Work Text:
Taylor’s plucking disgustedly at the front of his shirt, muttering to himself about what jerks pre-schoolers can be, as he ducks into his office and closes the door behind him. The purple slushee is sticky and icy cold through the thin blue polo, and he quickly shucks his shirt and trashes it – he knows from experience that it’s already ruined. Fun Zone slushees eat right through the polyester blend.
He pulls the tub of disinfectant wipes out of the bottom drawer of his file cabinet and starts to clean himself up. It’s barely 11, they’ve only been open an hour, and already he’s fielded complaints about: gum in the ball pit; a feral possum growling at players on the eighth hole; the French fries tasting suspiciously like weed; and a child using toilet water to wash his hands in the restroom because the sink that Greg recommended they install is broken again (probably because someone shoved a hot dog down the drain yesterday).
It’s too much for one man, Taylor thinks to himself, as he tosses the wad of used wipes into the trash, on top of his shirt. He needs an assistant.
Taylor grabs a new polo out of the top drawer of his file cabinet and tugs it over his head as he drops into his desk chair, which wobbles precariously under his weight. He steadies himself on the desk, and his hand lands on a slip of paper – on Greg Stickney’s resume.
Greg’s was the first resume Taylor had ever seen for a job at the Fun Zone, and Taylor had been impressed. It’s even typed up, with his name and phone number on the top and a list of previous jobs, mostly a lot of retail stuff, just like Taylor. Greg was a good hire. He comes to work when he’s supposed to, he doesn’t smack the kids when they swear at him, and he hasn’t spit in the food even once, as far as Taylor knows.
But he just can’t shake the image of Greg in that Count Bluntula T-shirt. He knew something was funny about that guy – he was always so calm and laid-back, but also really hard to read, like if Matthew McConaughey were a robot. But he couldn’t pin it down until he saw the shirt and everything clicked. Now he worries that a full-time stoner would be a bigger problem than no assistant manager at all.
Still, he can’t keep doing this alone. Taylor slumps in his chair and scratches at his chin. Maybe he should give the guy a shot.
A knock on his door startles him, and Carly pops her head in. “Hey, some guy’s out here about a job.”
They’re not technically hiring – he was given orders from the owner to promote the assistant from the current staff – but before Taylor can tell Carly to send him away, the door swings open further and reveals a man with a wide, welcoming smile and gloriously frosted blond tips in his hair.
“Hey,” the man says, stepping forward and thrusting out a hand to shake. “I’m Larry. Larry Sherbet. I understand you might be looking for an assistant manager.”
+++
Larry is perfect. He, too, has a resume, and it’s even more impressive that Greg’s.
“You were a pilot?” Taylor says, reading over his work experience.
Larry nods and gives him another big grin. He’s sitting on a folding chair that Taylor usually keeps wedged between the file cabinet and the table with security cameras. He can’t remember the last time anyone actually sat in it.
“Yeah, remember that plane that hit a bird in New York? Pilot had to land in the Hudson?”
Taylor nods, then frowns. “I think so?”
“That was me,” Larry says, kicking his feet out in front of him and leaning back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head. “I saved like 300 people.”
“Wasn’t that guy super old?”
Larry rubs at his chin. “Shaved the mustache last year. It took off like 10 years.”
Taylor squints at him, and he can kind of see it. Larry looks like he’s in his late 20s, maybe early 30s, but he could be 60 – Taylor’s always been bad with ages.
“And it says here,” Taylor says, pointing at the next line, “that you took down a surfer bank robbery ring. That’s so dope, man. Isn’t there a TV show, or like a movie like that?”
“Point Break,” Larry says, smirking at him. “They based the movie off me. Had to retire from the FBI after that. Cover blown and all, you know how it is.”
He shrugs, like “what’re you gonna do?” and Taylor respects the guy’s no regrets attitude.
Taylor hates to ask the next question, but: “Aren’t you a little over-qualified for this position?”
For the first time, the grin slips off Larry’s face, and he eases forward in his chair, eyes darting to the office door, and beckons Taylor toward him. It’s all very conspiratorial and Taylor’s loving it. He leans over his desk and raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
“You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to say to you,” Larry says, his voice low and serious and seductive.
A chill runs up Taylor’s spine and he swallows thickly, nods. “I won’t.”
Larry looks toward the door again and licks his lips. When he turns back to Taylor, they lock eyes, and Taylor holds his breath.
“I’m in witness protection,” Larry says. “I tangled with a mob boss and now I have to lie low until the feds catch him, or until I lose my freakin’ mind in this dump-hole state and run away with my girlfriend to Bermuda. Is Bermuda nice this time of year?”
“I think Bermuda’s nice any time of year,” Taylor says.
“Anyway,” Larry says, “I just need a job to keep my cover, and I don’t want to sell ATVs because those things’ll kill you and I don’t need more blood on my hands, you know?”
Taylor does not know.
“So-” Taylor says.
“To recap,” Larry interrupts, and holds up a hand, counting out on his fingers: “Witness protection, running from the mob, need a job.”
Taylor leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. Beyond his office door, he can hear a child sob-screaming and a woman shouting profanities at whoever’s behind the snack counter. Taylor glances at the two resumes now sitting on his desk, side by side.
“You’re full of shit, Larry,” Taylor says, as he stands up. He grins and thrusts out a hand. “And I dig it. How’d you like to be my new assistant manager?”
“I would like nothing better,” Larry says. They shake on it.
They’re going to be best friends now. Taylor’s sure of it. He throws an arm around Larry’s shoulder and leads him outside to meet the staff.