Two
OREN PROSSER
Most days, I walk to work. It’s just down the road a couple miles and while there’s a bus that could take me back and forth (which I use when it’s raining), walking affords me more time out of the house.
The weather this morning is nice for the end of March. My watch says it’s partly sunny and sixty-three. It’s a little off since there’s not a cloud in the sky.
I arrive at Nutter Bean just after opening. Greta and Shelton are behind the counter, per usual, and both throw me a grin as I slip behind the counter and into the back room while they deal with the line of customers.
The thing is, I don’t really work here. Shelton’s parents own the shop, having bought it for Shelton as a high school graduation present.
No, I’m not joking. He immediately ordered a remodel and hired his friends.
I could work here if I wanted to, but I’d rather have something that I can do anywhere.
My goal is to get as far away as possible one day.
But I need somewhere to go so I could actually do what constitutes as a job. Since Shelton is a good friend, he offered me a corner of his back room to set up as my ‘office.’
After shrugging out of my hoodie, I turn on my laptop that’s always kept there.
Anything important, anything that could say something about me or my life, never comes home with me.
It stays within the coffee shop or has a place at Shelton’s.
Maybe Huntley’s, but usually Shelton’s since I see him more regularly.
My laptop is very nice. Very expensive. I bought it just a year ago, an upgrade to the hand-me-down one I inherited from Shelton since his parents gave him a new laptop every year. Honestly, it still surprises me he wasn’t shipped off to some fancy private school.
But anyway, now I have an Omen. One of the top-of-the-line gaming laptops.
I spent a little more for the bigger screen and then purchased one of those add-ons that attach to the screen and spread out like wings, giving me an additional two screens.
I also have headphones and a mic, though I rarely use audio, being too keenly aware of my environment.
Just as I’m getting comfortable in my equally impressive gaming chair, Greta sets a foamy hot java frappa-something coffee in front of me and winks before leaving the back room.
I grin and lean back. Sipping my drink, I grab the fidget button ball and absently mash in the buttons before squeezing it to force them out again and start it over.
The repetition helps in a way I don’t truly understand.
There are moments when I’m sitting here with my friends when I talk myself into believing that life isn’t all that bad. I do actually have jobs I enjoy. A steadily growing bank account and really good friends.
But do those things cancel out all the cons in my life?
Namely, and prominently, my family. I’m all too aware that leaving Anaheim means that I’ll truly be alone with no one to lean on.
Every part of life will fall on me and me alone.
While my bank account is looking okay, it’s not enough to afford me many comforts, never mind necessities for too long.
What’s an uneducated, mid-twenties guy with no official work experience going to do for a living?
Okay, I have work experience. But none that can be applied to the wide world.
On the left screen, I log into Second World and then open the modmin console, using split screen to see them both.
There are over a hundred reports that need to be taken care of.
I’m never the only modmin online—there’s usually three or four of us—but the reports come in droves and never stop.
Each one, we need to investigate and address when necessary.
I open the YouTV app with my moderator profile on the screen to my right.
For this job, I watch content all day to make sure the videos meet the terms of service and community guidelines.
Yep, I’m one of the bad guys who sends the reports saying that you have too much nipple or ass cheek showing, and the video is taken down.
Usually, I try to squint and give reasonable doubt to justify keeping the videos up.
I understand the regulation of these platforms is driven by the public’s relentless need to keep children in bubbles and protect them from so many things about the real world, which is a terrifying place when they finally get thrust into it.
But it’s censorship. Call it what you will, but that’s exactly what it is. Instead of holding parents accountable for knowing what their children are doing and controlling access to what they can log into, the rest of the world has to modify themselves.
Frankly, it’s shit.
So why am I part of the problem? Because it pays good money and right now, it’s the kind of job I can commit to.
As I open my first Second World report for the day while a YouTV video plays on the second screen, a chat pops up in SW and I grin.
DAUNTless is one of my very first online friends.
We met a handful of years ago in Second World and now this bitch is living everyone’s dream. He’s marrying a fucking prince.
A real prince that will someday take the throne. I’m not joking in the least.
DAUNTless
I haven’t seen you on in days!
