Chapter Text
"Um, uh, excuse me, sir. You have a letter." Milo had been standing at the counter for perhaps five minutes already. It hadn't occurred to him to back up, as he often found it hard to think when there were so many people around him. He was always fine in the bustling school hallways, but in such a confined space the prospect of all these people frightened him. He was quite comfortable visiting the Conjunction Junction Diner, even by himself, so long as he came at times where things weren't so busy. Like on weekends at six, when the diner was just opening, and he would be making the rounds in a half hour. Those were times where the sun had barely peeked over the horizon, and it was only him, Chef, and perhaps another person or two. Not at this time.
Milo was a mild-mannered child. He didn't resort to violence. However, as the tension was ramping up, he found it hard to breathe. So many... people. He was getting anxious. He perched himself on the tips of his toes, stretched his arm as high up as he could, just high enough to reach the countertop, and pounded his fist on it a few times. A cup filled with coffee stirrers rattled as the force sent it bouncing precariously close to the edge.
Luckily, that seemed enough to gather Chef's attention, as he turned his head with a sort of odd swagger from the sink to the counter. "Bill? Is that you?" He called across the diner at whomever was too small to be seen. Few other people shared that ghostly white skintone with him.
"No, it's Milo," Milo shouted back at a similar volume. To prove it, he retracted his hand from the counter. When it returned, it popped back up with a glossy yellow envelope, which it slid across the countertop towards Chef.
Chef abandoned his dishwashing duties and walked over to the counter. "Oh. Hello, Milo," he said with a smile. "I didn't notice you there." He took the envelope and tore it open. "How long have you been trying to get my attention?"
"I don't know, sir." Milo's heart was beginning to slow down again, which was relieving, but he still wanted to slip out as quickly as possible. "Telegram for you, though. You don't like the feeling of paper against your wet skin, so you should dry off your hands before you continue reading."
As if Milo was narrating the proceeding scene, Chef pulled the folded paper from the envelope. The horrible feeling of the wood pulp slicking up into his fingerprints was an instant trigger. He tossed the paper to the side and shivered, sticking his tongue out in distaste. The sensation felt as though it was on repeat, as if the paper was still stuck to him, still becoming soggy in his wet hands. He rushed for a dishtowel, and a string of disgusted groans and mumbles later, he returned to finish reading the message already predicted by Milo. He took great care in placing his fingers where he hadn't wet the paper. It was, to him, a sensation worse than a burn.
Chef adjusted his glasses and nodded. "Thank you, Milo." He slipped the telegram and envelope under some unseen compartment in the counter. "Are you here for anything else? That 3 P.M. diner rush, perchance?"
Milo was not fond of being put on the spot like this. He gave a nervous giggle and took a step away from the counter. "No, thank you. I was just about to leave. I really should be going. I mean, I'm already a good five minutes behind on my deliveries."
"You're sure?" Chef asked. "Table Five is calling your name." He pointed to said table, a booth peppered with familiar faces.
This had Milo conflicted. On one hand, when he looked to see who was calling him, it was Molly, Scooter, and Red. Friends. Best friends. Comfort in the loud, crowded diner. Perhaps it'd be nice to stop and say hello. But on the other hand, if he just left, he'd be cutting his losses.
"Well, they already see me," Milo whispered to himself. It'd be rude to stiff them. Reluctantly, he started walking over to the table. His feet were hurting him from standing on his toes for so long, and the volume was getting to him again, so he tried to focus on the familiar faces. Well, there's Reginald, he's sitting with Mary and Becky-Sue. Then there's Jacob with Zero, Daisy, and Stefana. After that is Mr. Sarsaparilla with the little generator man. I still need to ask him his name, he's one of the only people I don't know around here. Then there's Mr. Morton and Ms. Pearl on their typewriter across from Mr. Armadillo. He must not see Mr. Sarsaparilla yet. They always sit together. So many of the adults are on their lunch break... They like the ambiance of the place when it's bustling. Stinks that it's one of the very few joints to eat around here. Not that I have anything against Chef's food. Just that if there were more restaurants, maybe it'd be a little less crowded.
Milo slid into the booth right next to Red. Or, he slipped in as far as he could. Red was lugging his tuba around like usual. He'd wear it everywhere he went in school- even in gym class. Milo was stronger than him, but he had no idea how he had the stamina to carry that thing while he ran around. It started out as inconvenient, but now it was wondrous. You couldn't ever separate the thing from him.
