This isn't DiGiorno, it's the struggle

Bob Floyd liked to think he was a good person. 

He’s made mistakes of course—everyone has—but he has his morals and he sticks by them. His world is fast paced and, often, it was hard for him to feel grounded when everything seemed to be changing around him. So he took solace in one universal truth. He’s a good person. 

He’s kind to his family and friends, a ray of light that could shine in any room. He’s a respectful son, making sure to remind his mom any chance he could how grateful he was for her sacrifices. He could make jokes and laugh, comfort and console. 

But there’s an unrelenting pressure that comes with being a good person. A weight that couldn’t be lifted as he exhausted himself with the idea of what exactly it means to be inherently good. When he was a kid, his mom always used to read him a book called “Do Unto Otters”. It played on the saying “do unto others as you would have others do unto you”, a story about manners and treating people with kindness all told through the perspective of a rabbit and some otters. His mom would sit next to him on the bed, reading aloud with silly voices for each character, and Bob would giggle, and grin, and trace the illustrations with his index finger.

When the landlord came pounding on the door and called his mom names that Bob knew had to be insults, with the way they were laced with venom and dripping with malice, and all Bob wanted to do was yell back all the insults he knew, his mom would shake her head with a tired smile.

“Do unto otters, Bo.”

When the new kid at school didn’t seem to be fitting in and Bob felt like maybe he should invite him over to hangout sometime, his mom would kiss his temple sweetly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Do unto otters, Bo.”

And when dinner had finished and all the dishes had been put away and Bob really wanted some vanilla ice cream but he knew he’d already had candy at lunch, his mom would suddenly set down a bowl with two scoops and some sprinkles and wink at him as she took a bite of her own.

“Do unto otters, Bo.”

So Bob holds open doors for people, even if they’re on the cusp of being too far away for that to be expected. He says his “please”s and “thank you”s and tries to be polite. He gives up his seat on public transportation and has reusable shopping bags so he doesn’t have to use the plastic ones at the grocery store. Do unto otters. Be a good person, do good things.

But what does it mean to be good? What does it mean to put so much weight into the strangers in passing or the people constantly present in your life? Eventually you burn out. Eventually, you don’t feel good anymore. Eventually you do something, anything, that makes it so you look in the mirror and can’t defend yourself, and your whole self perception comes crashing down. It’s a lifestyle that no one can maintain, not even Bob.

Bob Floyd was a good person. Bob Floyd was a good person until, suddenly, he wasn’t. And it could all be traced back to the first time he ever stepped foot into Sugar Plum Bakery.

“Thanks.”

Bob sends back a small smile in response as the stranger quickens his pace slightly to catch the door Bob was holding open for him.

The air smells like buttercream and green apples, a combination that intertwines with Bob’s senses as he stuffs his hands in his flannel jacket. There’s a small line in front of him—and the stranger behind him too—all seemingly content as they wait for their turn at the register. From this view, Bob can make out some of the treats behind the glass. Cheesecakes and crème brûlées, cupcakes and macaroons, and a promising looking jelly filled danish fill its shelves, shining under the fluorescent lights of the case.

Someone brushes past Bob to get to the exit and he mutters out a quiet apology, taking a step forward to match the rest of the line. He isn’t sure what exactly drew him here in the first place, a quaint bakery tucked between a bookstore and a GNC, but his feet were leading him to the door before he could stop himself.

Of course Mickey would say it was because Bob ate so much sugar, all his teeth would fall out by 30—“How you put that much shit in your body and still look like that is a marvel to all scientists”. And then Bob would say, “This is what I get for trying to be nice to the new kid”. And Mickey would grin, “You’re just mad you still can’t beat me in Mario Kart”.

But maybe Mickey was right. Because here he is, having just left the gym, craving something sweet. The line moves again and Bob realizes it’s his turn, stepping closer to the register.

“Hi!” You pop up suddenly, smiling brightly. There’s a smudge of flour on your cheek, stipples of it all over your apron, and Bob's almost certain there’s some in your hair too. “What can I getcha?”

Bob smiles slightly, ducking under the brim of his cap as he scans the shelves. He clears his throat, “Um, what do you recommend?”

You bite your lip, eyes squinting as you appear to be sizing him up. It reminds Bob of his opponents in the ring—though their eyes aren’t nearly as pretty as yours—and it almost makes him laugh. It’s a look so similar except, instead of trying to figure out which side of your jaw is going to get shattered by his boxing glove, you’re trying to figure out if he’s a vanilla or chocolate person.

