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Bradley Uppercrust the Third, has always been and always will be someone who’s minding his own business. At least—that’s what he has learned throughout the years, ever since his university life.
“Oh, God—are you seriously saying that? I can’t believe you!”
He lets out a yawn. His head is filled with what he should eat when he finally gets home. A takeaway from that one Chinese diner might be nice—or he could just bring home something. The owner of this restaurant is kind enough to share any remaining food with his employees anyway.
“Bradley, you seein’ this?” One of the waiters nudges him with his elbow. He cocks his head towards the center of the freshly-made exhibition. “That guy is gonna get dumped. It’s a painful sight.”
Bradley rolls his eyes. “Really, as if there isn’t anything worth watching.”
“At this moment? No, not exactly.”
A kitchen staff member rings a bell—an implicit order for a server to fetch the cooked meal to its customer. Bradley picks a tray, puts that plate onto it, and his blue eyes scrutinize the number of the table that is attached to a bill besides the plate.
How lucky. It’s the table with that couple that has been on each other's throats for the last 10 minutes. Well, to be more specific, the lady dog is the one who’s berating him, and the poor guy is just accepting it in silence.
Eh. Maybe he deserves it.
Bradley shrugs and brings that tray towards the table, unwavering. It’s not really his problem, but perhaps he should meddle, for other customers have been whispering and trading looks. Certainly concerning to the restaurant’s reputation. And, who knows, he might get some appreciation from his boss if he could break lovers’ quarrels.
However, when he arrives at the table—even before he could part his lips to say a word—the lady dog stands abruptly. Without him realizing it, her fingers wrap around that glass of whiskey, and her arm swings in a forward motion, transferring all the liquid inside to drench the other person on that table.
The other man is still looking down. His hair, pitch black like a pair of a raven’s wings, is damp and shiny under the light. Droplets form rivulets on that head before they fall free from the pointy end of his hair.
Bradley sure hopes it was the climax of her wrath, and perhaps God answers his hidden thought because, in the next second, that lady dog storms away until she is no longer inside the building.
Alright. At least one problem has ceased for now. Bradley sighs. His job still requires him not to be a dick, so he calls out delicately to the poor guy, offering his condolences and help.
“I’m sorry for what has happened. May I offer you our hospitality, and get you some dry towels—”
When the other guy lifts his face, this time Bradley manages to have a good look. He can’t prevent the smirk that creeps into his cheeks, carving an absolutely snarky expression.
“Ha!” His scoff surprises almost everyone in that room. “Long time no see, freshman.”
Maximilian Goof groans, and the frown on his forehead is apparent. “I miss you too.”
It looks like both of them developed a sense of humor over the years.
.
“Don’t you have work to do?”
As sharp as it might sound, the sentence lost its bite completely. Max receives the towel Bradley gives him and places the fluffy fabric on top of his head. His ears sag on the sides of his face like usual, but this time they look even more slumpy because of the whiskey.
“My boss pities you.” It sounds like a plain mockery, but no—Max notices it’s just how Bradley talks. How has he always been. “Besides, my shift is gonna be over soon. So, dry yourself up, be a doll, and go home.”
Max doesn’t answer that. Instead, he rubs his own hair with a tad too much force, finding the rocky pavement more interesting to pay attention to.
Bradley breaks the uncomfortable stillness with a question, “So—what went wrong? I didn’t take you to be the cheating type. Or a jerk—oh, wait, you maybe are one.”
“Perhaps take a look into a mirror for once.” Max is pressing the back of his head. Then, after that, the tone of his voice gets gentler a notch. “Nothing, really. I just admitted I’ve lost my feeling for her, and I thought it’s best to break it up now than prolong it into something worse.”
“Lost?” Bradley isn’t sure why he needs a confirmation, but he asks it anyway, “Or never had it in the first place?”
That makes Max snap his neck towards Bradley, his expression almost unidentifiable. But for some reasons—for Bradley, it is quite clear what’s going on inside his mind. Max wears his heart on his sleeve; it is easy to see and even easier to break. Max looks hurt and betrayed—like a child who’s caught red-handed doing something he shouldn’t do, and now he can’t lie through his teeth about it.