Ornate
I’m always online. It’s my job. Where have you been? Castle life too difficult, sweetheart?
I can practically hear him cackle. We’ve been friends through a lot of bullshit, so I remember all too well when he got with Prince Henrik of Mrandek. He was as obsessed as he was pissed over the entire thing. Now he seems both enamored with the idea and freaked out about what it means for him.
He’ll be the first to tell you he grew up in a working middle-class family. He eats with a single fork and doesn’t know how to ballroom dance, never mind knowing what the proper niceties are and how to behave in front of royalties and important diplomats.
DAUNTless
Pfft. I’m going to change these assholes. They aren’t changing me. I don’t care if the ruffle neck thing has been tradition for four million fucking generations. I won’t wear one! They can’t make me!!
Laughter makes me shake.
Ornate
What does your Prince Charming say?
DAUNTless
He’s hoping my refusal will get him out of taking the throne. So… nothing’s changed. He encourages my tantrums. But I swear, I WILL NOT BEND on this. They’re hideous. We’re not in the middle ages anymore! I’m surprised we’re not all required to wear white wigs!
I shake my head, my grip on my button ball tight as it stretches and strains in my grip.
Ornate
Have you found me a prince yet?
It’s a common tease. Albie knows my situation, my life.
It was him who started this teasing to begin with.
After he and Henrik solidified things, Albie promised to find me a prince too.
Someone to come and sweep me off my feet and we’d run away into the sunset and live happily ever after in a castle in some far-off land.
DAUNTless
I still think Henrik’s brother is gay, though he refuses to admit it. I catch him looking at my ass a lot. But you know, unlike with the fluffy collars, being gay isn’t traditional. The royal family isn’t allowed to be gay.
I snort. I remember news reports from a few years ago when Henrik and Albie made headlines. Henrik was one of those heirs who didn’t want to be in line for the throne. He didn’t want to rule. He literally did everything in his power to force his family to move the title from him.
There was an outcry (mostly from tabloids looking for a story) when Henrik announced to the world that he was marrying a man. Not just any man, but a man with absolutely zero blood relation to someone elite.
The accusations of this being another one of his shenanigans were loud.
Even in the US, it was all anyone was talking about for a very long time.
It didn’t blow over. There are still some who loudly oppose a gay man as king.
They might demand everyone be gay! They’d spread the gay agenda and make it okay everywhere for gays to exist.
Idiots.
I won’t lie, though. There were many nights when I fantasized about Albie actually finding me a prince. I imagine that this gorgeous prince shows up at my house in his full regalia and asks to see me. He chooses me from the billions of people in the world to be his.
My father and brothers are speechless and helpless to do anything but watch as Prince Perfect stuffs me into a limousine and we drive away with a whole parade of cars around us.
Obviously, that hasn’t happened.
“Hey, Mama,” I hear Greta’s voice from the front and shift my chair back to peer into the café. I love her mom even if she is a little… helicoptery.
“I brought you lunch, darling,” her mom says, and she holds up a large lunchbox.
Greta is five-foot-nothing and slight. The size of that lunch box says that Mama Roseland brought lunch for the three of us. At the very least.
“Thanks, Mama. You know we can make ourselves lunch here, right?” Greta asks as she accepts the lunch box.
“Oh, I know. But everyone loves a little home cooking. And this way I can ensure that you’re eating healthy.”
“I’m hurt that you think I fill everyone with sugar,” Shelton says, placing a hand over his heart.
Mama Roseland looks at him with a demure smile. “I’m sure that’s not the case, Shel.”
We all know by that tone that she spoke just to pacify him. I grin. As do Shelton and Greta.
“Would you like a coffee, Mama?” Greta asks.
“Please.” A minute passes and I’m about to push my chair back until I hear Mama Roseland say, “Honey, that skirt is far too short for you to wear out of the house!”
I have to crane to see what Greta’s wearing. When I’m nearly falling out of my chair, I can finally see her. Her skirt is halfway down her calf.
Greta sighs. “I’m sorry I’m showing my ankles, Mama. But it’s hot and this isn’t the fifties.”
Mama Roseland sighs. “I miss the fifties. When everyone dressed properly.”