Chapter Text
"Good afternoon, and welcome to Scoops Ahoy. What can I get for you guys today?"
They order some abomination of caramel and coffee liqueur and rum 'n raisin and blood orange and vanilla, an ice cream that exists in defiance of God and science. It's a feat of engineering that he could fit that much inside the scoop, before anything melted, with all the toppings, and nothing lost on the floor. He should get a fucking medal for that performance. Or maybe a pay rise.
"Here you go, and have a lovely day."
Mike taps his fingertips on the cold counter top, staring at the back of the customer's matching perms as they leave, and wistfully thinks about a pay rise. Then he could afford that ice cream he just made.
When they're maybe out of earshot (he wouldn't actually count on that), Max speaks from beside him, currently replacing the near empty tub of chocolate in the display fridge beside him.
"Fuck you. Why are you so cheerful today?"
"What?"
"You're just… pissing me off. You keep smiling at customers. And telling them to have a good day. And that you hope they like the food."
"Maybe I'm just feeling good. Last week, you complained I was sulking and 'glowering' over the register at people."
"If I knew how much worse this would be, I'd tell you to keep being a moody bitch."
And then he huffs a laugh, but it's strained and hesitant. Gauging how to straddle the line between too friendly and standoffish… it's difficult for him. He's not sure if Max has truly found a sweet spot for sociability, or if she's just utterly comfortable with being disliked. He's jealous, either way.
Thursdays are always more busy, for some stupid reason, and the stores crowded and loud. Children shriek, a baby cries. Shoes scuff on the floor, the store theme music blares, and the sheer crowd of the mall outside the open entrance doorway is like thunder, or standing on the edge of a highway. Roaring in his ears.
Standing at the edge of a limestone cliff, ocean waves crashing upward, the deafening sound of wind and water crashing into itself and against rock.
Okay, maybe dramatic, but… that's a good line.
His pocket notebook is full of phrases now, things he comes up with on his shifts. Little sentences that can fit into his novella project, rich imagery or similes he knows he'll forget in the monotony of wiping counters with the disinfectant that makes his knuckles crack red and raw.
Spread out on the counter, half hidden behind the register, Mike scribbles in his shorthand, water crashing against itself in a cacophony, in a violent dance of foam tips and deep blue-
When the sliding door opens behind him, a window between back and front of house, Mike nearly jumps a foot in the air every time. Maybe he should be used to it, but something about the scrape of badly oiled slides always grates on his ears.
"Mike. Delivery's here, can you help me fill the back freezer?"
"No, please, don't make me talk to the… general public."
While her aside earns a snort from Robin in the window, Mike still doesn't feel that bad about leaving Max to the wolves. She's good at it, actually, she's just lazy. Demotivated. Snobbish about interaction with customers. Content to lean against the counter and watch him do it for her.
Basically, Robin has been a bad influence.
In the back of house, she has the staff radio blasting out something called 'that real good, authentic, shipped-from-across-the-Pacific citypop', as she makes Mike heave 20 pound tubs of ice cream from the warehouse shipping crates. Never again should Mike underestimate Robin's ability to find a microgenre that pisses him off specifically.
"Put your back into it, Mike."
"What back, Robin? Look at me. I've got the physiognomy of a rare species of stick insect from Papua New Guinea."
"Put your crackly deformed-from-D&D insect boy back into it. I wanna hear those vertebrate snap, crackle, and pop."
"Jesus fucking Christ."
By the time he's emptied each crate, walked them back to the docking bay for collection, redone inventory, and sorted the ice cream by FIFO, his arms are trembling and his hands are absolutely sticky. He feels like microwaved bacon, half melted and sweating. Drawn out like the elastic in a pair of socks he should let go of already.
"You can clock out, if you want to."
"No."
There's twenty two minutes until the end of Max's shift, and she's sitting on the floor, reading Agatha Christie with her back against a below-counter drinks fridge, sipping at a Coke she probably took without paying.
Almost more frustratingly, there's nothing for her to do. Mike finished the mopping, he's cleaned up the back of house, and he can't get her to do that again. She wiped down and scrubbed every table, swept down the red pleather seats, polished brass decor. Restocked display cases. She even dusted off the stale cones and wiped the dust off the plastic bananas in the back.
Honestly, frankly, she's done an amazing job of cleaning the place up tonight. That, and there's not a customer in the entire store. He's still half expecting a family of seven to crawl out from underneath a table and demand double cones.
"You're not doing anything."
"What are you, a fucking puritan? Let me read in peace."
"I'm just saying, you could go read in like, an actual chair. Outside. With some food. You don't need to stay any longer. I'll tell Steve we finished up early, he can pass that on to upper management. It's not like you'll get fired for 'ditching', I'll make sure."
It's a very kind offer, kinder than Mike usually is, but also, they are done early. Miraculously. He doesn't need help with his final chores, closing up and turning off lights and flipping chairs up onto the tables. In fact, selfishly, with a little burbling shame, he likes the idea of the store to himself. He can mumble dialogue ideas to himself as he sweeps beneath the tables, and switch the radio channel to the hard rock, and not get wound up the wall by Max huffing and sitting on the counters with performative winces like it's unbearable to stand for a moment longer.
"Fat chance. I'm almost done with The Adventure of the Western Star. There are words for Chinese people beyond your wildest imagination, Mike."
"Gross."
"Also, if I leave, I won't get paid."
"It'd be what, a buck? Does that even matter?"
"Some of us suffer from a hereditary condition called poor, Michael."
It's sharper than she usually is, more than a lazy swat at his ego. Sharp nails jabbing between his ribs with the intent to hurt. Hissed out, with a glower to match. The guilt and anger are biting at each other, tearing at ankles to reach first place on his tongue.
Gritting his teeth until they creak, static fizzing around his eyes, Mike storms out into the back of house and sorts the condiments and sprinkle shelf until he hears the time clock beep and Max's converse pound on the lino out the door.