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Maxwell has never really liked his birthday.
Well, he doesn’t anymore, at least. Ever since him and Charlie got divorced, every one of them have been the same: cold and lonely.
As he slams his fist onto the top of his blaring alarm clock in an attempt to shut it off, today does not seem like an exception. In fact, it seems marginally worse than the rest of his birthdays. For the last few days, he’s been actively trying to ignore the telltale throat soreness that indicates an illness right around the corner.
This morning, it made itself stridently apparent in a way he can no longer ignore. He’s congested so heavily that he has no choice but to breathe through his mouth, and each breath grates at the back of his throat in such a way that reminds him of the feeling of skinning his knee on asphalt. He can feel every joint in his body begging him not to get up from his bed, but he does it anyway. His bones groan in protest.
To top it off, sitting up gives him a splitting headache that fogs his cognitive processes.
Today will be fun, won’t it? He thinks.
When he walks through the front doors of the grocery store he works at, he’s immediately greeted by one of the check-out clerks.
“YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT. MATCHES YOUR PERSONALITY.”
“Har, har. Very funny, WX,” he says, his unusually nasally voice mixing with the scratchiness of his throat to produce a truly pitiful phrase.
“EUGH. YOU SOUND DISGUSTING, TOO. STAY AWAY FROM ME,” WX-78 says, and Maxwell chooses to ignore the fact that they physically cannot get sick.
Really, he should’ve known that it would only get worse from there.
“This is ridiculous! Why can’t I return it!?” A woman practically yells about three inches from his face.
Maxwell sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He leans over the checkout counter on his elbows, and it takes everything in him not to yell back. “The box is open and half of the pie is eaten, ma’am.”
“Well, then, why can’t I at least get my money back? It tasted awful!”
“..You ate half of it. You don’t have your receipt, either. I’m deeply sorry, but it’s store policy not to accept returns without–”
The woman fumes, and before Maxwell can blink, he has a fistful of room temperature apple pie running down the front of his work shirt.
She throws the rest of the package on the ground and storms out of the sliding doors of the grocery store.
Across the aisle next to him, one of the stockers, Wes, gives him a questioning thumbs up.
“I’m fine,” Maxwell says harshly.
Wes shrinks in on himself a little, going back to stocking items a little more quickly, and the feeling of resentment for this day continues to grow.
Maxwell’s mouth forms into a tight line. He hadn’t intended for it to come out so rude, but there’s not a whole lot he can do about it now, is there?
He doesn’t have a spare shirt with him, so he has to hunt through the lockers in the back room. He finds one that’s just a little too big on him, and a quick peek in the mirror shows that it only accentuates how frail he looks.
Great.
Not even five minutes later, he gets a page on his walkie-talkie.
“What do you want, Higgsbury?” He asks in lieu of a greeting.
“Uh. Small problem. A group of teenagers just came in and tried to do.. Well, they called it the “milk challenge,” whatever that means– I mean, honestly, I can’t keep up with all of these “challenges” nowadays–”
“Just– please get to the point,” Maxwell says, bordering on crushing the walkie talkie in his grip.
“Okay. Well, they spilled four gallons of milk in the dairy section. I’m busy cleaning up an Old Folk situation in the men’s restroom.. You know how it is,” Wilson says.
Maxwell grimaces, and briefly thinks that he’s at least having a better day than someone.
“Right. And let me guess: everyone else is busy because we’re always behind on everything, and I need to clean the spill?”
“Right you are,” Wilson says. “Gotta go. It’s starting to stink real bad in here,” Wilson says, and Maxwell hears him release the button on the device.
Maxwell deals with the spill (and, in the process, finds out just how much milk four gallons really is – it looks like so much more than four gallons when it’s spilled across an entire aisle of a grocery store) and discovers that one of his brand-new work shoes has a hole in the heel.
Out of all of the other issues, this is one of the most annoying – smelling like stale milk and having to listen to the sound of his own shoe squelching are things he can do nothing about until he gets home.
He shakes his head in irritation, and it reminds him of the piercing headache he has that’s only gotten worse as the day has progressed. The measly ibuprofen he’d taken before leaving for his shift has done little to help alleviate it, although thanks to taking it on an empty stomach, has blessed him with stomach cramps that rival the last (and only) time he’d tried gas station sushi.
