Chapter Text
There was something strangely unsettling about working first shift in a fast-food joint on Fridays. For most people, Friday is the day that signals the end of the week, something to look forward to. Back when he was still in school Randy experienced Fridays the same as everybody else. Even other “adults” who have a standard work schedule, Monday-Friday 9-5, get to say goodbye to the week and let the anxiety of the hustle melt away. Maybe they get to sleep in or do all those errands and chores that have been piling up. Or they can get out of town, go shopping, get lunch with a friend, have some beers at a backyard barbecue.
Back when Randy’s dad still lived with them, he’d spend a whole Saturday once a month smoking a brisket. It’s the only thing he actually misses about the old man. That was some good brisket.
Randy learned quickly that there’s little-to-no consistency when it comes to working a fast-food job. Especially if you’re low man on the totem pole. Which Randy is, even though he’s been at BBBs longer than both Chris and Anh.
At least Anh’s superiority comes from honest nepotism, being the franchise owner’s eldest nephew. Only three months on the payroll working 10 hours a week before he got promoted to Assistant Manager. Chris just slacks his way off of shifts he doesn’t want to take. Hardy doesn’t even bother scheduling Chris to open on Fridays anymore, after he called out five weeks in a row. Jess has an agreement that she doesn’t have to work on Fridays because she’s got a class at the community college in the next town over. And Chris certainly isn’t rolling out of bed for a 6am start-time without her. Instead, Hardy schedules Chris during the after-school shift so he can bro out with the teenagers who probably all hate him just as much as Randy.
That means Randy opens every Friday and Saturday. His mom makes him take Sunday off for church, but also insists that he make himself available for any other day of the week and for every available shift. The rest of his week is always a toss-up. He might have to close on Wednesday and turn around to open on Thursday. Or he’ll get random mid-day starts, like 11:30am or 2:45pm. Sometimes he works four and a quarter hours, five and a half hours, or even ten hours if he has to cover for someone. He never gets two days off in in a row unless he asks, but even then he needs to fabricate some kind of special event. The job screws with his circadian rhythm, but it’s still better than those three months of community college he forfeited the tuition on when he couldn’t hack it.
The customers are in a generally more chipper mood on Friday morning, feeling less rushed and snippy. It’s nice but in a bittersweet kind of way because Randy knows it won’t last. Maybe he’s just feeling off today because Benson didn’t open with him as he usually would. Apparently he’d traded a Tuesday shift with Carla so she could go chaperone her grandkid’s school field trip. Randy doesn’t really mind opening with Carla because she’s a hard worker, but she sometimes reminds him of his mother; bossy, gossipy and overly critical. “No-no, Bradley, only three pickles. Any more than that costs extra.”
From what he understands, Carla was in middle management out at the paper mill behind Randy’s house, but got pushed into early retirement. Her pension wasn’t fully vested, so she took part-time work at BBBs to make ends meet, but really she will take as many hours as Hardy is willing to give.
Opening with Benson is so much better than with anyone else on staff. They have a quiet rhythm when working together, an unspoken agreement on who will tackle each task. Benson never criticizes, even when Randy can feel his hard stare settle on him if he lets Chris and Jess get away with bullying him.
Donnie wanders in a few minutes after his 11am start-time, just before the lunch rush. He’s definitely the most sociable coworker, insisting that Randy engage with him through most of the shift, unless someone more interesting and naturally loquacious is available to entertain him. Randy learned early, from Benson actually, that the best way to deal with Donnie’s chatty nature was to ask a question. Any kind of question will do, get Donnie going on the right subject and he’ll do enough talking for the both of you.
Just around 1:30, the traffic at the window slows to a crawl, nobody’s left in the lobby so Randy’s wiping down the toppings bar and getting it stocked for the after-school shift. Donnie’s chuckling his way through a story about an argument his sister had with her mother-in-law about the gumbo she served for Sunday family supper, when he hears the front door swoosh open. Randy peeks his head over the pass-through, sees Benson stride in and blinks dumbly in surprise.
Randy has never seen Benson out of his uniform before. He’s not wearing his hat and Randy is astounded to note that he has what looks like an old mohawk growing into a shaggy mullet. On most people it would look pretty goofy, but somehow Benson makes it seem intentional and cool. He’s wearing a bright white band tee with a font too stylized to read and a blood red sun in the center with faded black Dickies and wallet chain dangling down his left hip. It’s not at all how Randy would have expected him to dress, but he looks good. Really good.
Is that a weird thing to think?
Benson catches Randy’s eye on his way to the backroom, throws him a lazy two-finger salute on the way past.
“We gotta customer, padna?” Donnie asks.
Randy turns his attention back to his task, patting the half-frozen lettuce dry with a paper towel. “No, it’s Benson.”
It doesn’t take long for Benson to do whatever he was doing in the backroom, and when he strides his way out, he enters the kitchen instead of leaving. Donnie greets Benson like he’s his long-lost brother, stowing his spatula in the apron tie belted around his waist so they can clap their hands together. “Whatta doin’ here on your day off, ami? You miss me that bad?”
“Pay day,” Benson explains shortly.
Randy is keeping his head down, slicing tomatoes carefully, trying to be unobtrusive. He doesn’t want to insert himself where he isn’t wanted.
“Man, when’re you gonna get with the times and sign up for direct deposit? Even my grampy has his checks goin’ straight into ‘is account.”
