. ‘What does that mean, boy?’
Eyes off the board. Too many rules, all too many chances to get things wrong. ‘Pay docked, and loss of privileges, Ma’am.’ Two more and it’s lavender. Holy s…
‘And what was today’s bonus, Cunningham?’
No. She wouldn’t? ‘P… pie,’ Richard stammered out. ‘Taking home the leftover pie.’
‘You like pie, don’t you, Cunningham?’
Don’t make me beg. Please don’t make me beg. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Yes, Ma’am, what?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. I like pie.’
She was smiling at him so sweetly. The customers loved her. The ultimate domestic Madonna glowing down on lesser mortals. Everyone had no option but to love her. Richard had loved her at first sight. Before.
‘Such a shame that your wanton disregard for a few easy rules designed to create a tranquil workplace has forced me to do this. You must know I take no pleasure in this.’
She was shaking her head so sadly, that Richard almost fell to his knees to apologize. That look made him feel utterly stupid and worthless. How was he going to tell his parents if she sacked him? And what about the pie? Richard had been lusting after that cherry pie ever since it came out of the oven. Dam… darn it, he’d been recommending every other sweet to the customers all day. He’d worked hard for it. By rights that pie was his.
‘Bu..bu.. but …’ the pie. Richard hated it that she could make him stutter with a simple lift of one well-maintained eyebrow. He couldn’t help it, he knew he was about to beg. And she was going to relish every minute of his public humiliation.
‘No buts, Richard. Or perhaps I should call you Nobody from now on? I think you’ve lost the right to your real name here.’
Nobody flinched. She couldn’t do that could she? Take away his name? He was Richard Cunningham. Always had been, always would be. Richard. I’m Richie. Aren’t I?
‘So many demerit cards, Nobody. One more word out of you and I don’t think you’ll be going home tonight, or tomorrow night, or … ever.’
She couldn’t just take his whole life away from him. Nobody was almost mad enough to tell her to sit on it.
The door slammed back on its hinges as the females in the diner all let out long dreamy sighs.
‘Mrs S. Looking fine.’
Richard bit back his own sigh, he was glad his friend had rescued him again. A high school rumble was one thing to be grateful for. Saving him from whatever terrible fate the suddenly sweetly simpering boss of Arnold’s Drive-In had planned for him? For that Richard was prepared to be the Fonz’s bitch for life.
When timer goes off check that cakes spring back when touched.
Richard’s world had shrunk to the security of Arnold’s Drive-In. It took him weeks to notice that he never went outside any more. He couldn’t work out what he was hiding from.
2 pm. The soda glasses were sparkling and lined up with military precision next to the fountain.
2.13 pm. He could never find the darned saltshakers. Pepper on every single table, which he topped up hourly according to Martha’s all-important schedule. But never any salt. Who steals salt of all things?
2.37 pm. He’d managed to construct a stunning semi-circular glassamid on the counter that was higher than his head. It was wonderful. He was also going to need a ladder to get up and fetch a glass down from the top of it the next time someone ordered a drink, but it was still freakin’ amazing.
2.58 pm. Arnold’s didn’t have a linen cupboard. That bothered him. When he got anxious he liked to tidy things, and sorting linen was calming. Meditative even. He felt a strange need to fluff, and fold, and tie pink ribbons around things. Or he would if he was worried about anything. Which he wasn’t. Fretting that is. Which he didn’t do. Because, what was there to stress over? He had great parents, even if he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at home with them. He had the best job, and good people to work with. Nice customers. Regulars. Friends from school. Girls. The Fonz as a role model of cool. That geeky Johnson kid with the seemingly bottomless appetite to use as a test subject for his cupcake creations. He had it all. Except for one thing. Arnold’s didn’t have a linen cupboard. Richard wished he knew why the absence of one upset him so much.
3.23 pm. Martha kept watching him. He couldn’t think why. He hadn’t been issued with a pink card in months. He was the perfect eager employee. He was on track to become assistant cook if his plan worked out. What was he doing wrong? She was nice, but she was starting to make him very nervous. If he turned around the next time and she had a hairbrush in her hands he knew he was going to snap and make a break for the door. He was a wuss. What did he have to be afraid of?
3.49 pm. He was kind of sick of cleaning tables. Didn’t these kids’ parents ever teach them basic manners? Chairs all left helter-skelter. Crumbs, syrup trails, and milkshake spatters everywhere because they all thought it was fun to blow bubbles through of their straws at each other. And he was the one left to clean up the mess, and his apron always ended up getting so darned dirty.
