Earl Harlan Week!

I wanted something with Cecil, probably ever since I met him.  It’s just that my definition of “something” is different than his, and apparently than anyone else’s.  He was my best friend growing up.  I wanted that to last.  I wanted to be that close to him forever.

Things don’t last, though.  Life’s all about change, and we both grew up and grew… apart. There were things… things I knew he wanted out of a relationship that I couldn’t give him.  And it scared me.  So I devoted myself to my work instead.  But still…

“We could have had something, Cecil.  Always remember that.”

Then I was thrown into the Void.  I don’t want to talk about it.

When I got out, there were different things to devote myself to.  Like my son. I needed Roger, and he needed me, and that was all that really mattered.  I got another job so I could support him.  If it were just me, I could’ve done fine in a tent out in the desert, hunting my food every day.  But Roger… he deserves something better than that, he needs stability and safety, and I’m going to give that to him.  So I got a ‘real’ job, whatever that means.  Still, I listened to Cecil’s show every time he was on.  It was kind of nostalgic.  It helped me keep up with current events, and his life.

He’s got a boyfriend now, and they’re obviously very happy together, even if they were worlds apart for a year.  It’s just a year.  I kind of resented Carlos at first, but I’ve come to terms with him.  …Mostly.  Some of the things he says, I don’t know.  But if he’s good for Cecil – and he is, I can’t deny it – then he’s good enough for me.

And I get to go on the radio with Cecil now and then, too. I was nervous at first, but it’s pretty fun.  I teach his listeners how to make a simple dish, or even a full meal.  And I get to talk to him.  Um.  More than I probably should on air.  But you know, he’s just got this way of… coaxing the words out of me.  The words and insecurities and deep-seated fears. I guess… it’s not so bad.  It’s a way to spend time with him.  And even if we’re not as close as we were, we’re still friends.  We’re building an adult friendship.  It’s different, and it’s not what I used to envision, but… it’s nice.

“I wish I could have seen you guys today…  I’ve been – well, you know I always look forward to it.”  Earl Harlan set out his container of leftovers on the table.  Roger had eaten dinner and gone to bed, and now Earl sat by candlelight and softly-glowing bloodstones, mulling over his tiramisu.

He smiled faintly.  “I did a cooking segment on Cecil’s show, though.  You would’ve liked it.  I made this – Tiramisu.  Pretty fancy for me, I know.  But it’s not too hard.  Just takes some time.  …Actually the name means ‘pick-me-up.’  Probably not literally.  But it’s got lots of high-energy ingredients.  And I thought… I thought… it’d be good.  For today.”  He laughed self-consciously, rubbing his face.  “I knew I’d need it.  Figured Cecil would too.”

“Anyway… it’s good,” the sous chef continued through a mouthful of tiramisu.  “You’d like it, really sweet.”  He paused, swallowing and licking cocoa powder from his lips.  “…I was really looking forward to telling you about Roger. He’s a great kid.  Um.  Almost scary how much he looks like me.  I’m not sure what’s going on there.  How he got here.  Who the mother is.  …I’m at least as surprised as you guys, there.”  He chuckled.  “He’s a quiet kid.  Pretty gray and transparent.  Typical eleven year-old in some ways.  He’s got it tough, but he’s just as tough.”

He poked at the remains, and took one more small bite, licking the fork clean.  “I wanted to tell you about my new job, too.  It’s not what I expected, but I love it.  Kinda the story of my life, lately.  It’s a good way to live.  I – I just had so much I wanted to talk to you about.”  He carefully put the lid on the container and looked around his blood stone circle.  His brothers and sisters looked back at him from old photos.

“I miss you,” he whispered.  “…And I love you.”

“Scoutmaster Harlan, it’s nice to meet you.”  LaShawn Mason shook Earl’s hand:  Both hands were big, but Earl’s were bonier, had more scars on them.

“Oh, Earl, please,” the scoutmaster said, ducking his head and smiling.  “And it’s an honor to meet you, too.  Thanks for taking time to meet with me.”

“I was glad for the chance.  My nephew was in Scouts, I wonder if you remember…?”

