Baywatch fic: A Hazy Shade of Family (1/2)
Title: A Hazy Shade of Family
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: So very unbeta’ed. Fills my hazing square for hc_bingo.
Summary: “Like an initiation ritual,” he says. “All the new guards on the team go through it.”
PART ONE
PART TWO
-o-
For the record, Brody is not complaining.
No, he’s not. He likes his job at Baywatch. He likes it a lot. He likes the people. He likes the job itself. He likes the paycheck. And, you know, he likes it. So he’s not complaining - not really.
It’s just that Brody’s a little frustrated is all. See, he’s the new guy. And he’s not just the new guy; he’s the smart ass new guy who thought he was better than everyone else and got taken down like fifteen pegs before nearly drowning and whatever. He’s low man on the totem pole or whatever that shit is and everyone seems really happy to let him know.
Like, really happy.
When duties are assigned, Brody gets assigned the worst ones. When shifts are arranged, he’s given all the shitty times. He gets the worst towers and has to do all the paperwork. When someone comes in to complain, he’s the one assigned to take the long, rambling, nonsensical report. He has to make the lunch run. He has to make coffee, damn it.
So, okay, fine, maybe he is complaining a little. Because Brody likes his job on Baywatch, and he’s pretty sure that being the team’s lackey just ain’t it.
When he approaches Mitch about the matter, his reaction is less than hoped.
“Of course,” he says, like it’s ridiculous Brody hasn’t figured it out yet. “It’s hazing.”
“Hazing?” Brody repeats. He scoffs, wishing he knew for sure what that was.
Mitch sighs, as if realizing that Brody has no idea what he’s talking about. “Like an initiation ritual,” he says. “All the new guards on the team go through it.”
Brody is dubious. He narrows his eyes.
“Seriously,” Mitch tells him emphatically. “Even I went through it.”
“You cleaned toilets and listened to Mrs. Brandenburg complain three times a week about it being too sunny on the beach?” Brody clarifies.
Mitch slaps him on the shoulder. “Back then, she was complaining five times a week,” he confides him earnestly. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
-o-
Brody has something called a work ethic now. He’s actually always had it - you don’t win a stupid gold medal and not have it - but it’s always been selective. That’s what his teachers, foster parents, case workers and coaches have always said.
Well, Brody’s not going to be like that at Baywatch. He’s all in, okay. So he cleans those toilets. He takes those crappy shifts. He really listens when the little old ladies complain at him. Because if hazing gets him on the team at Baywatch, then it’s worth it.
It’s definitely worth it.
-o-
Until it’s not.
See, Brody’s all in for about two weeks. He takes the orders from CJ and Stephanie and the others. But then, one day, Summer tells him to take her shift and pick up her burger for lunch. Brody is about to comply - it’s Summer and he likes Summer - but he realizes he’s not asking him as a girlfriend. She’s telling him.
Like she’s not low man on the totem pole.
Or woman.
That whole saying is probably culturally insensitive and he’s pretty sure he’s going to be unintentionally misogynistic if he’s not careful here but what the hell.
What the hell.
So he says it: “What the hell?”
Summer looks at him, a bit surprised. “You’re taking my shift this afternoon,” she says, plain as day. “And I want a burger. Extra ketchup, no onions.”
Brody is growing incredulous. Yes, incredulous. He knows what it means. “But you don’t get to tell me what to do. We’re both being hazed.”
She gives him a funny look. “You’re being hazed,” she says. “I finished that two weeks ago.”
Brody scoffs, mouth falling open. He wants to tell her she’s wrong, but he realizes she isn’t. She’s had great shifts. She’s not made anyone coffee. She doesn’t even know where the cleaning supplies to the bathroom are. “But we joined the team at the same time!”
She shrugs, as if this doesn’t seem as crazy to her as it clearly does to Brody. “Yeah, but I earned my place on this team.”
Brody is now more than incredulous. He’s actually offended. “And I didn’t?”
She backtracks. “You did, just you know, not at first,” she says. She realizes that she’s probably handling this wrong and steps closer to him. “Look, it’s just silly stuff, right? Office politics.”
Brody is not going to be placated. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Hazing.”
“Right,” she says, almost relieved that he said it and she didn’t. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Except that you should still be hazed, too,” Brody points out.
“No way,” she says, laughing. “I totally outrank you.”