3.59 pm. Those windows really did need a good cleaning. Goodness knows where all that black soot and yellow powder came from. Wasn’t like the Drive-In was located in a high pollution area or anything. Richard spent all his spare time scrubbing the place down-Martha had this obsession that everything should be clean enough to eat off, and after a few days he was beginning to see her point. But it seriously irritated him when he’d thought he’d eradicated all the dirt only to turn around and find it all the same as it was before he started. Richard refused to admit he was becoming slightly paranoid, but he couldn’t help having a sneaking suspicion that the dirt was out to get him. Plus the yellow stuff stank like rotten eggs, and every time he got a whiff of it Richard got blindsided with the kind of migraines that only a third serving of pie could fix.
4.00 pm. Almost here. He was an annoying kid. Always hanging around, getting underfoot. Head buried in those stupid books all the time. Richard couldn’t work out why the kid didn’t just study at home. Must be the cupcakes. Richard didn’t know why he let the kid monopolise him so much. He took up valuable work time chatting while Martha glared at them from the corner. One of these days he knew that kid was going to earn him a lavender card. Here. He’s almost here.
4.01 pm. He should be here by now.
4.02 pm. What’s wrong? Is he hurt? In danger? Got to find hi…
4.03 pm. Thank God! Tires skidded to an awkward standstill outside the door, old tin pail banging out a maddeningly familiar rhythm on his handlebars over the distant howl of dogs; and here he came, dashing inside, all legs, hair, and melancholy smile.
‘Pomegranate time. I’m going a’picking. Want to come?’ Those puppy-dog eyes were working overtime. He looked scared but resolute.
I … can’t…
‘Sorry,’ he choked out. ‘Got a double shift. Marsha sprained her ankle attempting rolling splits. I’m stuck here forever. I can’t…’
Go with you.
Melt over a low heat.
‘Wendy! Quick!’
‘What? The Fonz here already?’ She mysteriously managed to whip her lipstick out of her patch pocket, tuck her shirt tighter into her waistband, and swap her skates for heels within the space of three seconds while Richard watched with amazement. It must be a girl thing. ‘He usually doesn’t get out of the garage till after 4.’
‘No. It’s not Fonzie. It’s him.’ Richard couldn’t help the shrillness as his voice lifted to disturbing heights.
‘Him, who?’ Wendy asked sensibly, as she leaned forward over his right shoulder and smacked her freshly lacquered red lips loudly together next to his ear.
‘Gee whiz, Wendy. Warn a guy next time!’ Richard eased himself back to the window after his startled jump.
‘The paperboy? You’ve been watching him all week. Is there something you need to say to me, Richie? Tell Auntie Wendy all about it,’ she said soothingly.
‘Shut up,’ Richard muttered. Darned carhops wouldn’t stop teasing him. Thought his interest was funny. It wasn’t funny. It was a little freaky though. There was something odd about that boy. Richard just had to work out what it was, preferably before he ended up with a permanent dent in his head from the afternoon paper delivery.
‘Oh, my God! He’s coming in!’ Richard hissed as he crouched down behind the corner booth.
Wendy merely giggled, and offered him the loan of her lipstick.
It. Just. Wasn’t. Fair.
The kid got off the bike and stood up. And kept on going. Up.
Whoa-tall.
Richard couldn’t work out why someone with legs that freakishly long was riding around on a bicycle that looked like an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot trikini when he was on it.
It wasn’t right that the paperboy was taller than he was. He was younger. He delivered papers, while Richard held down a much more responsible job at the Drive-in.
Richard knew then that there was something seriously wrong with his universe. One look at those lanky legs and Richard had this weird sense of déjà vu. He knew this kid, but he didn’t. His head hurt, and it was so darned hot in the diner.
Richard groaned. If only the kid wasn’t quite so tall, maybe he wouldn’t be feeling so flustered about meeting a complete stranger.
It.
Just.
Wasn’t.
Fair.
He was tall. And he was still coming in.
He knew he was blushing again. The kid had bounced up to the counter that Richard had quickly ducked behind for the psychological protection it provided, and said, ‘Hi!’ with this low rumble that resonated right through Richard. He knew this kid.