“Oh sure, Devon!  He was a great kid, we were sad to see him go.  But I understand he’s doing very well still.”

“He is.  My sister’s very proud of him.”  The executive chef allowed himself a small smile.  “So Mr. Harlan, I don’t think you’ve worked in the culinary industry before?”

“Ah, no, I… my work’s mainly been with the scouts.”

“But you must have done some cooking with the scouts, right?”

“Yes, I – there’s a cooking badge that covers everything from boiling water to proper storage and equipment to advanced knife work and seasoning.  And on our campouts… well, hamburgers and hot dogs get boring pretty fast.  For all but the youngest scouts, we try to get more creative.  Of course I try to have the scouts plan and execute that as much as possible, but I do my share of the cooking.”

LaShawn nodded, making a brief note.  “As you know, the opening I have is for a line cook… You’d need to pick things up fast, move faster, and work as part of a whole with the others.  Take orders without question.  You’re accustomed to being a leader, but you’d be the lowest one in the kitchen.  Think you could handle that?”

Earl nodded.  “I can take orders, I move fast, I learn fast.  It won’t be a problem.”

“…If I asked for a New York strip steak, what would be your first step?”

“Heat up a skillet with oil, and –“

“What spices would you use on cactus pads?”

“Ah – probably just a little salt, they’re good paired with hotter foods, they cool the palate.”

“Name one culinary use for human blood.”

“A pie – like blood pudding.  Oh, or it might be good drizzled over avocado on toast!  As an appetizer.”

LaShawn frowned deeply at Earl for a long moment.

“Wheat-free toast, of course.  Potato bread’s good.”  Earl smiled hopefully.

“…Say you ran out of key ingredients for the main dish. What do you do?”

“Well… see if the diners and you would be okay with me making a different dish.”

“What dish?  You’ve got nothing left in the kitchen – no protein, no vegetables, no herbs.”

“I’d… apologize profusely, of course, for misjudging the amount of ingredients we’d need.  But then, I’d see if they minded waiting just a little longer for something different.”

“Like what?” LaShawn asked flatly.

“See what I could find in the desert – it’d probably be night, I could take out a jackrabbit, an owl, or a snake pretty easily. Or skunk if they don’t mind the residual oils.  Gather cactus paddles, some agave roots, wild sage…  Ten extra minutes, if we’re in a hurry.”

LaShawn’s eyebrows had crept up slowly as Earl spoke. “What if it’s a dessert we need?”

“Plenty out there we could use – stewed prickly pears in agave syrup with some cinnamon and nutmeg…  That over a piece of white cake would be good.  Angelfood or sponge cake.  Or make a cactus bread, like zucchini bread, plenty of moisture and flavor in there.  Could add spices or chocolate to it, maybe soak it in brandy.”

“…How do you feel about children’s menus?”

“Honestly, I feel like they’re pretty patronizing. They’re all bland, cheese and chicken nuggets.  I think it’s good to have mild, familiar options, but that shouldn’t be all that kids can get for a lower price.  I like children’s portions better.”

“Would you slaughter a live cat in front of diners if they requested it?”

Earl paused, frowning.  “I’d… have to take that on a case-by-case basis.  No – no, I don’t think I would.  I kill as respectfully as I can, without any undue suffering.  If they’re doing a ritual that requires taking an animal from life to death and then eating it, that’s… that’s not my job. That’s not something I would be of help with.”

Mason nodded stonily.  “Say one of the other cooks, with more seniority with you, has been taking shortcuts, not cleaning things right.  What would you do?”

“I’d approach them privately, see if anything was going on, let them know I wanted to help, not get them in trouble.”

“And if they tell you to fuck off?”

“…Then I go to the executive chef.  To you.”

“Wrong.  Problems go to the sous chef first.”

“Oh – I’m sorry.  Who’s the sous chef?”

LaShawn gnawed at his lip thoughtfully, staring out the window behind Earl.  “None yet. Like I said, I’m hiring for a line cook. I don’t like to take somebody new and put them above people who know what they’re doing.   I want to see what you can do.”

Surprise dawned over Earl’s face.  “…What?”

“…So what, Harlan, you always secretly wanted to cook or something?”