“Well, our cupcakes are usually a big hit,” you say finally and then light up as if remembering something. “We also have green apple tarts. They’re today’s special.”

Bob’s eyebrows raise slightly in agreement. “Today’s special, huh? Then I should probably get one of those, shouldn’t I?”

“It’d be sacrilegious not to,” you tease back, a smile growing on your lips.

Bob lets out a whistle, having to bite back a grin when you laugh sweetly. “Well, I can’t be disrespectin’ you in your own shop, can I?” 

“No, sir,” you shake your head, quieting from your giggles as you press a few buttons on the register. “Will that be all for you today?”

Bob nods, watching you open the glass case with a piece of parchment paper in your hand as you grab a green apple tart. You box it up for him with skillful hands and Bob slides his credit card into the chip reader. It only takes one glance at you for him to confirm his 20% tip. You hand the box to him with that bright smile and—just like every romantic comedy Bob has ever watched with his mom—his heart stutters when your fingers brush.

“Have a good day!”

“Hey, I think that guy’s back.”

You set down the steaming hot tray of croissants on the stove top, sliding off your oven mitts as you turn to Eloise. “Ball cap guy?”

She smirks incredulously, tracing her upper canine with her tongue. “You’re telling me, you saw that fine specimen who’s so tall he has to duck under our front door and you’re only calling him ‘Ball cap guy’?”

“Oh?” You turn back to the croissants, pleased with their golden brown color as you move to transfer them to a different tray to bring up front.  “And what would you call him?”

“Hottie with the body, America’s ass, God’s gift to women…” she lists them on her fingers unabashedly and you almost drop a croissant.

“Eloise!”

Your laughter fills the back kitchen and Eloise wiggles her brows at you. 

When you first started working at Sugar Plum, you never expected you’d find your best friend in the girl with fiery red hair who was chucking cinnamon rolls at one of your coworkers when you’d walked in for your first shift. You found out later that it was because your coworker had been saying something rude about you. 

“Brenda said she went to pastry school. Can you imagine how stuck up she’s gonna be? And she must not even be that good either, if she can only get a job at a place like this…”

Eloise had never met you—she didn’t even know what you looked like—but she’d had your back with some choice words of her own and probably a few too many cinnamon rolls. And when your boss Brenda confronted Eloise about the wasted treats your coworker had no doubt snitched about, you'd had her back too.

“I’m sorry, I slipped when I was holding a tray of them.”

The two of you had been best friends ever since.

“What?” She giggles, taking the new tray of croissants from you. “He is cuh-yute!”

You shake your head endearingly. “Okay, okay, I get it. Have you taken his order?”

“Don’t think it was a cupcake he was hopin’ for,” she looks at you knowingly and you feel slightly flustered at her implication.

He wanted to see you?

“Oh,” you try to put yourself together a bit, having been up since 5:00 to get everything baked in time for opening. “Do I look okay?”

Eloise scoffs, pushing you towards the front of the bakery with the hand that isn’t holding the tray of croissants. “You look cute as a button, honey. Now go talk to that man before I stick my claws in ‘em. You know he couldn’t handle me.”

You laugh, wiping your hands on your apron.

Ball cap guy sticks out like a sore thumb against the few customers in Sugar Plum, a head taller than everyone else even as his gaze is tilted down to look at his phone. He’s weaning another flannel jacket—this one is navy blue, the black checkered pattern hardly visible against the equally dark color—and a pair of black joggers that seem a bit too insulated for the nice weather you’re having. He’s still got on the same hat though, a black ball cap with an iron on patch of a white circle on the front of it. Embroidered inside the circle is a flying eagle that looks like it’s mid-attack.

At the sound of your laughter, he looks up, pocketing his phone, and he meets your gaze with an adorable raise of his hand.

“Hey.” His voice is kind of quiet—but you like that—coming from his chest with a bit of grit and you can already hear Eloise gushing about it in the back of your head.

You smile when he reaches the counter. “Hi. Back for seconds?”

Ball cap guy chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah actually. You make some real good pastries. My friend was mad that I didn't bring him any back.”

“Well, we don’t have any more green apple tarts, unfortunately.” Though you’re sure you don’t look very unfortunate with your large smile. “But today’s special is sweet pea cupcakes.”

“Sweet pea cupcakes?”

