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Mike hated days like this at the mall. Sure, he couldn’t think of a shift he did like, but the point remained.
Some stupid sale at a toy store. The kind that had half the mall backed up with a line to get in. With it was a line of cranky parents and crankier kids. Screaming, crying, all of it. Even if Mike didn’t already wake up with a headache, he’d certainly have one five minutes in. Of course, with the increased possibility of a parent lashing out at a worker or another customer, he was assigned to keep a closer eye on that area of the mall.
As he wandered the wing of the mall absentmindedly and wondered what to have for lunch, he grumbled something to himself about how unorganized the line was. Whoever put this together had no sense of planning or organization. Whatever, it was above his pay grade to fix that. It was above his pay grade to give a shit to begin with.
That meant the line covered the entrances to other nearby stores, making anyone inside have to pass through a blockade of people to get out.
That was where you were. Trapped inside a store, trying to get out. Mike noticed how nervous you seemed about it, like you were calculating your best route to avoid running into anyone. It was like you were playing a high stakes game of Frogger. He liked Frogger. He played it a lot as a kid. Shit, was he bored—
Oh, you were moving. After a few more moments of deliberation, you squeezed your way past a tiny gap in the line, only for a kid to rush past with a balloon. You tripped on the ribbon and it sent you crashing down, the balloon popping as it fell with you. Of course, that sent the kid into screaming hysterics. And of course, while the kid’s mom was nowhere to be found while he was running around tripping strangers, she sure showed up now to wind up for what was sure to be the bitch of the century.
Something seemed off. Your eyes were blown wide with fear like the balloon popping was a gunshot right by your ear, the kid’s scream piercing your ears at full volume. As the kid’s mom demanded an answer, he could tell you were at a loss, words failing to force out of your throat. Shit, were you shaking? He should probably do something.
“Hey, uh…what—what’s going on?” Mike intervened before the mother could say any more.
“She popped my kid’s balloon and now he’s distraught!”
“Yeah, yeah, before we worry about the balloon. Are you okay? You fell pretty hard.” Your lack of an answer worried him further. You looked like a pressure cooker about to explode. “Alright, uh…here, I’ll take you to the back and see if you’re hurt at all.” He helped you up and threw your arm over his shoulder.
“We’re going to be waiting right here when you’re done!” The mother snapped. A small noise of what couldn’t be described as anything other than distress slipped from your throat.
“Yeah, you do that.” Mike nodded as he rushed you out and into the security office. Luckily no one was there to witness as you finally let yourself break, tapping the heels of your palms into your head a bit too hard to try and calm down.
“Whoa, hey, hey. Here, sit down, sit down.” Mike guided you to a plastic foldable chair and pushed down on your shoulders to get you to sit down. You squirmed away from the touch as soon as you were sitting, Mike lifting his hands up so you didn’t have to writhe.
This wasn’t good, you were going to hurt your head if you kept pounding at it like that. You had to have some sort of way to release the tension and restless energy. “Here, let’s…let’s not do that, okay?” Mike looked around for something that could replace the stimulation you were seeking. The only thing he could find was a pen on the desk. That wouldn’t work, you were hitting your head pretty hard. A pen wouldn’t provide that level of sensory input. Wait…
“Here. Hit me.” His sudden words made you lift your head in confusion, shaking your head amidst the storm.
“I’ve got a bulletproof vest on,” he insisted, “it’s not going to hurt me. It’s better than hitting your head like that. C’mon, hit me—oof!” Mike grunted as the heel of your palm struck his solid vest. Sure, it didn’t hurt, but he wasn’t anticipating it. You had stopped for a moment, worried you’d hurt him, but he was quick to sit back up. “No, you’re good, keep going. Just didn’t see it coming that time.” He repositioned himself to show he was ready and willing to receive more hits.
Your clammy hands flicked and pounded on his solid vest. “Here, make sure you’re breathing, alright? You’re doing great, just don’t forget to breathe.” He spoke gently. He didn’t need you hyperventilating. “Just…do what you gotta do first, then we’re gonna breathe together, okay?”
Mike waited until the taps and hits against his vest stopped in favor of a more harmless flicking of the hands before he continued. “Alright, can you look at me?” To his surprised, you immediately shook your head. “Ah…that—that’s fine, just listen, okay? We’re just gonna breathe. You…you do it every day, so you should be fine.” Not the best at comforting people, Mike Schmidt.
Still, you met him halfway, trying to replicate the awkwardly elongated breaths he was taking as a sort of metronome for you to follow. It wasn’t perfect, gasping gulps for air as you tried above all else not to cry in front of this man. Eventually, though, you regained some sense of composure. Once he was sure you were out of the woods, he stood up to grab a paper cup of water and fill it up at the cooler. “You, uh, got social anxiety or something?” Smooth.
Not quite, you were usually pretty outgoing. You shook your head and twisted your hands around your ears to nonverbally communicate the issue.
“Ah, the noise?” He guessed, watching you nod. “Yeah?” His voice was a lot softer this time, making you look away and nod again, blushing at the way the words squirmed under your skin. Mike paused. “Do you…not talk or something?”
“Huh…?” You forced your voice out but it felt wrong. “N-no, I talk, just-…”
“Look, don’t burst a vessel over it. If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to talk.” Mike watched you deflate in relief, though still a little nervous. “Just drink, okay?”
He watched you drain the cup and hug your arms around your waist. The self loathing look on your face spoke volumes. “Hey…don’t beat yourself up over it, okay? We all have our…things. I have mine too, trust me, you’re no different.”
You looked up nervously, searching his eyes for any lack of seriousness. Still, you found none.
“…I don’t like having my ‘thing’…” you mumbled after a while, looking down at the ground.
Mike let out a humorless chuckle. “Don’t think I’ve met anyone who does.”
“…that mom’s gonna be out there waiting…” your grip on the paper cup subconsciously tightened with a crinkle. Mike frowned slightly.
“…not if we hide out here til we close.”
“It—it’s 1 pm…” you tried to laugh shakily.
“Yeah, exactly. I’d kill for a reason to hide out in the break room today of all days. You’d be the perfect excuse.”
Feeling like you were good for something, even if it was an excuse for some guy to play hooky, felt nice. You watched Mike click around on the monitors. He snorted softly. “She’s still there.”
“Wow…over a balloon…” you turned to see the monitor.
“Wanna place bets on how long she’ll wait til she gives up?”
“I have no idea.” You chuckled softly.
“Good. I don’t have the money to gamble.” Mike’s joke made you giggle a little, a soft smile spreading on his face.
It was only when a pop made you flinch that you realized that Mike had thrown a bag of popcorn into the break room microwave.
“Oh. Shit, uh…sorry.” Mike blinked. Right, making popcorn with someone who got that freaked out by loud noises, not the best idea his sleep-deprived brain had come up with. Well, at least the break room smelled better than Barry’s poorly masked BO now. Although you’d never admit it out loud, your body language showed your agreement clearly.
Once it was done, he pulled the bag out and shook it a bit. He tore it open, a puff of steam emitting from the bag. “Here,” he hummed. “If we’re not gonna gamble, let’s watch. The longer you keep me in here, the better, so let’s find some…existential topic to talk about.”
How could you ever say no to that smile?