‘Hi!’ He squeaked back, feeling like a complete dork. Which was something else that kept knocking for admittance at the back door of Richard’s mind. He was sure he wasn’t supposed to be the dork. He couldn’t work out what was wrong. It wasn’t as if he was meeting some God-like being like the Fonz for the first time. This was someone young enough to be his kid brother and he was getting this wave of expectation, angst, and love that didn’t make any sense at all. And he didn’t know if it was coming from him, the kid, or both of them. To make things worse the kid was just standing there like he was the long lost final piece of some obscure jigsaw puzzle that was miraculously slotting back into place. Everything felt right.
Wendy coughed. Loudly.
Oh. ‘Uh. Anything I can get you?’
‘Cupcakes?’ the kid inquired hopefully. ‘Chocolate cupcakes?’
Richard could feel his face falling. He knew he was about to ruin this kid’s day. It made him feel awful, but, ‘We don’t have cupcakes on the menu,’ he whispered, not looking up because he didn’t want to see what that face looked like when it didn’t get cupcakes. ‘Sorry.’
Then Richard made the mistake of looking up. Now he knew what it was like to kick a helpless kitten. It was a bad feeling. He was a monster.
Richard decided he really needed to learn how to make cupcakes.
Ensure mixture is smooth and without lumps.
‘Richard?’ Her voice oozed like maple syrup through his bones until they shuddered with the sweetness.
‘Yes, Ma’am?’ Richard’s sweet tooth seemed to have disappeared.
‘What are these things doing on my premises?’
She never said Diner. Richard figured Arnold’s was a step down for her. She certainly acted as if she was used to something much more palatial.
‘What…?’ Christ. She’d found them. The kid had only been gone a few minutes and she was here. Missed him for once-lucky for the kid-but she’d found his present.
‘Fr…fr…ui…t,’ he stuttered out, hating what she did to him. How small she made him feel. ‘Fresh fruit. Thought I’d make …’ cupcakes for the kid. He asked me for cupcakes… ‘something seasonal for the rush hour,’ he finished, knowing instantly that his white lie was in vain.
Her fingers came to a halt a bare inch from the red fruit. ‘Pomegranates. Tell me, exactly how did you find pomegranates here of all places, Richard?’
Fuck. ‘Customer left them. Said they had too many. Said it would be a pity to let them go to waste.’ Please believe me.
‘Ah. A customer. How kind of them. Shame the fruit rots so fast in our summer heat.’ She pulled back her hand to reveal a pile of blackened and mould-ridden flesh suppurating their putrid juices into the bottom of the container. ‘I’ll just have someone get rid of the mess for you, shall I? Health regulations, you know.’
She nodded and Mr Balam was there behind her. Silent. Waiting. One withered old arm reaching forth at her signal-hawk tattoo writhing and struggling to life between the raised veins and tendons on his left fist-swooping down to pluck the decomposing fruit up, his mild face flickering, changing from bull to ram, before he subsided back into his original inoffensive visage and vanished.
Muffins and Earl Grey tea. Harmless. Old. There every single day with the perfect answer to everyone’s crossword puzzles. Watching. Not just a customer. Keeping as far from the kid as humanly possible. Always there. Watching me. Watching us.
Martha smiled; eyes almost black with a fierce joy as she turned back to him once more. ‘And Richard? That Johnson boy won’t be coming back here. You don’t need to worry about him taking up any more of your work time. He won’t be bothering you ever again.’
Spoon mixture into tins.
‘…hard?’
Leave now.
‘So what makes you’d like to work here with us, Richard?’
Don’t tell her.
Richard carefully avoided a betraying second look at the luscious peach cobbler sitting on the bench. Don’t say it’s because of the pies. He couldn’t help his nostrils flaring because… Oh God, that smells so good. Sugar and cinnamon, and all that ripe golden fruit oozing out onto the plate; the rich fragrance just managing to cover that odd lingering scent of sulphur, aniseed, and cinders.
Not safe.
Don’t tell her your parents don’t give you enough pocket money. That’s so embarrassing when you’re in high scho… Christ, but his head hurt so much.
Don’t tell.
Don’t tell her you’re saving to get a car because chicks only date guys with a cool set of wheels.
No! That was wrong. He could remember a black car, the most amazing car ever. If he could just shut his eyes and block out all this pain, he knew he’d be able to imagine what it felt like to hold that steering wheel in his hands, turn the engine on, release the brake, and just drive.
Turn around.
Don’t tell her you have no idea why you suddenly found yourself standing here in the middle of the diner of Arnold’s Drive-In six minutes ago with a Help Wanted! Apply Within sign clutched in your hands.