Brody throws his arms out. He’s back to outright incredulity now. “How the hell-”
“Oh, come on,” she cajoles. “Don’t be so sensitive about it. It’s all in good fun.”
“Really?” Brody asks. “Good fun for who?”
She rolls her eyes and draws close to him again. She kisses him on the lips. Then, she kisses him with tongue. “Fine,” she concedes. “I’ll get my own burger. But you’re still taking my shift this afternoon.”
Brody’s getting a little horny, which is making it hard for him to stay incredulous. “And why should I do that? Because you outrank me?”
“No,” she says, kissing him again. “Because you’re my boyfriend.”
This time, he kisses her back and grins. “Good answer.”
-o-
The fact is that getting laid helps. Like, everything. It just helps.
But it doesn’t change the fact that Brody is being treated like a piece of shit. After another week, he tolerates it. He does. He accepts it when Stephanie assigns him to literally every early morning shift. He takes it when CJ has him clean up after the dog that shit all up and down the beach. But he can’t take it - not at all - when Ronnie tells him to do the yearly inventory of the secondary maintenance shed.
In other words, to inventory all the shit that no one has looked at in a year. The secondary maintenance shed is located at the far end of the beach where no one ever goes. It’s small and it’s dark and it’s regularly vandalized by stupid teenagers and there are occasional families of rodents living in there.
And the fact that Brody is supposed to inventory that isn’t even what gets him.
No, what gets him - what really gets him - is that Ronnie is the one giving the order.
Ronnie.
Ronnie.
“It’s the Rookie Inventory, apparently,” Ronnie says, looking quite pleased like this is some kind of great joke to him. He actually rocks back on his heels. “That’s what the call it. The Rookie Inventory.”
Brody wrinkles his nose in dismay. “What?”
Ronnie binks, taken aback. “The Rookie Inventory?”
“Yeah, I heard you,” Brody snaps. “But why are you telling me to do it?”
The question seems to make Ronnie nervous. “Uh, I mean, you’re the rookie-”
“And so are you!” Brody says, voice starting to rise.
This appears to be something that Ronnie genuinely has not considered for some reason. Like, Ronnie’s supposed to be the smart one or whatever, but he’s kind of dumb right now. “No, I’m not.”
Brody feels like his eyes are starting to bug; that’s how incredulous he feels right now. “Yes, you are!”
“No, I’m not-”
Brody all but throws his hands up in the air. “We started at the same time!” he insists. “If you’re not a rookie, then there’s no way in hell I’m a rookie.”
“But that’s not what the others say,” Ronnie ventures in argument.
This hardly seems like a viable answer to Brody. Because it’s not, okay? It’s not. Brody’s endured a lot of shit - a lot of shit - but he has his limits. There are limits. “Well, who cares what they say, Ronnie?” Brody says. He’s imploring now. That’s another big word. Imploring. “We’re friends, right? You and me, we’re friends.”
Ronnie reddens and clearly looks somewhat sheepish. “Of course we’re friends,” he says quickly. “I mean - I’m not - that’s not - it’s just. I’m just relaying the orders, is all. It wasn’t my idea. You should talk to CJ. Or Stephanie.”
Brody flattens his lips, really starting to fume now. He’s got a better idea.
-o-
In Mitch’s office, it is clear that he does not think this is a better idea. In fact, he doesn’t seem to want to talk to Brody about this issue at all.
“You’re still on that?” he asks when Brody brings it up. “I thought we could talk about who was going to pick up groceries at the store tonight. I went last week, but I need to know I can trust you not to spend all the money I give you on booze.”
Brody doesn’t have time to argue about his spending habits or Mitch’s annoying desire to buy fruits and vegetables and whole grain shit all the time. “Beer is expensive, okay? That’s not my fault.”
“It is when you buy so much of it,” Mitch points out. “I mean, you still barely pay rent.”
“I pay rent!” Brody snaps back.
Mitch raises his eyebrows, increasingly skeptical. “Do we need to go over the rate of comparable rentals in the area again?”
Brody huffs. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Mitch is nice to let Brody stay with him, and Brody’s not an idiot, he knows what it means, but this is not the point right now. “Look, I’ll go to the store and I’ll buy all your stupid vegetables and protein shakes and whatever,” he says. “But we need to talk about this hazing thing.”
Mitch sighs. He’s got a stack of half finished paperwork in front of him, which means he’s not in the best mood to start. Mitch is always happier on the beach.
Coincidentally, so is Brody. Only he’s been assigned to the storage shed no one uses because no one likes him.