“They don’t actually have any sweet pea blossoms in them,” you confess, wiping your hands on your apron again. “We’re calling them that because the frosting looks like flowers… Sweet peas are poisonous, so that would be pretty dangerous if we made them with actual sweet peas. You can eat the vines though, they’re supposed to be good. But that would be kind of weird in a cupcake—”

You cut yourself off when you realize that you’re rambling, eyes widening slightly because what kind of weirdo uses plant facts as a pickup line?  

“That’s really interesting. I didn’t know that,” Ball cap guy—for some bizarre reason—is grinning at you. 

You bite your lip nervously. “Yeah, um, plants right?”

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Ball cap guy chuckles in agreement. “Plants right,” he echos. “I’ll take three nonpoisonous sweet pea cupcakes then.”

You nod, distracting yourself with adding up the total of his order in your head since Eloise was using the register with other customers. Ball cap guy keeps his eyes on you, looking almost nervous, though it wasn’t like he had anything to be embarrassed about. Trying to shake yourself of the mortification, you place his box of cupcakes on the counter.

“That’ll be—”

“What time do you get off?” He blurts suddenly.

You blink.

“Fuck, sorry,” he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, before letting out a breath and starting again. “I meant, if you want to, I was hoping that maybe you’d like to have a cupcake when you get off. With me.”

You’re sure you look like a deer in the headlights, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Ball cap guy looks just as nervous, his hat casting a shadow down on his pinkened cheeks and his eyes meeting yours hopefully. You collect your bearings—only somewhat—nodding weakly until you can push your voice out.

“I, um, I get my break in an hour, if that’s not too long for you?”

Ball cap guy smiles. “I can wait, sweet pea.”

He moves to sit at one of the tables once he’s paid, box of cupcakes in hand, and you have to look away before your excitement becomes obvious to everyone in the bakery. When you turn, Eloise is shooting you a not at all subtle thumbs up.

For the rest of your shift, you have to avoid staring at Ball cap guy. A task that is not easy, so you settle for making sure he doesn’t catch you staring at him... You’re only mildly successful.

True to his word, Ball cap guy stays seated at one of the tables, scrolling through his phone and leaving the box of cupcakes untouched. You know that this technically counts as loitering and that, if Brenda were here, she’d demand that you kick him out. But Brenda’s not here and that man’s hands are probably bigger than your face and, for whatever reason, he’s interested in you, so she can suck it because he’s staying.

With that little act of defiance towards your boss fueling you, you manage to make it through the last hour before your break without deciding to hide in the kitchen and never come out. You’re sure you look a bit of a mess, covered in sweat, flour, and frosting, but it’s not like you really have time to clean yourself up. You do the best you can, washing up in the employee bathroom before taking a large breath.

Time to talk to Ball cap guy.

“Hey,” he greets you with a warm smile as you walk up to his table.

You slide into one of the chairs, trying to ignore how obvious Eloise is being as she stares at you. “Hey.”

“You hungry?” He slides the cupcake box over to you slightly, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “I heard the girl who makes these is really good.”

You can’t bite back your smile as you open the box carefully. “Oh, I heard she’s the best.”

There’s a lull in the conversation and then Ball cap guy looks down bashfully. “I’m Bob, by the way. I probably should have started with that.”

“It’s okay,” you shrug off, supplying your own name. “But it’s nice to finally put a name to the face. We’ve just been calling you ‘Ball cap guy’.” You laugh suddenly in recollection, “Or ‘God’s gift to women’, I guess.”

Bob, who up until this point had taken one of the cupcakes and peeled back the liner to take a bite, turns bright red, choking on the vanilla cake in his mouth. “God’s… God’s gift to women?” He asks slowly.

“Oh my god! Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Your hand flies to your mouth when you realize what you’ve just said. “It was Eloise’s idea, I swear!— Not that I disagree! I mean—” Words fail you completely and you can’t even bring yourself to look Bob in the eye, letting your face fall into your hands. “I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s— That’s okay. That’s really nice of you to say,” Bob tries to console, but all it does is make you cringe. He’s quiet for a moment. “If it helps, I lied about coming back because my friend wanted something… Well, he did, but I was planning on eating his anyway. I just wanted to see you again.”

You peek out through your fingers slightly. “Really?”

“Really.” Bob chuckles, the sound deep and rich and coming from his chest, it almost makes you dizzy but in a good way—a very good way.