Open the door behind you, and run.
Richard shook his head. Weird. It was a drive-in. Arnold’s Drive-In. He knew every inch of Arnold’s. He’d been coming here since he was a kid. They’d put up a sign inside the front window. He was here. He had the sign. Logically he was here about the job. Everything was fine. Nothing hurt. It was all in his head. He was just nervous about the interview. Sitting here trying to figure out why it was called Arnold’s instead of simply Martha’s. Wasting time when he should have been mentally rehearsing the answers that would get him this job.
Don’t tell.
He just needed to breathe. Forget that stupid phantom pain and answer her questions. Richard concentrated on her calm and smiling face. He could do this.
Just tell her.
‘I really need a car, and your pies look awesome!’ He babbled out helplessly. It was what she wanted him to say. It was the truth. Wasn’t it? Nothing wrong with being honest with this woman. She looked so kind, and wholesome. The perfect boss.
He’d blown it. Should have said he wanted a career in the food industry. Told her he’d always dreamed of owning his own diner one day. Anything other than the simple truth that he liked pie.
Huh. She was smiling serenely at him as if that was exactly what she wanted to hear. She didn’t seem to mind that he liked pie. Oooh, maybe I could get to take some home after my shifts…
She stood up and leaned over to shake his hand. ‘Congratulations, Richard. I think you’ve just got yourself a job for life.’
A job. I got a job. With pie! How good was this? And he could save up for a car and he could…
Forget the smell of blood everywhere. Forget the taste…
‘Richard?’
My name’s not Richard. It’s…
‘You still with me, Richard?’
‘Yeah. I’m good. Just excited about the job, that’s all.’ Of course he was excited. He had it all, parents, school, and now a job. It was a good day to be alive.
‘Glad to have you with us, Dean.’
That wasn’t right. My name’s Richard. ‘It’s Richard, Ma’am. Richard Cunningham.’
‘Sorry, my mistake, Richard,’ she said apologetically. She didn’t look too bothered though. More contented, strangely happy.
‘Cunningham? You must be Howard and Marion’s son.’
She was smiling at him again. She kept doing that. Richard found himself trembling unreasonably in the stuffy air. She was just so nice.
‘I know your parents. Known them both for years. You probably don’t remember me, but we met a long time ago.’
Richard shifted restlessly in his chair. God. His parents knew everyone; sometimes he wished he lived in a big anonymous city like New York. He vowed to be very good at his job, for his parent’s sake as well as his own.
‘Welcome to Hel… Arnold’s, Richard. We’re all very glad you’re here at long last.’
She was smiling at him proudly. He liked that. He knew he’d made the right choice coming here.
Let stand 15 minutes before turning out.
Richard had finally done it. The ultimate chocolate cupcake. Six months, six weeks, and six days of testing, and there it was. His crowning glory. The Death-By-Chocolate-May-You-Rest-In-Peace Cupcake.
The kitchen benches were piled high with bowls, eggbeaters, spatulas, measuring cups and spoons, baking trays, cupcake tins, and a ton of half-empty packets of flour and chocolate. The rest of the ingredients were unevenly distributed all over the floor, and Richard. Aprons could only cope with so much. Today was not a good day to be an apron.
Richard pumped his clenched right fist up to the uncaring ceiling. ‘I. Am. A. Genius!’
‘You. Are. A. Slob,’ snarled the cook as he came in the alley door to start his shift. ‘Look at the state of my kitchen!’ He flung his motorbike helmet on top of the sink in disgust. It bounced twice in sycophantic sympathy with its owner.
‘I’ll clean it up,’ Richard promised serenely. He’d done it. The search for the final perfect combination of ingredients was over. He only had one nagging worry. Will it be too much if I ice R.I.P. on top?
‘You used to be such a nice, neat, biddable boy,’ Cook muttered. ‘Before the cupcake invasion. Men don’t eat cupcakes. Men eat meat, and…’
‘Pie!’ Richard said much too cheerfully for the glare he was getting. He agreed with the cook wholeheartedly. But…
‘The kid likes cupcakes,’ he admitted bashfully.
‘The kid likes cupcakes? Thought it would be a cold day in… uh… never thought Arnold’s would ever come down to this. It’s not … natural,’ the cook growled. ‘Glad it’s our last day. If we’d stayed open any longer I was afraid you were going to stencil a cupcake on your undershirt and stand in the doorway touting your wares.’