“You’re making way too big of deal about it,” Mitch says. He shrugs. “If you lightened up a bit, they wouldn’t do it as much. You make it fun.”
Brody glares at him. “I’ve been totally chill about it for weeks now.”
“Then why are you in here whining at me like a baby?” Mitch asks.
Brody is starting to feel petulant. He tries not to let it show, but he’s not exactly good at self control. “They’ve got Ronnie ordering me around now,” he says. “Ronnie.”
“Ronnie’s a good lifeguard,” Mitch says.
Brody stares him down. Hard.
“Okay, yeah, I get it,” Mitch concedes. He rocks in his chair a few times. “But you just got to ride it out, okay? You can’t come crying to me every time shit goes badly. I’m not playing favorites.”
“This has nothing to do with the fact we’re roommates,” Brody says. “I mean, this can’t even be legal, can it? It’s got to be against some kind of rules? I get every crappy shift. I do all the nasty jobs, the ones no one else wants. Everyone else in my initiation class are well past this shit now.”
“You got off on the wrong foot here, you know that,” Mitch reminds him. “Nothing you’re telling me sounds that crazy. You should just go with it. You’ll earn cred in the long run if you do.”
“But I’m a grunt, Mitch,” Brody protests, and he has to protest. He knows he’s got too much pride, and he knows he’s got to keep it in check, but there’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Brody’s not the cocky smartass who thought he could flash a few gold medals and get what he wanted. But he’s ready to be part of the team - an equal part of this team he’s worked so hard to make his own. “I didn’t join Baywatch to be a grunt.”
“No, you joined to get out of a jail sentence,” Mitch reminds him.
Brody tightens his jaw. “Am I ever going to be able to move past that?” he asks, sulking a bit now. “It’s been three months.”
“You can,” Mitch says. “By going along with this.”
“By letting them haze me?” Brody asks.
Mitch makes a wide gesture with his hands. “It’s all part of being a team.”
“Abusing the new guy?” Brody snarks.
Mitch is not amused. “Learning your place.”
Uncomfortable, Brody squirms in his seat. This is not the way he wants this conversation to go. At all.
See, Baywatch is still the best thing that’s ever happened to Brody. He’s grown up; he’s responsible. He’s living a real life; he’s doing all the right things. He’s not being stupid. He’s got a job and he’s showing up and he’s making it work and most of the time it’s great. He likes the people - loves the people - and he likes being a part of something bigger than himself. He likes doing good things, and he knows that he can’t expect everything to be perfect, but still.
Still.
It’d be nice to know that he’s making progress.
He wants to put the past behind him, but it’s not that easy when everyone wants to remind him that he’s not there yet.
“I know my place,” he says, a little quieter now. “I belong here. With Baywatch. I’m not looking to be the hero. I’m not trying to be the center of attention, but I just want to be part of the team.”
“And you are,” Mitch says. “If they weren’t hazing you, then you wouldn’t be.”
“So that’s it, then?” Brody asks. He shrugs, feeling lost now. “I just have to accept their shit because what? It’s better than nothing?”
Mitch looks like he’s done with this conversation now. “Well, if you don’t like it, the door is right there, buddy,” he says. “No one is forcing you to be here.”
It hurts a little.
Or a lot.
Brody doesn’t let it show.
He can’t let it show.
With a heavy breath, he shakes his head. “What happened to that team is a family thing. What about that?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Mitch says. “Maybe family is different than you thought.”
“Yeah,” Brody says tersely as he gets to his feet, stalking to the door. “I guess it is.”
-o-
He’s hurt, he’s frustrated, he’s angry and he’s disappointed.
But it’s not like he has any choice.
Seriously, what is he going to do? Does anyone think he can actually walk out the door? Where would he go? Who else would take him? Baywatch is literally all he has. He has no fallback plan. There’s no alternative.
He’s got nothing else.
So he’ll do the grunt work. It’s better than sleeping under piers while reading articles about how everyone hates him. Or worse, being in prison.
It takes him some time to trudge across the beach - longer because the first time he makes the trek, he forgets to get the keys - and by the time he gets there, it’s scorching hot outside. He opens the unit and discovers, with absolutely no surprise, that the dreary shed is not air conditioned.