Another hour passes, and thankfully it’s relatively peaceful.
That is, until he gets a phone call from his boss.
Arguably, the worst part about working here, in Maxwell’s opinion, is the fact that his boss is also his ex-wife. It’s an awful situation, really, but he’d been incredibly desperate for work after his career as a magician (quite literally) crashed and burned – it’d been the reason for his name change and move across the country.
It’s a mystery to him how she’d gone to the exact same town he did and become the owner of a grocery store. The only grocery store within a ten mile radius that was hiring when he moved.
Just his luck.
Seeing her name on his phone screen reminds him that it is, in fact, his fifth birthday without her.
His heart clenches in his chest. Maybe she’s calling to wish him a happy birthday?
He answers the phone.
“Maxwell,” she starts, in an overly-sweet tone, and Maxwell can already see where this is going. “Did you happen to receive a shipment yesterday? Because I sure remember ordering one.. that wasn’t inventoried.”
Maxwell sighs. “I already told you this, Charlie. Wanda was out, and she’s the one that usually receives shipments. You know Wes is hard of hearing. He didn’t hear the driver ring the bell. We rescheduled it for tomorrow,” he says.
“No. You can’t make excuses for him. He needs to know that there are consequences for his mistakes,” Charlie says, and Maxwell sees red.
“I am not making excuses,” he spits, “I am accommodating for an employee with a disability. Don’t make me get the EEOC involved.”
“If you want to keep your job, you won’t say a damn thing to the EEOC. I know how to get what I want, and you know it.” She says, and Maxwell swallows harshly.
“I think you should watch how you speak to me, William. You’re on thin ice,” she says, and his stomach drops. “I want you to tell him that if he misses another shipment, he’s gone.” Charlie says, and hangs up with an audible click.
Maxwell puts his phone back in his pocket. He takes a deep breath in, and then out. His head hurts far too much for him to deal with this shit today. Everything hurts, as a matter of fact. And he still can’t fucking breathe out of his nose.
He’s lamenting about every way his body hates him today when Warly calls him over to the bakery through the walkie-talkie.
Honestly, Maxwell is so completely done with this day that he doesn’t expect anything good. An oven blew up, they’d need to call Winona back to find out they need a thousand-dollar part replaced. A customer got food poisoning from the deli and they’re being sued. Again. Whatever it is this time, Maxwell doesn’t even get his hopes up. He walks over to the window with a scowl.
“What happened this– huh?”
Warly presents him with a plastic tray of two cupcakes with a ‘MARKED DOWN’ sticker on the top of them. One of the cupcakes had been smudged against the top of the container, but they look fine otherwise.
“Happy birthday, Monsieur Maxwell,” he says. “I wish I could give you something more fresh. Sadly, this was the best I could do. I’m running low on funds. You understand, no?”
Maxwell sighs, and a slight smile graces his lips for the first time today.
“It’s okay. I appreciate it anyway. Thanks, Warly.” He takes the container. After some check-ins about the bakery (thankfully, no ovens exploded), Maxwell takes the tray of cupcakes back to the break room.
Maxwell trudges through the last two hours of his shift, barely holding on to the energy necessary to keep himself upright. He leaves without saying goodbye to anyone, carrying the cupcakes under one arm protectively. They’re the best damn thing that’s happened to him today, and he’s not going to let his God-awful luck ruin it for him.
As he drives home, it starts to rain. It’s pouring, and he can barely see the car in front of him.
When he parks his car, he nicks the curb and dents his car. His rental car.
He gathers his belongings from the passenger seat and tries not to worry about how much he’ll be charged for it when he inevitably has to return the car.
Maxwell doesn’t have a jacket, so he books it from his car to the steps of his apartment. He fumbles with his keys to try to get in, the rainwater soaking through the thin loaner work shirt and sending chills through him.
He drops the keys on the ground with his shaking hands, and bending down to pick them up is probably the worst pain his body has put him through today. He audibly groans, and he even thinks he hears something pop in his back that leaves pain radiating from his hip to his neck.
When he finally makes it into his apartment, soaking wet and shivering, he nearly trips over the mail that was pushed through the slot in his apartment door. The tray of cupcakes in his arms nearly spills onto the ground, but he catches it at the last second.
