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When the average person thinks of their hometown, they're often overwhelmed by warmth and fondness.
It might be the nostalgic thrill of finally learning how to ride a bike on their own. With one last push from their parents, and a final clatter of their training wheels against pavement, they'd be off—through rain, snow, sleet, and hail. Along the way, tires would pop on stray rocks and knees scraped on countless sidewalks.
Maybe it's the taste of rich, velvety cocoa lingering on their tongue as they watched through frost-bitten window panes as snowflakes piled on their front lawn, tucking in the neighborhood with a pure white blanket.
Or, perhaps, it's the melancholic feeling of having to leave. With cardboard boxes stacked atop one another and loaded into a foreign van, this person would have to look back on their place and its people—its highs and its lows—and eventually gather the strength to push their foot against the pedal and never look back.
However, when thinking of Granite Falls, Minnesota, not a single one of these emotions comes to mind.
In a town of two thousand where everyone knew everybody, there was little to no excitement. Sure, there was the mall—better known for firing their employees than for its stores—as well as some parks here and there, but there was no source of happiness in the glum neighborhood.
And although the civilians couldn't agree on much, there was one thing that they'd be able to settle on: Sparky's, the diner wedged between where Colgate Street met Mulberry Lane, was the best place in town.
As Michael Schmidt groans, wiping off the sweat on his brow with the spare handkerchief tucked into his apron, and grimacing at the racket a mere twelve customers could make at eleven o'clock in the morning, he's close to being the first to break that agreement.
With a quick glance at his notepad, he deflates at the sight of the orders he's amassed.
Pancakes with bacon bits and a side of mixed berries
Family-sized waffles with a side of butter
Cheddar omelette with home fries
Six shirley temples
In theory, Mike has the balls to write a gun to my head under the last order, but with the way things are looking for his job record, and the fact that he's been fired from six or seven jobs in the span of three months, he puts his pen in his back pocket and curses under his breath. The thunking of his head against the wall goes unheard from busy chefs.
Things are going—in the kindest way he can put this–shitty. He’s been to countless meetings with Jane and their social worker about the person who deserves the title of Abby’s caregiver, and in all of them Jane pulls up with folders upon folders of documents stating the reasons why Mike is incapable of taking care of her.
(As if he needs a reminder. He and Abby can barely have a conversation without him getting annoyed or her storming off to draw in her room.)
Despite this, Mike refuses to give up; he knows that Jane only wants custody solely because of the monthly check from the government it brings. For as long as he can remember, she’s always been greedy like that. When his parents were still around, she’d drop by to ask for a few bucks, just to replace a lamp in her living room.Next time it was for a new bedside table, then an oil change at the mechanic, a blush palette, a designer bag, until she was persuading Mike’s Mom for several hundred bucks to pay for her vacation that was across the world.
“I’ll pay you back next time, I promise!”
“C’mon, Clara. You can’t even spare your sister a few bucks?”
“I forgot to go to the bank, but I will as soon as I can. Promise.”
It was if Jane loved draining her sister’s pockets instead of her own sister.
Mike also knows that she sees Abby as a ‘mentally unwell’ kid who needs to see a shrink for a cure, rather than a ten-year-old girl whose favorite food is grilled cheese sandwiches (with the crusts cut off) and tomato soup, favorite color purple, and has loved sea lions since she was three—her first ever stuffed animal a sea lion plush that their Dad won at the aquarium.
(Mike exactly remembers the toothless smile that spread across her face as she petted the sea creature’s soft fuzz. Can exactly remember the way she waved it in his face to show it off, as if he wasn’t beside their Dad the entire time as the man put his entire focus into Whack-a-Mole. Remembers the warm feeling that spread from his heart to his chest as he watched Mom coo and pepper kisses on Abby’s face, Dad standing off to the side to take a picture of the tot).
As long as he can help it, Jane won’t be near Abby anytime soon.