‘Hmm?’ Richard asked disinterestedly. No, not letters. He needed something more subtle. Something pretty. ‘Cachous!’
‘Don’t sneeze on the food!’ Cook snapped protectively.
‘The silver balls!’ Richard said, waving a dusty jarful in explanation. ‘I can do patterns.’
‘Whatever I did, I’m sure it wasn’t nearly bad enough to get assigned here to spend eternity watching a Win… Cunningham go girl-side,’ the cook complained bitterly.
‘Huh?’ Richard was happily marshalling his precious miniature balls into a star pattern on top of each one of the thirteen cupcakes on the display stand.
‘Boss is shutting up shop. The word is she got time off for … good behaviour. She’s going back to her old job. Apparently the world can’t get enough of her. As of 4 pm, this place is dead.’
A thousand years of scintillating silver balls went flying, rebounding from one messy surface to another until they all came to temporary rest in a tarnished heap over the recessed sewer grating before they began jostling to earn the right to be first to throw themselves down into the abyss.
‘But… she can’t! My … job and …’ The kid is coming. ‘I made cupcakes,’ Richard finished forlornly.
He should leave.
The cook had reversed the Open sign thirty minutes ago. An hour early, but no one seemed to care. They’d had no customers all day. Even the rest of the staff hadn’t bothered to come to work. Word must have got around. Richard wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that his parents had heard the news before he had.
The street was unusually quiet outside; the only sound was those damned dogs howling up a storm in the distance. Richard made his selection on the jukebox; he had to have something to block them out. Might as well end the show on a high note.
‘Gonna cruise her round the town,
Show everybody what I've found
Rock'n'roll with all my friends
Hopin' the music never ends.’
‘Well, can’t say it’s been real.’
Cook was standing behind him pulling on his leathers. If he hadn’t known him so well, Richard would have run then. He looked … almost predatory.
‘I won’t bother saying goodbye. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you around here for a long time to come.’ His mouth tilted up into a lupine grin, eyes flickering hungrily, as one giant heated paw clapped Richard on the shoulder. ‘Be interesting to see how long you last in … town. Never thought you’d stick it this far. Guess it runs in the family. Your father was a tough one too. Try and hold out another year, will you? I’ve got a lot riding on that bet.’ He picked up his helmet and shouldered his way out through the back door, leaving Richard alone in the diner with just the last chorus as company.
In an effort to be neat, biddable, and damn it, nice, Richard went slowly around the room stacking up unwanted chairs, and putting away napkin holders, and all those sad orphaned peppershakers.
In the end he was left with an immaculate, glaringly empty, diner; and one all too lively a record on endless repeat. That, and two orange stools pulled up close together next to a counter where his magnificent cupcakes lingered in solitary splendour.
Richard peered hopefully through the clouded windows in search of that ridiculous midget bicycle and its geeky owner. It wasn’t stupid to need to say goodbye was it? He just wanted…
Christ! He recoiled from Mr Balam’s brooding reflection in the filthy glass.
He spun around to confront their only customer. ‘God! You nearly gave me a heart attack. I didn’t…’ see you.
He was talking idiotically to himself in a vacant room. First sign that you’re crazy, dude.
Except that now he had this image, an echo of that elderly man vanishing in front of him-tattoos that moved…a man with three heads…politely smiling monsters…an escape ripped away from him before he even had a chance to understand…the death of hope, and love… and a scorching sense of loss-before his mind shied away from that mirage when the grief became almost real enough to drown in.
This is Arnold’s. That’s just a dream.
‘I’m...’ right here.
He had to leave.
Nothing to stay for. I can go home now.
That comforting thought shouldn’t have hurt. Suddenly all he could see was flames and hear someone yelling...
‘Richard!’
‘Mar... Ma’am?’ How the heck did she do that? First he thought he’d seen the old guy who wasn’t there, then he hadn’t seen her, and she was. There. Right in front of him. Smiling.
Go.
Richard stood his ground. Couldn’t let a little bitty blonde woman frighten him, even if she was his boss. And. She. Did.
...outside as fast as you can...
‘What?’ That voice. He knew that voice.
‘Richard? You’re still here. I must say, I’m surprised. Didn’t you read the notice?’ Martha was pointing accusingly at the ribbon board on the wall next to the kitchen through-window.
‘Uh.’ No? Surely she wasn’t going to punish him with a lavender card on his last day? What kind of bi... who’d do that?