Most of the lights don’t work, but Brody does manage to get one bare overhead bulb to light in the center of the room. It emits a bald light that is both glaring and not nearly wide enough. Brody has his inventory checklist in hand, and he looks around the room again. It’s stuffed and mismanaged. He’ll have to fully reorganize the place if he’s going to get an accurate count of anything, and the light doesn’t even shine full into the corners.
It’s hot, dark, tedious and utterly lonely.
“Family,” Brody mutters as he looks at the first item on his list. “It’s got to be better than nothing.”
-o-
Brody knows he’s not a genius, but he is fairly good at following simple directions when he chooses to. And apparently, he’s choosing to do it now, which means he gets to work and well, works. Going through the categories is easier said than done - he has to cart all the items together to get an accurate count, and some of the items are especially annoying. He has to lug buoys around; he has to stack boxes of replacement anti-skid marks for the decks of each lifeguard tower. There is an odd assortment of outdate and broken life preservers, and he finds a disturbing number of unused clipboards still in boxes.
The cleaning supplies make up the bulk of the rest, though Brody’s not sure why. The cleaning sprays and liquid look to be at least ten years old; he doubts they’re still usable. There are mops and brooms and rakes and shit, spears?
Why the hell are there spears?
15 spears, just to be official about it. He figures they are probably used for cleaning up the shoreline, or maybe they’re leftover fishing supplies from...something. Maybe Baywatch used to run a fishing business on the side to compensate for the slipshod funding. He tries to imagine they might have other maintenance purposes, but Brody can honestly say in his three months at Baywatch he’s never had to use one.
Whatever. This isn’t about criticizing the inventory. It’s just about, well, inventorying it. So Brody leaves the spears stacked on top of those damn clipboards and moves on to...first aid kits.
The remnants of first aid kits from, like, 1980, apparently. Brody finds three boxes of complete sets and with 10 per box, he quickly figures that’s 30 kits. See, he has some math skills. He’s enjoying the fact that he can, in fact, multiply, when he spies another box. It’s high up, perched precariously on another nearby stack Brody hasn’t gotten to yet, beyond the cleaning supplies and spears.
Brody gets on his toes to try to nudge it down. He thinks if he can tip it toward himself enough he can catch it and see what’s inside and finish his official tally. He has to hop on his toes again, jarring it to the side. One more good jump and it starts to tumble. Brody hurries to catch it, but before he can guide it safely to the floor he realizes that the box isn’t the only thing he’s dislodged. The box hits the stack next to it, and the cleaning supplies rattle. From the top of the stack, several of the hand spears fall. One clatters to the floor next to him. Two more fall behind the boxes. The fourth falls down and Brody is too busy catching the box to worry about the spear.
Even as it hits him in the shoulder.
Point first.
The force of it sends Brody to the ground. The box slips from his hand and skitters away. He hits hard on his backside, ramming into another stack of boxes behind him. An array of life preservers clatter down, one or two hitting his head as the mess spills across the floor. It’s such a flurry of movement that Brody has barely processed any of it. The mess he’s going to have to pick up. The time he’s wasted.
The spear sticking out of his chest.
Brody blinks and clarifies the thought. His eyes see the spear, see it jutting from his upper right chest, just short of his collarbone. It’s gone all the way through, he realizes, the point pinning him to the floor.
Well, shit. There’s a word for this, isn’t there? There’s a word for it.
The word escapes him as he lies there. He’s starting to feel the pain now, lancing through him like white hot fire. There’s blood, red and stick, and he gasps for air, struggling to keep his mind working. He thinks he needs to get up, but it seems like too tall a task.
This is why he’s the new guy. This is why he’s the rookie. This is why he still needs to prove himself.
He can’t even do inventory right.
Not without getting himself impaled.
That’s the word.
Brody’s impaled.
On a spear in a dark, hot storage shed that no one ever goes to. He didn’t even bring his phone; he’s been good about that. You don’t have your phone on duty; that’s the rules.
The rules don’t talk about impalement.
Brody shudders, his vision starting to fade. The pain is eclipsing his consciousness. It’s not his vision that’s fading; it’s him.
The rules should talk about impalement.
He decides, if he gets out of this alive, he’s definitely going to complain about this one.
-o-
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: So very unbeta’ed. Fills my hazing square for hc_bingo.
Summary: “Like an initiation ritual,” he says. “All the new guards on the team go through it.”
PART ONE
PART TWO
-o-
For the record, Brody is not complaining.
No, he’s not. He likes his job at Baywatch. He likes it a lot. He likes the people. He likes the job itself. He likes the paycheck. And, you know, he likes it. So he’s not complaining - not really.