“Fuck those banks, man. You know how many overdraft fees I’ve paid in my life? Zero! That’s how many. They’re gouging you, your grandpappy and every poor sucker in this town, but I’mma keep my money in my pocket, right where it belongs.”
This is the most Randy has ever heard Benson say at one time, and it’s nonsense, but there’s also a lightness to his tone that has never been there before. Randy thinks this might be what Benson sounds like when he’s happy. It’s nice.
In fact, Benson sticks around and keeps shooting the shit with Donnie, for much longer than anyone would ever expect. They chat some more about banks, about Al Gore’s new climate crisis documentary (which Benson has seen, but Donnie has not), about how shitty the new model Mustangs look (almost as shitty as Bradley’s mid-90s model), about the new Chinese restaurant that just opened up by the mall (the pan fried garlic noodles are fuckin’ killer), about the band on Benson’s t-shirt (experimental noise-making, according to Donnie. Not as good as Faith No More, but still excellent so ‘fuck you very much, Donnie”, according to Benson.)
Randy eavesdrops on the whole conversation, doesn’t interject, but makes a mental note to search for Mr. Bungle the next time Haley asks him to drive her and Angelica to Tower Records. He’d probably have to keep the CD in his car. Mom tosses out anything she finds with Explicit warnings.
Eventually Donnie gets around to asking, “Why you wastin’ your time in this dive on your day off, brotha?”
In the next ten minutes before Randy is set to clock out, he learns more about Benson than he has in the last year of them working together. Apparently, Benson gets gregarious on a good day. Apparently, Benson doesn't have very many good days.
Benson’s ‘ma’ is moving out of his house today; he explains to Donnie. Her sister (my Aunt Marnie, that bitch) is getting divorced from her deadbeat husband and wants “Ma” to move with her back to Florida. Benson is not just relieved by this news; he’s transcendently ecstatic.
“I’m so serious, Don. I love my mother but I mightta gone on a kill-crazy rampage if she didn’t get her ass outta my living room.”
Only problem is, Benson can’t swing the bills and rent on his own. Ma’s SSI didn’t kick in for much, but it was something. Had to kick his last roomie out when he got pissy about Ma camped out in the living room, but what was he supposed to do? Couldn’t have his ma staying in some skeevy shelter or meth-den. Now Benson has to buy his smokes from the Grab n’ Go on Route 49 because that prick still works at the one just down the street.
Randy’s doing his last wipe down, about to wash his hands and clock out, when Donnie calls over. “Hey, Bradley. Don’t you still live wit your maman? Maybe you oughtta take Benny’s spare room here, huh?” Then he bursts into one of his bellowing laughs.
When Randy skirts his gaze over to Benson, he expects him to laugh his head off too or sneer in disgust, maybe look uncomfortable at the suggestion. Instead, Benson’s expression goes placid again, unreadable and intense. Benson stares at Randy and, without the usual brim of his cap to shadow them, Randy can see that his eyes are blue. A really pretty blue.
What?
Randy breaks the eye contact and looks down at his wristwatch, even though he knows exactly what time it is. “Gotta clock out. See ya guys.”
In record time, Randy has clocked out, grabbed his coat and fled the restaurant. He’s got his key in the door lock of his car when he hears his name being shouted.
“Bradley, hold up!” Benson calls from the open door of Burgers.
The sun is high enough that Randy has to squint, even with his work cap still shielding the worst of it. Benson’s t-shirt is so white that it’s almost glaring while he saunters over to where Randy is frozen on the spot. Usually, Benson walks efficiently, in long, quick strides. Right now, he’s approaching Randy almost lazily, like he’s purposefully trying to make him wait. It’s working.
Benson stops next to Randy and he’s standing really close, all the way in his personal bubble. It’s similar to the way Chris likes to invade his space, but not the same. Benson is about the same height as Randy, only slightly bulkier, but he definitely has a more assertive presence. The way Benson holds his shoulders, how he tips his head back and maintains eye contact; it’s intimidating, but not aggressive. The hairs on the back of Randy’s neck have stood up, a prey animal’s response to the threat of sharp teeth.
“I still got some time to kill before that bitch Marnie is outta my house. Come grab something to eat with me,” Benson says, leaning against the driver’s side door of Randy’s car, casually blocking any escape.
“Oh,” Randy is kind of astounded by the proposal. And nervous, anxious, terrified.
What is happening right now?
“I – um. I was just about to go home.”
Benson smirks, raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And then what?”
“Oh, um, ya know. Shower, I guess,” Randy says dumbly.
The smirk becomes a smile, maybe a teasing smile, maybe a little mean. “Uh-huh. Cool. And then what?”
It’s obvious now that Benson knows Randy doesn’t have any plans. There isn’t really any reason to say ‘no’, other than that he’s petrified by the prospect of having to engage socially.
Randy is saved from having to respond when Benson slides an arm around his shoulders, gently guides him away from his own car and to the passenger side of Benson’s Chrysler. “Come on,” he says, while he opens the unlocked door for Randy. “I know a diner that serves breakfast all day. Killer fuckin’ hash browns, man.”
Benson cups his palm over the top of Randy’s head, which is swimming from the sudden tactility. Then he’s being shoved into the passenger seat of Benson’s car, whether he likes it or not. The door slams before Randy notices that he’s sitting on a Dr. Pepper bottle and about a dozen empty cigarette boxes.
Watching Benson stride around the nose of his car, spinning his key ring around his pointer finger with an uncommon pep in his step, Randy thinks, Guess I’m going for a ride.