Aha. Bradley shakes his head and smiles. "You've got to train your poker face more.”
“That’s not funny, Brad.”
“It's Bradley, and I wasn’t trying to be a jester.” Bradley thinks for a few seconds before he proceeds with his words, “Big chances are that lady knew you were lying to her. She probably figured out you never really loved her, and yet, like a fool, you keep being kind to her until you realize it’s futile. You let her make you the bad guy.”
Max’s lips grow apart. His eyes are fixated on the figure in front of him, incredulously.
“What? Bull’s eye?”
“How do you know that?”
“What don't I know?” Bradley mentally takes note of how—maybe some things aren’t meant to change. Case in point: Max Goof’s naivete. A wave of innocence blankets his personality and protects him from the world’s vile truths, and they against his optimism. A combo match made in heaven. “Anyway, are you done? I need to get ready to go home; it’s getting chilly.”
Bradley is greeted by faint cricket sounds and the night wind.
Max takes a deep breath and empties his lungs before he answers, “I share an apartment with her. I can’t exactly waltz into my home right now.”
“Are you serious?”—that’s what Bradley was going to ask. That, and probably followed by, “How is that my problem? I ain’t your babysitters; figure things out yourselves, hon.”
Unfortunately for him, as he matures in age, empathy seeps inside him now more than ever, and the intensity magnifies compared to when he was still an adolescent. And also, all the hardship he encounters perhaps contributes to the sentiment.
Bradley knows he’s going to regret this, but the last thing he wants is to find the possibility of tomorrow’s newspaper filled with information about a missing dog or a dead one. Exaggerating it might sound.
“Do you want to stay at my place?”
.
.
.
Bradley isn’t kind, compassionate, or polite enough to sputter out the courtesy, “Make yourself at home.” He doesn’t need to, anyway, because the younger Goof marches inside the apartment with such confidence.
“Sit.” Bradley’s forefinger is aimed at his couch. “I’ll give you my unused shirt and towel.” Before he himself goes into the bedroom, the corners of his eyes catch Max's unusual excitement towards the living space. Bradley alarms him with an order—which he’s quite sure will be disregarded completely. “Don’t look, don’t touch, nothin’.”
Max gives him a half-hearted thumbs up. He can hear Bradley’s grumble as he walks inside his room. Then, the black-haired canine, as expected, starts looking around the place. Order and rules are meant to be broken—or however the saying goes.
If there is one thing he realizes once he steps foot inside the house, it’s how inhumanely tidy this place is. Small paintings are framed and nailed to the wall with such precision that they rival the strictness of Britain’s royal regulations. Mugs, accessory bowls, and ornaments are placed in their own designated area. There is no dirty laundry or random briefs on the corners of the room, which, by Max’s standard, is preposterous. Who doesn’t throw their shirt somewhere on the floor once in a while? There are many times when Max is exhausted and just overwhelmed by his work; his limbs feel like they’re falling out, and he can’t be bothered by doing laundry.
However, his mind’s focus shifts almost instantly when he sees three framed photos on the TV table.
The first frame is a photo of Bradley and his—Gamma Mu Mu. He had his usual arrogant lines on his expression, while the rest of the members were wearing this silly laugh. It looks surprisingly endearing.
The second one is his graduation photo. A formal one where he wore a mortarboard and the college’s distinct cloak. In that picture, he stands tall with his chin up, yet he’s alone. The display alone raises Max’s memory of his own graduation photos—and there are a ton of them. Of course, his father, Goofy, insisted on such an idea to make sure they have something to remind them of home—no matter how far the world may take them. And Max, albeit being surged by the complexity of embarrassment and elation, is forever thankful to his dad. He remembers the series of photos of him, Bobby, and P.J., then some others of him, his dad, and Sylvia.
So why did Bradley take the photo alone?
Before the cogs of his head could turn and arrive at a conclusion, his eyes had already moved to the third frame, and it's empty. There is nothing in it.
Why bother setting up the frame, then?
“Having fun diving your nose into my business, Max?”
“How come the third frame is empty?”
Crass, brash—Bradley didn’t know Max could showcase two insufferable traits in one go. But he’s been proven wrong, hasn’t he?