Earl sputtered, flustered.  “Um… I… I just… I need a job.  I’ve got a son now.  I don’t know how.  But I’ve got to take care of him.  I’m… applying for a lot of jobs.”

“Just went down the Food/Beverage/Hospitality list on Craigslist, huh?”

“N-no!  Not just there, most of the categories…”

LaShawn let out a booming laugh, making Earl jump, and slapped the smaller man on the back.  “Gods damn, Harlan, don’t act like you want it so bad!”

Earl stammered and reddened, and LaShawn shook his head.  “Nah, don’t worry about it.  I like that. But you start Monday at 3, if you don’t get a better offer as a janitor or a financial advisor or a wildlife photographer.  And if you do, you’d better tell me the second you’re even thinking about something else.”

“Um… right!  I will, I’ll do that!  But… I’ll see you Monday, Mr. Mason!  Thank you!”

“I sure hope this is worth it, Harlan.”

“Oh, it will be!  I’ll learn fast!”

Earl Harlan had lived a strange life, but nothing had been quite as strange as coming home one day, a middle-aged man when he’d been nineteen for… how long?  And there was this boy sitting on the couch, watching TV.  The boy looked just like Earl had when he was young.  He was eleven, but small for his age.  He only looked eight or nine.  Probably malnourished, the logical side of Earl’s brain said, remembering his own childhood, and immediately set about fixing that.

It was hard to ask the boy his name.  It felt like a betrayal, this whole thing did.  The boy had obviously lived for eleven years, somehow. His own son.  And now he had to come in and learn everything about him, how was he supposed to do that?  But he finally worked up the courage, and asked.  And it was that easy.  Roger. And it wasn’t easy at all.

He tried his best to be a good dad.  A dad like he hadn’t had, growing up.  He’d never thought about having children of his own, though he’d spent… who knows how long, caring for and teaching other children. But he found that it was exactly what he’d wanted, without knowing.  Here was a child he could take care of, teach, talk to, love… really love.  And he never had to send him back home at the end, because this was his home.  It was their home, their family.  He had a family.  It was small and mysterious, but it was all Earl Harlan had ever truly wanted.

And he knew even though Roger was pretty stoic about things, that it must be hard on him sometimes.  Kids at school were mean to him.  Adults didn’t understand him.  So Earl did what he could to be supportive, to talk Roger through whatever came at him, to be there to catch him, to hold him up, when he needed it.  To step back and watch when he didn’t.  It didn’t always go well.

Early on, Earl did some research, and found some old episodes of Sesame Street that seemed to apply to their situation.  He sat down on the couch with Roger to watch them. And Roger sat and watched – he was a good boy, really.  But after a while, Earl noticed the boy glancing at him uncertainly.  He looked over, and Roger quickly looked back at the screen.  A bunch of monster-Muppets cheered and sang a song about being a happy family.  Roger rolled his eyes.

…Well, he was eleven, Earl reminded himself.  That’s a tough age, and it’s an age where you think you’re too old for little kids’ stuff, which might be anything from stickers to cartoons to having your food cut up in bite-sized pieces.  …And it was definitely Sesame Street.

When Thanksgiving rolled around, he knew what he had to do.  He found a football game to watch, and he and Roger sat down on the couch, with an array of snacks to eat.  That’s what families did at Thanksgiving.  Earl tried to keep up with what was happening, but found his eyes glazing over.  At halftime, he turned hesitantly to his son, who was leaning back and watching, but didn’t seem terribly focused.

“So, um… that one guy can throw really well,” Earl said nervously.

Roger nodded.

“This is fun, right?”

The boy shrugged.  “I guess.”

Earl’s face fell.  “…I don’t think I really understand football,” he finally admitted.

Roger grabbed a fried green bean, dipped it in the chipotle mayo sauce, and crammed the whole thing in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.  “Then why are we watching it, if you don’t even like it?”

“I… I thought maybe you’d want to…”  Earl trailed off at the boy’s withering look. “It’s… what families do at Thanksgiving,” he mumbled.  This was a disaster.  He was the worst father ever, he was unfit to be a parent, he couldn’t even perform the simplest family task with his son.