Everyone celebrated when he entered the booth. It was a chorus of "Yeah!! Milo!" "Hey, Milo!" "We're so glad to see you!" through mouthfuls of omelette and french toast. Milo couldn't help but smile. The comfort overwhelmed the fear when he heard his friend's familiar, chipper voices.
"Man, every day we come here, it's not the same without you around." Scooter started the chatter the second Milo was able to get comfortable in his seat. The faux leather was another comfort.
"Well, yeah," Milo replied, "I really wish I could hang out with you guys more. I don't have time, though- I mean, I'm supposed to be working right now. I need to bike out of here. I just had to give a telegram to Chef, I'm not here to fool a-"
"Oh, Milo." Molly shoved a square of omelette into her mouth. "We all know his name is Chef Clement. Haven't you heard?"
"What?"
"Nuh-uh," said Scooter. "He's Chef Colby."
Red laughed. His mouthpiece kept moving back in front of him when he moved, so he pushed his tuba out of the way for what felt like the thousandth time. "You're both wrong. His name is Chef Cranston, duh."
"Huh. Well, I wouldn't trust someone who gets a hot dog at a breakfast joint with my gossip, thanks." Molly smiled and waited for the wave of "Oooh! No way!" to wash over Scooter and Milo, which inevitably did come.
"Well..." Red wanted to fire back, but he wasn't very clever with comebacks. He thought for a minute, then resigned from the conversation with a sigh and another bite of his food.
"You've got him there, Molly." Milo, with no food, instead toyed with the silverware. He picked up Red’s unused fork and twirled it around in his hand. "If you really wanna know his name so badly, why don't you ask him?"
Scooter and Molly looked at each other. Their eyes shared a brief conversation with each other before turning back to Milo. "Oh. Oh no, you can't just do that. We've known Chef for years."
Milo and Red rolled their eyes in anticipation of an overdramatic rant. Sometimes they turned quite entertaining, but a lot of the time they could barely even tell what Molly was saying. Her manner of rambling so quickly didn't make it any easier.
"When you've known a person for years, why would you ever go up and ask their name!? They'd be grief-stricken! I can't just ask for his name, because it's at this point an oblique fact that at this point in a relationship, you should very well know someone's name. I'm obligated to after six years! I'm going to look incompetent if I ask for his name, because he must have told me at some point!" Her voice grew louder and more dramatic, more panicked, with each word. She didn't speak. She performed. She monologued.
Her monologue was overheard by one Albert Andreas Armadillo, though, who turned around in his booth to face the children, only to say, "Nobody knows Chef's real name," and return to his late lunch.
"Oh." Molly, who had stood up from her seat in the heat of the moment, sat back down. "Well, nevermind then."
Milo's face, which had slowly spread into a smile as Molly had created more and more of a scene, fell back down again. "Hey! I know what you're doing. You're trying to steer the conversation to something more interesting so I don't go back to my route."
Red chuckled. "That's sorta the idea, man."
"Well, I've got to go. Seriously." Milo brushed a strand of stringy hair from his face and stood up. "I love you guys, but I'm not getting paid 7.50 an hour to sit and-"
In the middle of his sentence, Chef placed a menu in front of him and briskly walked away.
The whole table had eyes on him. He could feel his face go a little hot. Now he was expected to sit down and order.
He silently returned to his spot in the booth and removed his hands, which he felt were sitting in an awkward position, from the table. He was beginning to itch. In the cold months, his uniform was terribly itchy. The sweat in the hot months created a favorable barrier between skin and cloth and prevented the itching. While it was May, the AC had been on full-blast in the restaurant all day, which made it nice for Molly, Scooter, and Red, and unbearable for Milo. He scratched at his left arm beneath his sleeve. Another reason to leave.
"Don't itch," said his mother that morning. "You're going to scratch yourself raw." This was in response to a rash in the crook of his elbow he received the day before after staying in Mr. Morton's unseasonably cold house for a stretch of time deemed by his skin and clothes to be a little too long. Remembering this, Milo stopped itching and grabbed the menu instead. He pulled it down to his lap and glanced at it. It contained all the standard breakfast fare; Eggs, bacon, omelettes, pancakes, etc., plus a few entrees for picky kids. He didn't need to look at the menu to know what was there, but he did need to look to know what his relatively satisfied stomach could handle a few mouthfuls of.
He listened to the other three's banter as he eyed the menu: "So, do any of you guys wanna go to the park later today?" Said Molly.
"Naw, I can't," replied Red. "I need to go home and practice today." He patted his tuba. "Plus I have a test tomorrow."