Bradley’s refusal to answer is prominent. He shoves a set of comfortable clothes into Max’s arms, which readily cradle them. That, and a clean towel. The silky smell of fabric softener is gently spewed out of those cloths, and the electric synapse in Max’s brain works fast to associate the fragrance with Bradley.
“Take a shower, stinky.”
Max offers a genuine smile. “Thanks.”
When he finally steps inside the bathroom, Bradley sighs deeply. Wondering what he’s gotten himself to.
.
Bradley has taken his own bath when he enters his room with a towel hanging on top of his head. His sky-colored eyes look at Max, who’s now leisurely lying down on a mattress he provided before. There is a scrunch between Max’s eyebrows and his fingers typing fast on the thin screen of his phone—Bradley can guess several reasons for such behavior.
The Uppercrust sits down on the edge of his bed. He blinks—once, twice. Perhaps he’s really drained because his eyelids struggle to keep them lifted. And the effect of the warm bath that relaxed his whole body is surely pumping the melatonin even more.
He still observes the young Goof. The way his own shirt fits on Max's toned body, sharp blade shoulders, and a little too tight on his biceps and the curves of his muscles are obvious behind the cloth. Huh. Brandley wonders if Max has always leaning on the sturdy side, even back in the day.
“Are you sleepy yet?”
Bradley snatches the towel off, then spreads it on the hanger to ensure its dryness the following day.
“Unlike you, I worked all day. So, in a matter of fact—yes, I am. Goodnight.”
“I worked all day, too.”
“And getting dumped by the end of it? God really hates you, Goof.”
Max scoffs and smiles. He puts down his phone, eliminating a source of dim light in that room. “So, tell me. What a rich guy like you doin’ in a restaurant as a server nonetheless?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Bradley flicks off the switch of his table lamp, and instantly, the room is engulfed by the dark. “I got disowned right after the X Games. Cash was an old friend.”
Max can feel his furrow go even deeper. A little more of that, and it’ll dig into his skull. “I thought that was just a—rumor.”
“Why would it be?” Bradley yawns, and as a result, a drop of tears prickles out of his eyes. He rubs it away. The timbre of his voice insinuates that this is no more than a weather talk—it’s concerning for Max personally. “Uppercrust never jokes when it comes to the things that matter the most.”
“…. I can see that now.” A silence. “Is that why I practically never saw you anymore after the games?”
“More or less.” Bradley speculates how many more questions he needs to answer before the curiosity weans off. But then he realizes it feels good to talk about himself occasionally. And to be fair, it’s been a long time since he did that. “Gotta focus on graduating, then job-seeking. It wasn’t so bad. It took me fast enough to comprehend that the money you gain yourself is far more satisfying than being given.”
“But that’s …,” Max’s words dissipate in the air before it comes back to its track, “… crazy. I mean, why would parents abandon their own child? I know my father wouldn’t.”
“Good for you.” Bradley can’t see Max since he’s lying on his back, but he’s pretty sure that empty head is tilting in confusion. He continues, “People are just different. You of all people should’ve known that.”
“You did almost kill me. And Tank. And the others.”
“…. That I did. If my memory serves me correctly, I have properly apologized."
"You have." Max huffs quietly. His vision scans the strange ceiling, almost alienating since he’s gotten used to his own. “You’ve mellowed.”
Bradley almost lost his drowsiness. “Are you calling me old?”
“Well, I mean—I am 29 this year. That makes you … what, 40?”
“Your perception of others is fucked. I’m 33.”
“Oh. Well. It wasn’t an insult.”
“Sure, it wasn’t.”
Max chuckles. His laugh is light and airy, oozing across the room in a tender way. And at the end of that giggle, there is a unique hiccup—something only the Goofs have. It throws Bradley off for a moment. Is he deranged, or somehow, he does miss that laugh? Something he hasn’t heard since a decade ago.
“It’s good, really,” Max tries to convince him. “I mean, how to put this … you are still—you. But you’ve matured and are not as annoying as before—”
“Maxmillian Goof.”
“—but you know. All grown up. Hey, look! Shitty parents don’t always produce shitty kids. So, there is that.”
“I was a shitty kid.”
“Not anymore. If you were, I wouldn’t have been here.”