It’s just that Brody’s a little frustrated is all. See, he’s the new guy. And he’s not just the new guy; he’s the smart ass new guy who thought he was better than everyone else and got taken down like fifteen pegs before nearly drowning and whatever. He’s low man on the totem pole or whatever that shit is and everyone seems really happy to let him know.
Like, really happy.
When duties are assigned, Brody gets assigned the worst ones. When shifts are arranged, he’s given all the shitty times. He gets the worst towers and has to do all the paperwork. When someone comes in to complain, he’s the one assigned to take the long, rambling, nonsensical report. He has to make the lunch run. He has to make coffee, damn it.
So, okay, fine, maybe he is complaining a little. Because Brody likes his job on Baywatch, and he’s pretty sure that being the team’s lackey just ain’t it.
When he approaches Mitch about the matter, his reaction is less than hoped.
“Of course,” he says, like it’s ridiculous Brody hasn’t figured it out yet. “It’s hazing.”
“Hazing?” Brody repeats. He scoffs, wishing he knew for sure what that was.
Mitch sighs, as if realizing that Brody has no idea what he’s talking about. “Like an initiation ritual,” he says. “All the new guards on the team go through it.”
Brody is dubious. He narrows his eyes.
“Seriously,” Mitch tells him emphatically. “Even I went through it.”
“You cleaned toilets and listened to Mrs. Brandenburg complain three times a week about it being too sunny on the beach?” Brody clarifies.
Mitch slaps him on the shoulder. “Back then, she was complaining five times a week,” he confides him earnestly. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
-o-
Brody has something called a work ethic now. He’s actually always had it - you don’t win a stupid gold medal and not have it - but it’s always been selective. That’s what his teachers, foster parents, case workers and coaches have always said.
Well, Brody’s not going to be like that at Baywatch. He’s all in, okay. So he cleans those toilets. He takes those crappy shifts. He really listens when the little old ladies complain at him. Because if hazing gets him on the team at Baywatch, then it’s worth it.
It’s definitely worth it.
-o-
Until it’s not.
See, Brody’s all in for about two weeks. He takes the orders from CJ and Stephanie and the others. But then, one day, Summer tells him to take her shift and pick up her burger for lunch. Brody is about to comply - it’s Summer and he likes Summer - but he realizes he’s not asking him as a girlfriend. She’s telling him.
Like she’s not low man on the totem pole.
Or woman.
That whole saying is probably culturally insensitive and he’s pretty sure he’s going to be unintentionally misogynistic if he’s not careful here but what the hell.
What the hell.
So he says it: “What the hell?”
Summer looks at him, a bit surprised. “You’re taking my shift this afternoon,” she says, plain as day. “And I want a burger. Extra ketchup, no onions.”
Brody is growing incredulous. Yes, incredulous. He knows what it means. “But you don’t get to tell me what to do. We’re both being hazed.”
She gives him a funny look. “You’re being hazed,” she says. “I finished that two weeks ago.”
Brody scoffs, mouth falling open. He wants to tell her she’s wrong, but he realizes she isn’t. She’s had great shifts. She’s not made anyone coffee. She doesn’t even know where the cleaning supplies to the bathroom are. “But we joined the team at the same time!”
She shrugs, as if this doesn’t seem as crazy to her as it clearly does to Brody. “Yeah, but I earned my place on this team.”
Brody is now more than incredulous. He’s actually offended. “And I didn’t?”
She backtracks. “You did, just you know, not at first,” she says. She realizes that she’s probably handling this wrong and steps closer to him. “Look, it’s just silly stuff, right? Office politics.”
Brody is not going to be placated. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Hazing.”
“Right,” she says, almost relieved that he said it and she didn’t. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Except that you should still be hazed, too,” Brody points out.
“No way,” she says, laughing. “I totally outrank you.”
Brody throws his arms out. He’s back to outright incredulity now. “How the hell-”
“Oh, come on,” she cajoles. “Don’t be so sensitive about it. It’s all in good fun.”
“Really?” Brody asks. “Good fun for who?”
She rolls her eyes and draws close to him again. She kisses him on the lips. Then, she kisses him with tongue. “Fine,” she concedes. “I’ll get my own burger. But you’re still taking my shift this afternoon.”
Brody’s getting a little horny, which is making it hard for him to stay incredulous. “And why should I do that? Because you outrank me?”