Roger stared hard at him for a long moment.  “We could play Capture the Flag out at that big cluster of rocks in the Sand Wastes.”

A smile broke over Earl’s face.  “Really?  You want to?”

The boy shrugged.  “Sure.  It’s still a family thing.  For us. And we both like it, it wouldn’t be so lame.”

He still sounded disinterested, but Earl grinned, taking that as a complete victory.  “I’d love to!  That sounds like way more fun.  Don’t forget your water bottle.”

@videntefernandez‘s Earl Harlan is quite a bit different from how I portray him in this story, but I adore her blog and wanted to participate in Earl Harlan Week. If you aren’t in to Earl Harlan yet, check out her Tumblr for a much more likeable version than mine. There’s some really great fanart.

A story of abuse and monsters, told through our favorite Night Vale characters:

He set the plate down in front of the customer that may or may not exist. “You should stop giving everyone here a hard time,” Earl chided the not angel.

“I didn’t!”

“You’ve been demanding the blood of virgins spilled during a full moon for your wine, Marcus.”

“Uhh I don’t see what the problem is?”

“You keep insisting that I personally bring you your meals. I’m a sous chef not a waiter.”

“I like looking at your pretty face.”

“Marcus…” Earl warned.

“Can I at least tell you what I want for dessert before you storm away?”

“…fine.”

Marcus smiled, his golden feathers fluffing up briefly before flattening down again. “Can I get one of those undercooked cakes with the stuff inside?”

“A molten cake?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

“Can you make sure the chocolate was harvested during the year of the leopard and…”

“Marcus!”

He was woken up by the sensation of someone playing with his hair. Earl opened his single eye, feeling out who exactly was touching hair. He allowed his body to relax when he soon figured it out, sighing as he allowed his eye to slip closed again.

Roger. The boy had started to do this instead of going on his walks at night. He waited until Earl fell asleep and then slipped into his room, braiding and unbraiding his hair until Earl woke up to get him ready for school.

Earl didn’t know why his son had taken on this habit. His hair was long too and yet he showed no interest in playing with it. Yet without fail he came to toy with his father’s.

He sighed and slowly rolled onto his side, offering the silent boy a small smile. Roger just stared down at him, brushing a few stray locks of hair out of his face. “Don’t need to sleep?” he asked. He watched as the boy shook his head and he nodded, turning over again to allow him to play with his hair again. “Don’t let yourself get too tired for school, okay?”

“…‘kay…” Roger whispered.

For @earlharlanweek!

* * *

Cecearl flash fiction drabble thing taking place some time after they graduated high school, while they were still together. Borderline nsfw, mostly due to enthusiastic make-outs.

Words: 409

Everybody knew about the graduation party.  People had been talking about it since before senior year started.  It would be the biggest party the town had ever seen.  Invitations went out before Christmas break.  Earl and Cecil pushed past the other excited seniors, and ducked into the bathroom.

“Did you get invited?” they both asked at once.  Both their faces fell.

“No,” Cecil mumbled, and Earl shook his head.

“…I can’t believe they didn’t invite you,” Earl said, frowning at his best friend.  “I mean, you’re so cool!”  His voice cracked, and he blushed.

“Nah, I thought for sure you’d get invited.” Cecil scuffed his shoe on the floor.

“Well… well I wouldn’t go anyway,” the shorter boy declared.  “Not without you.  We… oh, we can have our own graduation party!  It’ll be way better than theirs!”

“Yeah?”  The ghost of a smile tugged at Cecil’s lips.  “What’ll we do?”

“We…  We can blast our music really loud, and have all kinds of stuff to eat and drink!” Earl suggested.

“You know what’d be really cool?  If we could get Lee Marvin to perform.”

“Yeah!  We’ll do that too, I bet he’ll do it!  And we can play games, and all kinds of stuff, it’ll be the best!”

“I can sneak into Mom’s liquor cabinet,” Cecil whispered loudly.

“That’s perfect.  We’ll have the best party in town, everybody’ll want to be there!”

Months passed.  Neither was sure they would pass all their classes in the end, but they both managed somehow.  Sometimes they would talk about the party, full of confidence and plans.