Bradley pursed his lips in defeat. He wants to retaliate, but then it’ll look ridiculous. So instead, there is an attempt to change the topic, “How about you? No luck with girls, ever, huh?”
“Oh, c’mon ….” Max scratches his nape. “I just haven’t found the right one, I guess.”
Bradley hums. “The right one. That’s a broad description.”
Max ponders for a few seconds before he verbalizes his thoughts, “Well, someone that you’d get married to. The one that stays in your life for the better or worse. Cliché, I know, but—that’s the goal.”
Bradley forgets that not everyone is as laid-back as he is. People tangle themselves in relationships and a series of interlaced emotions so they can have a friend that’ll walk with them until the end of the line. Truth be told, if he wanted to satisfy his primal, compulsory needs, he'd just rub it out or hire someone.
“What if you never find one?”
Max blinks in his direction. “It can’t be helped, then. My dad probably will be more devastated than I am, but—you can’t force a feeling.”
“Look at you. All grown up, huh?”
Max feels a heat crawl into his face, and he groans. “We should sleep.”
“Thank God, I’ve been saying.”
Reticence comes back with the absence of conversation. Just a mild whirling sound from the air conditioner and an even muted ticking from the clock.
“…. Bradley?”
An exasperated sigh. “What, Max?”
“The third photo frames. Why didn’t you put anything in it?”
Bradley closes his eyes.
“The third is not important. Go to sleep.”
Max goes quiet. It doesn’t take him long to drown in his own unconsciousness, pulled by an immense strength that renders him unable to stay awake.
When tomorrow comes, he knows it’s time to say goodbye.
.
The next morning, Bradley wakes up at 6—just like he always does. Apparently, Max woke up even earlier, seeing that his used mattress had been neatly folded. Bradley notices a small note that was put on top of it, with handwriting that he recognizes as Max’s.
Thank you!
M. G.
That’s what was written.
That’s it, huh? Bradley closes his eyes, reminding himself internally to stay alert, and only after then is he startled by his own thoughts.
That’s it—of course. What am I hoping for?
.
.
.
.
.
“Oh—hey, Maxie.”
Max’s arm freezes in the air, just by the time his fingers are holding a warm cup of latte. His head turns to the side, where he finds a lady dog smiling gently towards him. Max goes agape before his voice resurfaces, “Oh. Hi.”
It’s his ex. The lady dog’s chin perks up in another direction—an invitation to talk. Max’s stomach is filled with a ball of worry as his footstep follows her—and he suddenly remembers that the two of them never really had a chance to talk it out.
That morning, after the one-sided fight and an awful breakup, Max found his apartment already cleared of her stuff. There is no remnant of it except what’s left in memory. If Max didn’t know better, he’d have doubted her existence.
However—he was sure she was real because the feeling was there, no matter how minuscule it was. There were comforting moments between them, a shared fleeting happiness. So, it was real.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t say anything.” The lady dog speaks in a serene demeanor. A contradiction of what she was displaying that night. But Max knows this is how she usually is. “I was just … too distracted, and my emotions got ahead of me, and I selfishly pulled myself away.”
“No—,” Max quickly interrupts her. He parts his lips, trying to say something, and his guilt is weaved along with his explanation, “I’m the one who should’ve been apologized. You’re right; I don’t deserve you, and I shouldn’t stay longer than I did. I hurt you. I’m sorry.”
The lady smiles. No faux geniality, and her heart swells. “You are kind, Maxie. You’ve always been. I took advantage of that. I knew you never loved me, yet I still try to convince you that you do—because I was craving the affection. It was foolish of me, because then I realized that the compassion you had, the kindness you served me with—were never mine in the first place.”
Max’s head slants to one side, and his loopy ears follow the gravitation and sway softly. It is expectedly adorable, and the lady is confident there are other people who’d think the same.
“I don’t know, Max,” she says once again with firm authority, but she doesn’t lose the tenderness. “You love someone, that’s certain. If you’re confused by it, I suggest you better start finding out, for you don’t want something similar like this to happen again.”