You let your hands drop from your face, a small smile playing on your lips as Bob takes a somewhat teasing bite of his cupcake. For a guy you barely know, he makes you feel weirdly at ease, a calmness about him that almost grounds you when you often tend to feel anything but. You really can’t think of any other guy you’d stick around and have a chat with after accidentally telling him that you call him “God’s gift to women”.

Normally an incident like that would have you bolting to the nearest bathroom to lock yourself in, but instead you reach for one of the cupcakes in the box, moving it to your mouth to take a bite of your own. Licking your lips of the buttercream frosting, you set your cupcake on the table.

“So what do you think?” You gesture to the treat.

“Really good,” Bob nods earnestly and then something mischievous lights up his eyes. “I also enjoyed the botany lesson that came with my purchase.”

You do your best to look annoyed, though you’re hardly successful, a smile breaking through your scowl. “You should have. I don’t give those to just anyone, you know.”

“I feel extra special, then.” This time, Bob isn’t teasing, looking up at you from the brim of his cap with a soft smile.

And truly it’s that look you have to blame for the fact that you’re practically melting like butter, stomach swarming with butterflies. “You should,” you say quietly, trying to hide all the heat rising to your cheeks.

Bob looks like he wants to say something else, but then his phone is buzzing on the table, the screen lighting up. He spares it a quick glance before his eyes widen slightly and he grabs it quickly.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I have to go.” He’s looking at you like he’s praying you won’t be upset with him and, really, you’re not. The man waited an hour for you to get your break, you certainly can’t fault him for having other plans.

“It’s okay, I understand,” you assure him, getting up with him as he rises from the table. You watch him fumble with the cupcake box before looking down at your fingers shyly. “I, um, I really enjoyed this.”

Bob straightens, relief washing over his features when he turns to look at you. “I did too. Are… Are you working tomorrow?”

“I am.” You confirm.

There’s an unreadable look on Bob’s face suddenly, his brow slightly furrowed. You’re about to ask him if everything’s okay, but before you can he’s taking a step forward, his Timberland boots creaking against the floorboards. His large hand—the one that makes you want to giggle like a schoolgirl just thinking about—raises up, anchoring itself delicately on your check. Tenderly, his rough thumb swipes against the corner of your mouth, taking with it a small dollop of buttercream.

His hand lingers for a second longer than necessary, his eyes transfixed on yours, and for a moment the air feels charged with electricity. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, sweet pea.” Bob lets his hand drop, sending you one last smile before he starts making his way out of Sugar Plum.

You can only stare at his retreating figure, brain practically short-circuiting as you try to process what just happened. Did it even happen? Or is this man just so attractive that he’s actively causing you to hallucinate? When you turn around, Eloise is staring at you, jaw dropped and lips pulled into a wide, open-mouthed smile.

Okay… so that did just happen.

Bob Floyd liked to think he was a good person.

He always tips at restaurants. He calls his mom every Sunday and texts her frequently throughout the week. He has a recycling bin. And compost.

Once when Mickey got sick, Bob drove to four different CVSs just to get the kind of cough medicine he liked. He always puts back his weights at the gym and wipes down the machines he uses. He’s a good person.

But there’s an unrelenting pressure that comes with being a good person.

“—box?”

The word faintly makes it through Bob’s music, a sudden alert that someone is speaking to him, and he stills. His knuckles are tender under his wraps, grateful for the reprieve. Bob looks up from the bag, pulling out one of his headphones.

“Sorry?”

Before him is a shorter man, looking at him like he knows some joke that Bob doesn’t. His black hair is pomaded almost straight upward, stiff and brittle, perhaps in an effort to look taller. It’s dark too, all encompassing in its saturation. He dyes it, Bob realizes. 

On his wrist is a thick, gold watch. It catches the light shining in from the gym windows and glistens in sparkles that scream its extravagance. Aside from the watch though, every other item on the man’s person seems muted. He wore a long sleeve black button up, rolled to the elbows, and had left a few of the buttons undone, revealing just the beginnings of his salt and pepper chest hair. He definitely dyes it. His slacks were about the same—a reddish brown, form fitting, expensive.

Bob thought he looked like he just walked off the set of The Godfather.

“I asked if you box,” the man repeats, gesturing to his wrapped hands. “You have good form.”

Bob looks at him wearily. “Thanks.”

As if understanding this current approach is proving unsuccessful, the man sticks his hand out.

“I’m Pete. But you can call me Maverick.”

“Bob.” Bob gives it a single shake.