The ceremony itself was hard to understand, and even harder to remember.  But they both came out holding a diploma.

It was getting dark when Earl slipped up to Cecil’s house.  He didn’t climb in the window, but tapped their secret knock onto the metal drainpipe that ran up next to Cecil’s window, and he waited.

It took a few minutes, but finally Cecil cracked the door open.  He sniffled, and Earl thought his eyes looked swollen and wet.

“Hey.”

“H-hey…”

“Um…”

“I didn’t get anything done,” Cecil snapped, throwing the door open and swiping his sleeve over his wet face.  “Nowhere to go, no booze, no Lee Marvin.  No food, nothing.  We… we were never gonna have a party, Earl!”  He sniffled and swallowed a sob.

“I… I didn’t get any of that either,” Earl mumbled.

“I dunno why you even came,” Cecil muttered, kicking the doorframe.

Earl hesitated, then held up a rather dingy case of orange milk.  “…This was on sale at the Ralph’s because it’s dented…  It’s warm, but I bet it’ll still be good.”

Cecil just stared at him.

“We could… we could go out in the sand wastes. Under the stars.”

Cecil continued to stare.  Earl looked down and gnawed at the inside of his cheek.

“I… I know it’s lame.  It’s all I could get.  I’m sorry. But… we don’t need a party, Cecil. I just wanna hang out with you anyway.”

“…Really?” Cecil breathed, with a watery smile.

“Really.”

For a moment Cecil looked like he might hug Earl, but instead he stepped forward, shutting the door behind him and wiping his nose on his sleeve again.

I’m not sure when it started.  I think it was probably after I became Scoutmaster.  Maybe it even had something to do with that.

The youngest Scoutmaster in history, and the Scouts keep history longer than the city officials.  Much longer.  And I’d always loved everything about being a Scout, being a Scout Leader.  It was just the natural next step, and as soon as I stepped into the position, it was like a key in a lock.  Like it was made for me, and I was made for it.  It clicked, and suddenly I had the knowledge, the confidence, the skill to do anything.  I think confidence was the biggest part of that, really.

It kept me busy, and I admit I lost track of a lot of the rest of my life.  Cecil had gone to Europe.  I’m not sure how long he was there.  I kept taking care of my family, of course.  That was my responsibility, it’s what I was born for.  But they were getting older, and my job was everything. It kept me busy.  I’ve never been great at delegating, so I took care of my big Scoutmaster responsibilities and I made time for each troop, each level, each Scout.  They all deserved my time.  That’s what I loved about the job.

At the age they’re in Scouts, boys are growing and changing pretty fast.  It’s great to see, I was so proud of each of them.  I was so focused on the kids that it took me a while to realize that I wasn’t doing the same thing.  I mean, at nineteen, you don’t have a lot of growing left to do.  But you know, you’d think after a while I’d start getting crow’s feet around my eyes, lines on my face, thicker facial hair – I’ve never had much of that.  Maybe even some gray.  But the years passed and… nothing.

Looking back, it was like I was caught in my own little bubble where time didn’t exist.  And outside, people were growing up, changing, starting and ending relationships, being born… dying… and there I was, still nineteen.

I didn’t feel like it affected me much, honestly. Maybe I was too wrapped up in the Scouts, or maybe I was just numb to the fact that time and everyone else was going on without me.  When the Eternal Scout ceremony approached, I knew what would happen.  Well, I had a pretty good idea, anyway.  I knew there would be casualties.  I knew I wouldn’t make it.  And that was okay.  It was for the Scouts.  It was all for the Scouts, they were all I had anymore.  Nothing else mattered.  I was proud, so proud, and terrified too, but I accepted my fate.

And then the Void.  There is nothing like it, there is nothing in it, and in it, I was nothing.

It took me a while to notice when I made it out – I was too overwhelmed by the sudden presence of… everything.  Sight, sound, touch, smell, taste, every sense bombarded. It was only much later that I saw myself in a mirror.  I looked haunted, half-dead, terrified…   But the lines, the crow’s feet, they were all there.  Darker bags under my eyes, those never left.  Still not much facial hair.  Maybe a few gray hairs, if I looked closely.  Or was that just dirt?  How long had it been?