Those words root and glide into the slopes of his heart. The lady bids farewell and walks away, and still, Max doesn’t move from where his feet are nestled. Eventually, he drags his limbs outside the café. He isn’t sure where his legs are bringing him forward, but there is an indescribable relief when he stumbles upon someone he knows on the bench near the central town.
A smile instinctively sculpts itself on Max’s face.
“Bradley.”
Bradley grimaces at the sudden sound. Not for long, because he finds a familiarity in that intonation.
“Is this town getting shrunk or what?”
“What are the chances, am I right?” Max sits beside his former upper-class man, ignoring the look of disapproval that is shot towards him. A beat of silence. “I met my ex just now.”
“Congratulation!” Bradley bites back quickly. He takes a furtive glimpse at the Goof and notices how fidgety the man is. “There wasn’t any incident involving liquid, I assume, since the content inside that cup is still whole?”
Max shrugs. “No, there wasn’t.” He looks at Bradly, who mutters a low hum. “What are you doing here, anyway? No work? How about that restaurant?”
“Easy, Max.” He shakes his head. “I’m just taking a walk. Besides, that wasn’t my fixed job. It was part-time until I landed on a permanent one, and I have, so I quit.”
“Oh … good for you.”
“Yep.”
“So, what are you going to do? I mean—what’s your job now?”
“Just simple supervising in a garment factory. The idea is, I’ll get promoted to manager after 2 years.”
“That’s cool. I can’t imagine doing corporate work, though. Being a sports coach feels right for me. A lot of movements and all.”
“Well, each to their own, I guess.”
Max nods, almost in slow motion. His dark eyes stray to glance at something else, but it’s ineffective since his thoughts are reverberating, pleading to get unraveled verbally.
“I’m not good at this. Can I just say whatever's on my mind?”
Bradley exhales in a dramatic manner. “Finally, yes—stop beating around the bush.”
Max’s grin widens from ear to ear. He takes out his phone, and with a somehow crafty look, he tells Bradley, “Look here.”
Bradley automatically slants towards Max, just for him to be met with Max’s phone camera, and the younger guy wastes no time to hit the red button in the middle.
“Hey! What gives?”
“You said the third frame is not important, right?” Max is filled with glee that Bradley doesn’t understand. Max’s goofy teeth peek up from the lips, and there are lines near his eyes, an undeniable proof that the flow of time waits for no one, yet it feels like the same smile he wore when they first met. “Then I claim its spot, and it’s up to me to fill it with whatever.”
“Excuse me? What even are you yappin’ about?”
“Oh! Or maybe you want to settle this on the skateboards, like old times? I don’t mind—it’s our style after all.”
The look on Bradley’s face is one of disbelief. His jaw falls, almost comically. He suspects Max is toying with him. His thoughts dart around, bouncing inside the space in his skull, and he tries to make sense of the situation. However, he sees the grin on Max’s lips and how the evening sun outlines his unruly hair, and he caves in.
“What? You scared?”
“Okay, whatever, Max.” And he'll be a hypocrite if he says he doesn't feel the same thrill. “What do I get if I win?”
“Me vanish from your life forever.”
Bradley raises both of his eyebrows. How fuckin' arrogant and confident! “You’re so full of yourself, you know that?”
“I’d win. So don’t fret about it.”
Max stretches his arm out for Bradley to reach.
And when Bradley does reach for it, his inner voice tells him that it’s probably a bad idea.
But he has nothing to lose, doesn’t he?
.
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EPILOG
“Have you ever expected this?”
P. J. squints at Bobby through the sides of his eyes. He doesn’t need to ask for an answer, because he too knows full well that it was a rhetorical question. He turns his head back to the view in front of him: Max and Bradley are exchanging words with Goofy and Sylvia.
“No,” P. J. says anyway. “Have you?”
Bobby examines the house with his sight. There are photo frames all over it, neatly planted in their own spaces. This is Max’s style and personality talking. However, the precision of every placed object is undoubtedly Bradley’s.
“I know Max swings both ways. I never thought it’d be Bradley at the end of the day.”
“Is that so wrong?”
Bobby grins. His teeth present themselves, and P. J is positive; that’s the biggest beam Bobby can muster.
“No,” the buzz-cut man answers. “Not at all.”
P. J. smiles. Yeah. Of course not.