Cute, Cozy, Queer Stories

Part 28: Arlo, Edmund & Attaf

Arlo looked down at the text message for the fourth time today. He thought, if he kept reading it, the message would settle in his mind and his heart would stop pounding and his palms would stop sweating. But, the more he looked at it, the more his anger—and his anxiety—rose. Why the hell would he contact me now? What the hell is his problem?

Arlo hadn't spoken to Edmund in three years. Arlo stepped out of that house for the last time at fourteen years old and never looked back. Living on friend's couches, living in cars he wasn't licensed to drive, even living under bridges was better than living in that house. And now that he was stable—had a job, a place to stay, people he trusted, people who knew who he really was—now Edmund was texting him? And threatening him? He had no fucking right.

"Excuse me."

Arlo jumped. A blonde woman stood in front of the cash register, holding an almost-full make-your-own-six-pack. "Do you have the New Haven IPA?" she asked.

"Oh. Um. I'm not sure. Let me look." He stepped out from behind the counter and stepped quickly between the aisles of chips and candy bars, to the coolers lining the back wall. Three of the large coolers held craft beer. Arlo scanned quickly across the IPAs. "No, sorry, I—"

"I already looked there." The blonde woman looked at him, frowning. "I was wondering if you had it in the back or something."

"Oh. No, sorry; it's all stocked."

She rolled her eyes. "How old are you? Are you even old enough to work here?"

"I'm twenty-two," he lied.

She snorted. "Okay." Pulling another can from the cooler, she added it to her six-pack and started back towards the counter. Arlo followed awkwardly. Moving back behind the counter, he scanned her items in silence, waited what felt like an eternity for her credit card to process, and bagged her six-pack.

Handing her receipt over, Arlo didn't look her in the eyes. "Thank you. Please come again."

"Whatever, lady," she retorted.

She left.

Gritting his teeth, Arlo took a breath through his nose and exhaled. Looking down at his phone next to the cash register, his father's threatening text message still glowed up at him.

This day. Is fucking testing me.

Heavy footsteps to his left made him glance. A large-bellied man emerged from the back room, holding two stacked boxes of energy drinks in his thick, hairy arms. He set them down at the edge of the coolers and, wiping his hands together, maneuvered around behind the counter with Arlo.

"How's it going?" he asked.

Arlo took a breath and clicked the side of phone, turning the screen black. "Fine."

"That good, huh?" The large man leaned on the other side of the counter, crossing his brown arms over his belly.

"Y'know. It goes." Arlo tried to study Attaf in a glance. In the year and a half Arlo had worked for Attaf, he hadn't been able to read much from him. Arlo knew Attaf took over the shop for his aging father, and had bought another, similar shop, since then. Arlo also knew that Attaf's shop had been vandalized twice, and he'd been robbed at gunpoint once. When Arlo asked why Attaf was cleaning up glass on each of the ill-fated mornings, the heavy-shouldered man simply shrugged. When Arlo asked about the police tape on another night, he simply shrugged again. Arlo read about the robbery online the next day.

Whether he was dealing with crimes, unruly employees, drunken customers, broken equipment, or a hundred other things, Attaf took the chaos with a sigh or a shrug. He was perhaps the most even-tempered man Arlo had met. He was also the only one who actually listened to Arlo's story when he was desperate for a job at fifteen and half years old. When Arlo had no car, no home, no references, no past experience, and wasn't old enough to legally work, Attaf hired him and paid him under the table until he turned sixteen. He could've paid him a sixteen-year-old's wages—or less—but paid him the same as every other starting employee, and more as time went on.

Arlo's phone lit up. A number glowed on the face, and a name: Edmund.

Snatching the phone off the counter, Arlo quickly ended the call. He stowed the phone in his back pocket.

Attaf raised his thick, black eyebrows. "Was that important?"

"No," Arlo retorted, a little too sharply.

Attaf just nodded. He was quiet a moment, thinking. Then, "Family?"

Arlo felt the shock on his face. Swallowing, he tried to make his face as unreadable as Attaf's. "Yeah. My dad."

"You don't get along?"

"No." Arlo's phone buzzed. Sighing through his nose, he pulled it out and glanced at it. "Sorry," he said to Attaf without looking. "Last time." Looking down he saw another message from Edmund. Holding his breath, he clicked it.

You answer me or im coming down there and telling everyone what the fuck you are

Arlo swallowed what felt like poison. His heartbeat galloped in his chest. Palms sweating, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Attaf's cool brown eyes fell on him. "Everything okay?"

"He's a fucking asshole." The words leaped from Arlo's mouth before he could stop them.

The big man nodded again. "Hm."

"Sorry."

"No. A man that throws out his kid?" Attaf frowned. "Sounds like an asshole to me."

With Attaf's agreement, Arlo felt something in his tired brain snap. "If some Pennsylvania construction worker barges in here—probably shit-faced—and starts going off about me, that's probably him," Arlo snapped.

"Drunk Pennsylvania construction worker," Attaf replied dryly. "You're going to have to be more specific."

Arlo threw up his hands. "Like, what is he gonna say? 'Oh, this effeminate kid with a bizarre name who talks like a cartoon trucker—he ain't got no dick! Hello, I'd like to report a fraud in the deli department—there is not sausage as advertised!'"

Attaf blinked. He stared at Arlo for a moment, and the man's usually-stoic expression slipped into surprise. Then, he smiled. Chuckling, he shook his head. "Well, that's more specific, all right."

"He's such an asshole!" Arlo burst out. "He treats me like shit, tells me he doesn't want me around 'cause he thinks I'm some kind of freak, then I do what he wants—I fuck off and don't want anything to do with him anymore, just like he wanted—and now he's coming after me? Talking about outing me and shit? I don't even fucking pass—what's the point? Everybody already knows!"

"Hm." Attaf showed nothing.

Swallowing and shoving his shaking hands in his pockets, Arlo glanced at him. With his anger spent, at least for now, he felt deflated and small. He didn't know why, but waiting for Attaf's reaction was worse than waiting for his father's.

"I don't think you're a cartoon or a freak or any of that," Attaf said slowly, looking at Arlo steadily. "You're a good kid. You're hard-working, you're smart, you're honest—you're a good young man—and I'm sorry your father missed out on that." Taking a step, Attaf laid a heavy hand on Arlo's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. "But you're gonna be just fine without him." Attaf patted his shoulder as he started to turn. "You're gonna be just fine. And," he said over his shoulder as he headed back towards the back room "if anybody comes in here asking about sausage, I'll tell 'em to stuff it."  

...

Author's note: 

This chapter was also inspired by a Tumblr story! I extrapolated a bit (that's what I do) but the poster had said that his ex-father was threatening to expose him at work and he was like "yeah, and?" and went on a bit of a (it seemed to me) frustrated rant. After reading that, I thought how nice it would be for him to actually have a father figure who did care, who did think he was a good, promising young man, and would tell him so. 

Almost in time for father's day? For all the transguys (and everybody!) who don't have a good father figure in the picture--you are doing great, you are an inspiration, and Attaf and I are proud of you and we hope you keep on thriving! 

Also, these stories are now free for all to read on Patreon-- no Patronage necessary! Books are important, ads suck, so if you get as annoyed by them as I do, pop into patreon.com/flybienby to get the links ;)