Both of the cupcakes smash against the roof of the container, smearing their frosting all over the inside of it.
He drops his things haphazardly on his kitchen table and picks up the mail. Bills, payment due, late bill.. more bills.
Once again, something he’ll deal with tomorrow. Even if the price tag on these bills steadily climbs higher than what he could cover in a single paycheck. Or five.
Maxwell walks over to put the cupcakes in his refrigerator, but he steps on something soft and squishy.
It seems like his cat left him a little present for his birthday.
Now that both of his shoes are soiled, he figures he can take them off and, once again, leave them for another day, opting to wear his beat-up sneakers to work tomorrow. But first, he has a heaping pile of cat vomit to clean up.
Once that’s dealt with, he decides to find the little bugger, just to make sure she’s okay. Before he leaves the room, he sneezes suddenly and intensely, so harshly that his head pounds with his heartbeat afterwards. As if suddenly remembering he’s ill, his body chooses then to remind him how chapped his lips are from being a mouth-breather all day. And how much he still can’t breathe out of his nose. He sniffs disgustingly as his nose starts to run despite this, desperate not to add even more disgusting liquids to his list of things to clean up today.
“Ugh,” he moans, and after a brief moment of gathering his bearings again, begins the search. His cat, named Umbra simply for the color of her fur, usually likes to hide whenever he comes home from work.
He finds her licking herself on top of his bed.
He goes to pet her as a way of greeting, and she whips around and bites his hand hard enough to break skin. He quickly pulls his hand from her and the cat flees to the living room.
She's doing just fine, it seems.
Maxwell washes his hands (bite wounds from animals are notoriously nasty) and puts some food in her bowl for whenever she decides to stop being a little shit. He sets to making his own dinner. He’s running low on the microwave dinners he likes to eat, and the only option left is stuffed peppers.
He puts the tray in the microwave as per the package directions and sits down at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.
He sits there quietly, rubbing his temples to try to alleviate the still-persistent headache. He feels like utter shit. Every single part of his body is in pain. Everything from his head to his socks are damp with rain and sweat and milk and God knows what else. He sits there, contemplating the life choices that have brought him to this exact moment, until the microwave beeps.
He stands up with a groan, joints clicking in protest, and takes the tray out of the microwave. When he opens it, he sees the bell peppers have all shriveled up, the cheese filling dry and crumbly, and the rice on the side looks like it’s had all of the moisture sucked out from it.
He takes the first bite, and it tastes like it’s been charred and freezer burnt at the same time. He finishes about half of the meal before trashing the other half. Maybe he’ll check the expiration date next time.
Maxwell decides to take the cupcakes out of the fridge, finally excited for something for once today. He smiles. He makes a mental note to thank Warly for these tomorrow.
He rips the sticker off of the packaging and fumbles with the seal on the front. These plastic packages always give him trouble, especially with his arthritis. He grips each side with his fingertips and pulls it apart with the force of both of his arms.
As soon as he pops the lid off, the whole thing drops from his grip with the force.
And of course, like buttered toast, both cupcakes land frosting-side down on the kitchen tile.
It’s the last straw.
Tears fill Maxwell’s eyes. He sinks to the ground on his knees, ignoring the protest from his knees and back.
It’s just cupcakes, but it feels like so much more. It is so much more.
He lays on the ground as tears stream down the side of his face.
He’s fifty-two. Nobody will be around to hold him and tell him everything will be alright. He can cry as much as he wants. The only one to see him is Umbra, and she’s not interested in him anyway. He has to be quiet, though, because he’s on bad terms with his landlord and if he gets a noise complaint from his neighbors he’ll be kicked out. Especially since his rent’s late. He covers his mouth with one hand, muffing his sobs to the best of his ability.
Maxwell cries to himself, the gross, soft noise echoing off of the tile of the floor and back to his ears. He snivels and sobs and weeps, and then he starts coughing, nearly choking on the snot trailing down the back of his throat to make it hurt worse later. His throat is so raw at this point that it feels like he’s swallowed sandpaper, and it only makes him cry harder. Not even his cat comes to check on him.
Alone in his apartment, Maxwell cries on his birthday.