"What are you testing in?"
"Science."
"Oh. Anything good?"
"Heat transfer. Conduction, convection. You know."
Aw, crud. That's tomorrow, too. Milo made a mental note of the test.
"That's kinda advanced stuff for fifth grade," said Scooter. "We're not slated to learn that 'til next year."
"They're changing the curriculum. We're far ahead, so they're moving stuff around and going a little faster. Active with fifth grade and below last month," Red informed him.
"Oh, wow." Milo watched Scooter pour more syrup for his last bit of french toast out of the corner of his eye.
"Aw, man, that stinks. What about you, Scooter?" Molly looked at Scooter. At this point, Milo was feigning skimming at the menu. Everything he saw made him sick just thinking about it. Maybe he'd get a milkshake or something.
"I also can't. I've got a show to see tonight."
"Like on TV?"
"No." Scooter scoffed. "My parents are taking me to see Tax Man Max."
"Oh, cool!" Said Molly.
"Oh, lame." Said Red.
"I know, right?" Scooter tugged at one of his elbow pads. "I have so many other better things I could be doing. Like... eating dirt."
That got a good laugh out of Red, but Molly frowned at the comment. "I don't mind him. Y'know, he’s a good performer.”
”He’s got a weird voice and he talks about taxes.”
”Well they don’t call him Tax Man Max for nothing, do they?”
Red, now finished with his food, idly read the back of a bottle of vinegar. “I’m with Scooter. He’s okay at performing and whatnot, but I can’t stand to hear him talk one more time about taxes.”
”He’s an edutainer.”
”I don’t even know what that means.”
“Well,” Molly said, “Maybe this will make him seem more interesting? Did you know… Rumor has it that the kid that appears halfway through his show is actually his kid."
"I thought he was single," commented Milo. He was slowly shutting his menu.
"Oh, he is," said Molly.
"Hey, be careful! He's sitting right over there." Scooter pointed halfway across the restaurant to a barstool on the far right, where Max was indeed seated beside one of his showgirls. What he was eating wasn't visible, but he had already had three other servings of it, Molly noted. Maybe she would ask him on his way out. It was odd seeing them outside the theater. Max was still costumed as ever, but the unknown woman, curly black hair framing her hourglass figure, was wearing a black tube top and high-rise jeans. When you only see someone in one setting, in one set of clothing, you tend to associate them with that style and that style only. It was silly to assume she wore her skimpy one-piece and dollar sign headband wherever she went, but Molly hadn't seen or focused on her outside of that setting.
"Maybe you shouldn't gossip about people so openly. It's a little rude." Milo was fed up with feigning indifference and shoved his menu aside. He secretly liked the gossip. He was just the one of the group expected to scold the others on speaking behind people's backs.
He was ignored. "Do you think he's theirs?" Scooter asked, still pointing at the two.
"No, it doesn't look like her's." Molly pulled Scooter's extended hand down. "Maybe he's the redhead's."
"I thought you needed to be married to have kids," said Red.
"Nuh-uh," said Scooter. "I was born out of wedlock."
"Hmm. If we're really thinking about this, it would probably be the orange-haired girl's child. But we truly shouldn't be speculating on his relationship status. I feel icky hearing you guys talk about it." Milo folded his hands on his empty placemat. "It's only a rumor, anyway."
"You're such a buzzkill," said Molly sarcastically.
"Oh, it's so awful," Milo replied in her same tone.
Then, Chef came over. "You want anything, Milo?"
"I'll just have, uh... Yeah, just a milkshake, I guess. Plain."
"Yeah, sure." Chef scuttled back off in the blink of an eye.
Once he was out of earshot, Milo propped himself up on an elbow and sighed. "It must be pretty hard running the diner on his own. Especially when Rocky isn't around to help out."
"Yeah, poor Chef." Red started pulling apart the cardboard boat his hot dog was served in.
"Maybe he's hiring," said Molly, who truly couldn't care less.
"Maybe," said Scooter. "My mom's been hassling me about a summer job. I wonder what he pays."
"Hassling you at twelve?" asked Molly. "Why so soon? Most places don't even hire 'til, like, fourteen. You've got a couple years before you need to start looking."
"It's always been family tradition to start a few years early."
"Most places hiring that young are delivery agencies."
As if on cue, everybody turned their eyes to Milo. "Hey, you work delivery," said Red. "What's it even like waking up at the crack of dawn to deliver telegrams?"