‘All permanent staff are to assemble outside at 4 pm to await transportation to their new workplace.’
I’ve still got a job! But... ‘I’m just a casual,’ he said hopefully.
She patted him on the back reassuringly. It didn’t make him feel better. Not at all.
‘Oh, Richard.’ She was smiling at him as if he was nice, but a little dim.
He wasn’t dim. He was just confused, and so damned tired. Felt like he’d been awake and slaving at Arnold’s forever.
‘Didn’t you know? You were made permanent the day you arrived.’
All of a sudden Richard didn’t want to be permanent, not the way she phrased it as if his head was about to be mounted on the wall above the soda fountain for all to see. He didn’t want this job, or this life. He just wanted to go home.
‘Yes, Ma’am. Thank you for the ... opportunity.’ Marion Cunningham hadn’t raised an impolite son.
He had to go. He had to smile, make nice, wait for her to leave, and then he had to go.
‘It was my absolute pleasure,’ she said as she minced towards the door in her favourite Christian Louboutin vermillion pumps.
‘Oh, and, Richard? Don’t be late. You really don’t want to be here past the deadline.’
He had somewhere to go. Why didn’t that make him feel better? He had another job. Same boss, new workplace, the transition would be easy. His parents would…
Family.
He was missing … something. What?
Home? 565 North Clinton Drive. No.
Someone? Mom, Dad. No, that wasn’t it.
And it wasn’t some foolish dream of slicking back his hair, easing his arms into a leather jacket, and kick-starting a motorbike with his awesome boots and driving off into the sunset with an adoring chick riding pillion as if he was the Fonz.
No.
That kid.
Always there.
The kid.
Who climbed off that stupid, damned bicycle, and walked tall into the diner like a young-well, Richard couldn’t think who, someone from the movies or one of those new television shows-a hero come to rescue the damsel in distress. Richard was prepared to go to his grave never admitting that he had a sudden flash of himself tied to railroad tracks in a white petticoat.
That kid.
Who he’d known his whole life.
The kid.
Who he met for the first time here in Arnold’s.
That kid.
Who had always been here.
The kid.
Who brought him fruit, made him bake cupcakes, and poked fun at his apron as if he had an inalienable right to do so.
That kid.
Whose gangly legs, and face, and eyes, and most strangely of all damnit-those bangs-he. Just. Knew.
The kid.
Who was always here at 4.01 pm on the dot.
That kid.
Who was late.
As was Richard.
All permanent staff are to assemble outside at 4 pm…
It was 4.02 pm and Richard was late. Martha had issued a deadline. Martha meant it. Martha always followed through. No matter what. No matter where.
The kid was late.
Richard was late.
Martha would be more than pissed.
Richard knew there was only one sensible thing to do. Run for the bus. Bow down before Martha’s pointy red shoes. Get on with his new life. Forget some damned kid he couldn’t possibly even know.
Well. Richard only had one sensible thing to say.
‘Screw you, Martha!’
It probably would have been more impressive if she’d been there. But Richard figured it was the thought that counted.
As he stood silently waiting inside the diner, thoughts were the only thing Richard had left.
None of his thoughts made any sense whatsoever.
He couldn’t remember how long he’d been here. He remembered days. He remembered months.
There were things he couldn’t possibly remember, but he did. Others that he should, and couldn’t.
Sometimes he remembered dying. And blood. He remembered blood.
He remembered pain. And howls flying on edge of the wind. He remembered those.
He remembered hooks.
He remembered pain.
He remembered heat.
He remembered blood. He remembered blood.
He remembered being happy. And he remembered blood.
He couldn’t remember his own name. He was Nobody. But he remembered blood.
He remembered blood.
And he remembered that he was waiting.
The kid was coming. He had to wait.
The kid would come. He was late, but he would come.
All he could remember was the smell of burning.
All he could hear was a voice.
… outside as fast as you can…
All he could see now was light as the walls seared, and twisted, and tumbled down around him. All he could see was light, and it was red.
Don’t look back.
All he could feel was the fire furling itself around him, holding him tight; taking him deep.
No! Have to wait. He had to stay for the kid. Couldn’t let him be hurt. Couldn’t leave him. Not here. Not alone. Not now.
He had to wait.
Now, Dean. Go!
He wasn’t Dean. He was...
He didn’t know who he was any longer. He wasn’t Richard. He was Nobody.
He couldn’t go.
Have to wait.
The kid was coming.
Sammy...