POST-JOSH GRIFFIN: VALENTINE’S DAY, FEBRUARY 2014:
There is a tradition inside Fat & Fast Burgers that is held precisely only one day a year. A tradition that was made to scar, shed tear, and ruin every employee’s life for the next decade of lifetimes. A tradition that was so ruthless - no one was safe. Not the manager, the garbage boy, or even the person who won employee of the month for seven consecutive months.
Who was Simon Thorpe.
The very wall of fame that has his face and full half body shot, - a spark of ginger, a wide, charming smile and a galaxy of freckles – hung behind him in a way that feels like his own alight, beady eyes were burning through the nape of his neck, as all around him right now – at this precise, pain-stricken moment, his co-workers pitied his ass and damn bad luck.
“It’s tradition.” Amy, the store manager, smiled this smile that almost seemed sorry. Almost looked pitying. Which was a bigger kick in his gut because Amy never felt sorry for anyone. Not anyone. Which means he was fucked.
He swallowed, sweating worse under his button up, a burst of green and orange stripes - uniform. He was staring at the ratty old box – an item everyone gave one look at, gulped, and veered off – clung with dust and years of misery being holed up in the deepest part of the storage room since last year, now returning to cause more pain and nightmares.
(Now to Simon).
Just looking at the item sent chills and whirls inside his merely coffee and bagel filled stomach. He looked down on his toothpick, tinted with red at the tip, and the very reason why he was so fucked.
“Shit man, sorry.” Simon looked up and saw Colin, the new garbage boy who should probably be taking his place, because [a] he was new, [b] he’s the garbage boy, and [c] he does not have the F&F B record of being employee of the month for seven months in a row.
Simon should not be taking the bad luck right now. It was Valentine’s Day for Christ’s sake.
(Even if – truth be told – Simon had nothing better to do than work).
“Dude,” Rachel patted his back, biting her bottom lip as she refrained from spilling out the laughter that was building up in her stomach. “Just open it and get it over with.” She nodded at the box. But Simon knew that if he opened it, she’d crack. They’d all crack. Even Amy would laugh so hard at his misfortune she’d probably have an accident.
But Rachel was still right. Stop denying the inevitable. He said to himself. And if Josh was here he’d probably say, ‘If you don’t actually open it, it might not be that bad – maybe worse, maybe not. But who knows? No one. Because you’re still not opening it, you wuss.’ Or something like, ‘The more you don’t open it, the more you’re giving yourself to think of how much deep shit you’re actually in, so just open the goddamn box, Simon, you wuss.’
Both were things Josh would probably say.
(And even if Simon already knew what the contents were).
(Which kind of makes it a lot more terrifying, if you ask him).
Encouraged by the mean, realistic pep talks his boyfriend would give him if he was here – and if they hadn’t go on the stupid break, Simon swallowed and made a step. A voracious move. He can feel everybody’s eyeballs on him as his shaky fingers slowly opened the lid, dust mites clinging to his sensitive skin.
(He cringed slightly at that).
When he flipped it over, he stared at the unforgiving contents. He was almost afraid to, but couldn’t look anywhere else. His eyes first adjusted to the pale, pink-ish type of fabric that was carefully folded. Simon knew underneath that was the white diaper. On top of them were the felt, makeshift objects: the fake arrow carrier with severally bent, felt (fake) arrows, and the even more severally bent and bruised bow. He looked up at Amy in hopelessness.