“Schmidt!” an exasperated voice called, snapping his eyes open and breaking him out of his trance. Mike’s eyes darted left and right before settling on the source: Brian. The bald-headed man was always covered in some form of grease and has been disapproving of Mike the moment he put on his apron. He always felt him glare daggers into his back whenever he turned around. Now, he was glaring straight at Mike’s face–with his arms crossed, nonetheless. Mike spots an array of plates and cups of juice on the counter behind him.
“People have been waiting for their orders for the past ten minutes.” He scowls. “Now get your sorry ass out there before I kick you out with empty pockets.”
Mike bites his cheek. Hard.
He needs this job. He needs this job. He needs this job. He needs this job.
He can’t be the same mall security guard in the water fountain, fist slamming into that father’s jaw over and over and over as his son—that same son that looked just like Garrett— cried for him to stop, please, that's my dad!
So he settles for letting his nails bite into his palm, shouldering past Brian with a mumbled, “Yes, sir.”
As he picks up two shirley temples in one hand and the omelette in his other, he exhales through his nose. Amazing job, Mike. You’ve lived another day without losing your job. Only Two thousand more to work until you can buy a bigger house for you and your sister.
But it was at that very moment that the Universe decided to change its mind, because as Mike got lost in thought once again, his shoe got caught on the leg of a customer’s chair.
So as the freshly cooked food flew out of his grip and came crashing down to the floor, Mike came along with it.
When Mike’s eyes flutter open and the bleary wash of color in his vision slowly sharpens, the first thing he notices is what isn’t happening: he’s not fully covered in shirley temples and eggs while customers stand around him laughing. (Though, if he were, he’d probably get up and continue working as if nothing happened. He really couldn’t afford to quit out of embarrassment.)
Instead, he’s slumped against the wall of what appears to be a storage closet, judging by the brooms and mop buckets crowding the space. With a turn of his head, Mike realizes an arm is braced against his knee, someone else’s hand holding something cold against his temple.
Huh.
Huh?
“How did I get here?” Mike wonders aloud.
“That would probably be because of me,” a voice to his left says.
Mike, like any normal person, yelps, his eyes snapping to where it came from. “Who are–” But the words become heavy with molasses.
Because suddenly there’s a face where another wall should be.
Mike’s breath stutters. The stranger is close, kneeling beside him in the narrow closet, brown eyes wide with concern and reflecting the bare bulb overhead like warm glass. He’s holding a bag of frozen tater tots—tater tots—pressed carefully to Mike’s temple, as if afraid of hurting him further.
For a moment, Mike forgets the pain entirely. Forgets the diner, the floor, the reason his head is pounding. All he can see is the softness in the man’s expression, the way his mouth curves naturally into a (albeit sheepish) smile, the way his name, which is Ness, is engraved on his golden name plate that sits on his breastpocket.
Heat creeps up Mike’s neck, slow and embarrassing.
Dumbly, Mike thinks that if he were to wake up anywhere, whether it be on a floor, or with a headache, this might be the best possible way to do it.
And dumbly, Mike comes up with the bright idea of the words he says to Ness being, “My name’s Mike.”
Ness blinks once, then twice. Then the sound of his laughter fills the space between them. Mike thinks it's a very nice sound.
When his giggles quiet down, he says, “I could tell.” He points to Mike’s chest, where his own matching name plate sits, except with the name Mike written on it. Ah.
There’s a warm feeling in his chest, and Mike’s praying that the light doesn’t give away the flush on his face.
“Oh. Uh, sorry.” He looks at their surroundings to distract himself from saying anything stupid (especially about the fond way Ness looks at him). “Ah, what am I…doing in here?” The with you goes unsaid, but the other man picks it up regardless.
“Oh! I was cleaning dishes behind the counter when I saw Brian mouthing off to you the way he did.” He shakes his head. “I wish he wasn’t so mean all the time…Anyways, I followed you out to offer help with serving customers, but before I knew it, you were on the ground, and most of the customers didn’t seem to care, but Brian got really upset about the mess. I told him to lay off you, and that you were fairly new to this place, and he somehow let it slide with the promise I’ll take your place to work.”
Mike doesn’t know whether he should feel happy or ashamed that someone fought for him rather than against him.