Milo blushed a little. It always happened when he was being stared at, though he wished it wouldn't. "Um, well, I do it for a reason. I started last year 'cause I was bored and had nothing to do, but with homework and after school stuff, it really is a handful on weekdays. Sometimes I- um- I just can't take it. It's so stressful, I go home and go straight to bed after homework. It's exhausting."
"Sounds like hell," commented Scooter.
"No, it isn't that bad. I like getting up on weekends. I stop for a bite to eat here and it's just me and a few other people that early in the morning. Usually it's Ms. Sarsaparilla or the conductor at the train station. I'll slide into the booth with whoever's there and we talk over breakfast. Then I deliver from 6:30 to 8:30. It's a good workout. I especially like it when it rains, 'cause I just like the atmosphere of rain at dusk. It makes me happy. The envelopes don't even get that flimsy, 'cause they're coated in wax. I like my job. Otherwise I wouldn't do it."
"Well, I know I'd never do that!" Exclaimed Molly. "You're pretty tenacious to do something as bleak and dull as riding around delivering telegrams all day!"
"Gee, thanks," said Milo with a smile. "It pays well, too. $7.50 an hour. Not bad for a ten-year-old under the table."
"Sounds well-paying," said Red. "What do you do with the money?"
Chef delivered Milo his milkshake. Milo nodded in thanks and continued. "I save lots and lots of it. I never want much, but I usually don't want much before I make a real big purchase, so I expect I'll be needing my stockpile soon enough." He took a sip before he kept going. "Just last week I spent a few dollars on my bell. I don't know if you guys have noticed, but I have a bell on my bike now! I bought it myself and it works like a charm."
"Awesome," said Scooter. "I don't drive my bike around much, but I've been meaning to buy a bell for mine. How much are they?"
"Mine was a few dollars," replied Milo after a sip of his milkshake.
Red shook his head. "The pay is good and all, but I'm not gonna waste a minute working until the day I turn sixteen!"
"Me neither!" Shouted Molly. "We need to live out our days as kids!"
"Yeah!"
"Yeah!"
"Yeah!" Scooter agreed.
"Well, suit yourselves." Milo smiled. "Guess you just won't be able to buy cool stuff like me."
"I have a birthday stash," said Scooter.
"Is your birthday stash $475.94?"
Scooter looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his head. "No!! Not even close! You have that much!?"
"Oh, you know it." Milo was smirking and crossing his arms. He didn't mind being a braggart every once in a while.
"Hmm." Molly thought for a moment. How can I spice this up? "How much does Mike make?"
Milo's face instantly fell. Mike. Oh, how he detested Mike. The stuck-up little snob who thought he was better than all the other delivery boys and newspaper peddlers. Mike. The passive-aggressive nuisance who propped himself up like he was the greatest. Mike.
"Don't even say his name," grumbled Milo, fists clenched as he angrily sipped at his shake. This got a good laugh out of Molly. She found it hilarious to bring up "he-who-shan't be named" at the times Milo would least expect it. His pure hatred fueled her.
"What, he makes $10.50 an hour? For half the work?" She laughed again. She could practically see Milo steaming.
Milo wallowed for a little bit. Mike made $6.35 an hour. But the idea of that amount being inflated to an alarming degree made Milo want to get violent. Even if he never would. He knew better than to do so.
"Nuh-uh," he fumed, "he makes $6.35. Despite the fact that all he does is stand on the corner and yell at people to buy his stupid papers! They don't even print anything good in his paper, they took the comics out! Ugh!" Milo, as he did when he was stressed, tugged at a strand of his hair. "I hate him!"
Red glanced out the window. "Well, if you wanna keep up with him, he's leaving now, so..."
Milo's head whipped at breakneck speed to the window. Mike was leaving.
He had been right. He had to leave. Milo frantically fished through the pockets of his fluffy blue pants for money, yanking out two singles as fast as his little nervous system would take him. "Oh, I gotta go, I gotta go," he chanted to himself nearly religiously. He tossed some change onto the table and ran. Ran past the tables, ran past Max and the showgirl and Mr. Armadillo and Pearl and Mr. Morton and the generator man and Mr. Sarsaparilla and Stefana and Daisy and Zero and Jacob and Becky-Sue and Mary and Reginald and Chef manning the griddle. He yanked his poor, thin bike out of the restaurant with him.
He didn't even have time to say goodbye. It was time to put his nose back to the grindstone. He clicked his bike bell in farewell and let the push doors slam behind him as he hopped onto his bike and pedaled in a frenzy back to his route.
Damn you, Mike!