Maverick grins. “You don’t talk much, do you Bob?”

“No, sir.”

Bob knows he’s being slightly rude, standoffish at the very least, but it was hard to get a read on Maverick. Clearly, he wanted something. Bob just doesn’t know what. 

“I like that,” Maverick decides, before gesturing his head towards the punching bag. “Where’d you learn to box like that?”

Bob shrugs. It had been Mickey’s idea, insisting that Bob needed a hobby before he turned into a mole. He’d signed Bob up for a boxing lesson without his knowledge, telling him to just try it. Hit something, break something. 

Ultimately, Bob found that he enjoyed the lesson, signing up for a few more, before he decided to continue pursuing boxing recreationally. His instructor would probably throw a fit if he knew Bob tended to box without gloves, but he preferred free movement of his hands.

“Just picked it up,” Bob says finally.

Maverick seems impressed by that, his brows raising, and then his mouth twitches into a smile.

“You ever think about fighting, Bob?”

There’s a weight that can’t be lifted as he exhausts himself with the idea of what exactly it means to be inherently good. 

“What do you think?” Maverick asks. “There’s a rush, right?”

Bob looks down at his hands—his gloves, rather—and stares at them wordlessly. He can still feel it. The windup, the contact, the follow through. It’s weird to him, the fact that these gloves are the reason a man a few feet away from him is sporting a purpling bruise on his cheek bone.

One fight. That was what Maverick had said. One fight, just to see if he liked it. No stakes, no pressure, just a one and done deal. One fight.

“Damn, man,” his opponent, Brigham, is grinning as Bob looks up. “You’ve got a mean right hook.”

Maverick laughs. “I told you not to underestimate him.”

That catches Bob slightly. I told you not to underestimate him. Though Bob loves his mom more than anything, sometimes he felt that she was too good at hiding. She thought it was better that way, that it helped avoid problems. To take it, and take it, and take it, and never wonder if maybe you shouldn’t. And so Bob hid too.

Sometimes, when his mom is quick to wipe her tears when Bob catches her after the landlord stopped by, or Mickey rolls his eyes at a group of preppy college boys that just dined and dashed, Bob can’t help but wonder if his mom was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t “do unto otters as you would have otters do unto you”. Maybe it was “do unto otters as they’ve already done unto you”.

Maybe if Bob had done that to the landlord, he’d stop making his mom cry. Maybe if Bob had done that to those preppy college boys, Mickey wouldn’t have to shrug it off with a “People tip pretty good at Charlotte’s anyway”. Maybe if he’d never taken it, and taken it, and taken it, and actually stopped to wonder if maybe he didn’t have to, they wouldn’t have had to take it either.

“Look, kid,” Maverick’s hand is on his shoulder, pulling Bob from the curious weight of his gloves. “You’ve got fight, I could see that the moment you stepped into my gym. You wanna do more than hit some flimsy, old bag a couple hours a week, it’s obvious.”

Bob swallows. Do unto otters, Bo. And what had that made him? Some sorry sucker who couldn’t do anything when it mattered. Who sits on the sidelines and hides, and makes up for it with reusable shopping bags and a few manners. 

“How much would you pay me?”

Maverick chuckles. “You’re smart, Bob. I’ll give you that.”

But Bob isn’t a little kid anymore. He no longer has a book about rabbits and otters, manners and kindness to tell him what to do anymore. All he has is this question. This blank space. What does it mean to be good?

“You’re late,” Adler grunts as soon as Bob steps through the locker room door.

“Got caught up with something.”

Adler scoffs in disbelief, before a small smile fights its way onto his face.

Bob had always liked Joe Adler. He pretended to be all big and bad, with the mouth of a sailor and the boxing history to back it. But he was a softie deep down, the kind of guy that made Bob feel slightly better about his occupation. Because if Adler could come out of it all a good man, Bob could cling to that hope for himself a little longer.

“Alright, I know Mav always wants you to milk it,” Adler helps Bob slide on his gloves, a teasing glint in his eye. “But I wanna go home, so knock the motherfucker out fast, yeah?”

Bob’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Georgia makin’ meatloaf tonight?”

“You bet your ass,” Adler snorts, giving Bob one last once over, before the announcer's exaggerated cadence could be heard through the door. 

Bob glances at it, before looking back to Adler and the older man nods. Bob shakes out his arms one last time, taking in a breath as Adler opens the locker room door for him.

“Give ‘em hell, Grim Reaper.”