“How did I end up here, though?”
Ness rubs the back of his neck, his smile bashful. “I cleaned up the plates and the food and took you back here to avoid Brian. I doubt you would’ve liked his face being the first one you saw when you woke up.”
Mike huffs. “You really didn’t have to do that, y’know. I deserve to be fired after the trouble I caused everyone.”
The other man’s nose scrunches, and it distantly reminds Mike of a bunny. “Of course not! Mistakes happen all the time, and what just happened isn’t any different. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” He shakes his head.
Mike shrugs. “if being hard on myself makes me do better, then so be it.”
Silence settles between them, thick but not unbearably uncomfortable. Mike studies the floor, toe nudging scuff marks. Ness watches him for a moment, expression softening, clearly weighing whether to say something or let it pass. In the end, he exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that’s half a laugh, half a sigh.
“Y’know,” he starts, “I really screwed up when I first got here.”
Mike tilts his head. “Really?”
“Definitely. Brian wouldn’t stop hounding me about it for weeks.”
“Couldn’t have been as bad as the stunt I pulled back there.”
“Ehh, on some levels, it is.” He dramatically clears his throat, as if he’s preparing to tell some grand story.
“It was my first day on the job, so I was really nervous. But also, really excited. I woke up at six o’clock to shower, brush my teeth, put on my pair of lucky socks—”
Mike surprisingly laughs. “Lucky socks?”
“Don’t patronize me, they're essential to having a good day!”
“Well, if you really messed up badly then I doubt they’re necessary.” Ness pouts, but Mike can tell he isn’t really upset.
“Anyways, I got here ten minutes before my shift started, and the first person I met was Brian. He obviously wasn’t the brightest of the bunch, but I took it as him not being a morning person. When it came to actually working, he told me that he ‘doesn’t put faith in newbies as much as he does with others’, whatever that meant, and assigned me to making coffee.”
Mike raises his eyebrow, “And I’m guessing that's where things went to shit?”
“Hush, I’m getting there. So, as the coffee finished steeping in the machine, I turned my back to pour it into a cup. One of the customers requested for their coffee to be filled to brim with sugar, which is…really weird looking back on it. But as I turned around to get the sugar shaker, I found there were two on the counter. I didn’t really think anything of it and sprinkled as much sugar to my heart’s content before sending it out.”
Mike’s brows furrow. “But what part went wrong? You did exactly what they asked.”
“Welllll, one of the chefs might've put their salt there while they went off to do something, and I might’ve added said salt into their coffee instead of the sugar they asked for…”
Mike loudly snorts. “No way.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Ness grins. “I didn’t even realize until they took one sip and just…froze. It was like their soul left their body.”
He fiddles with the bag of tater tots in his hand. “Look, what I’m trying to say is that absolutely no one blames you for what happened.”
“Yeah, but Brian–”
“Who gives a fuck about what Brian says?” And Ness swearing catches Mike so off guard that he can't help but laugh. “I’m serious! Who cares about what he has to say? What matters is that you’re trying your best.
Mike hums, the corners of his mouth slightly turning up. “Thanks.”
Ness returns it tenfold. “Anytime, Mike,” he says automatically, then nudges Mike’s shoulder with his own. “A couple of broken plates and a concussion isn’t going to make anyone hate you, I promise.”
Mike lets out a small laugh, glancing sideways at him. “You’re good at knowing what to say.”
Ness pauses again, before slowly reaching over to him and hovers over his hand, as if asking for silent permission.
Mike nods.
He places his soft hand atop Mike’s calloused one.
“That’s because I’ve had a lot of practice making mistakes,” he murmurs, “and I’m sure I’ll make a handful more in the future.”
As Ness gently brushes his thumb against any bump and scar he can find, Mike thinks to himself.
I’m sure I’ll make a handful more in the future.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
(And although it might be corny, but now, whenever Mike thinks of Granite Falls, he isn’t met with dreariness. No, Mike only thinks of warm, brown eyes, soft hands, and a cold feeling against his temple)