“No,” she says, kissing him again. “Because you’re my boyfriend.”
This time, he kisses her back and grins. “Good answer.”
-o-
The fact is that getting laid helps. Like, everything. It just helps.
But it doesn’t change the fact that Brody is being treated like a piece of shit. After another week, he tolerates it. He does. He accepts it when Stephanie assigns him to literally every early morning shift. He takes it when CJ has him clean up after the dog that shit all up and down the beach. But he can’t take it - not at all - when Ronnie tells him to do the yearly inventory of the secondary maintenance shed.
In other words, to inventory all the shit that no one has looked at in a year. The secondary maintenance shed is located at the far end of the beach where no one ever goes. It’s small and it’s dark and it’s regularly vandalized by stupid teenagers and there are occasional families of rodents living in there.
And the fact that Brody is supposed to inventory that isn’t even what gets him.
No, what gets him - what really gets him - is that Ronnie is the one giving the order.
Ronnie.
Ronnie.
“It’s the Rookie Inventory, apparently,” Ronnie says, looking quite pleased like this is some kind of great joke to him. He actually rocks back on his heels. “That’s what the call it. The Rookie Inventory.”
Brody wrinkles his nose in dismay. “What?”
Ronnie binks, taken aback. “The Rookie Inventory?”
“Yeah, I heard you,” Brody snaps. “But why are you telling me to do it?”
The question seems to make Ronnie nervous. “Uh, I mean, you’re the rookie-”
“And so are you!” Brody says, voice starting to rise.
This appears to be something that Ronnie genuinely has not considered for some reason. Like, Ronnie’s supposed to be the smart one or whatever, but he’s kind of dumb right now. “No, I’m not.”
Brody feels like his eyes are starting to bug; that’s how incredulous he feels right now. “Yes, you are!”
“No, I’m not-”
Brody all but throws his hands up in the air. “We started at the same time!” he insists. “If you’re not a rookie, then there’s no way in hell I’m a rookie.”
“But that’s not what the others say,” Ronnie ventures in argument.
This hardly seems like a viable answer to Brody. Because it’s not, okay? It’s not. Brody’s endured a lot of shit - a lot of shit - but he has his limits. There are limits. “Well, who cares what they say, Ronnie?” Brody says. He’s imploring now. That’s another big word. Imploring. “We’re friends, right? You and me, we’re friends.”
Ronnie reddens and clearly looks somewhat sheepish. “Of course we’re friends,” he says quickly. “I mean - I’m not - that’s not - it’s just. I’m just relaying the orders, is all. It wasn’t my idea. You should talk to CJ. Or Stephanie.”
Brody flattens his lips, really starting to fume now. He’s got a better idea.
-o-
In Mitch’s office, it is clear that he does not think this is a better idea. In fact, he doesn’t seem to want to talk to Brody about this issue at all.
“You’re still on that?” he asks when Brody brings it up. “I thought we could talk about who was going to pick up groceries at the store tonight. I went last week, but I need to know I can trust you not to spend all the money I give you on booze.”
Brody doesn’t have time to argue about his spending habits or Mitch’s annoying desire to buy fruits and vegetables and whole grain shit all the time. “Beer is expensive, okay? That’s not my fault.”
“It is when you buy so much of it,” Mitch points out. “I mean, you still barely pay rent.”
“I pay rent!” Brody snaps back.
Mitch raises his eyebrows, increasingly skeptical. “Do we need to go over the rate of comparable rentals in the area again?”
Brody huffs. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Mitch is nice to let Brody stay with him, and Brody’s not an idiot, he knows what it means, but this is not the point right now. “Look, I’ll go to the store and I’ll buy all your stupid vegetables and protein shakes and whatever,” he says. “But we need to talk about this hazing thing.”
Mitch sighs. He’s got a stack of half finished paperwork in front of him, which means he’s not in the best mood to start. Mitch is always happier on the beach.
Coincidentally, so is Brody. Only he’s been assigned to the storage shed no one uses because no one likes him.
“You’re making way too big of deal about it,” Mitch says. He shrugs. “If you lightened up a bit, they wouldn’t do it as much. You make it fun.”
Brody glares at him. “I’ve been totally chill about it for weeks now.”
“Then why are you in here whining at me like a baby?” Mitch asks.
Brody is starting to feel petulant. He tries not to let it show, but he’s not exactly good at self control. “They’ve got Ronnie ordering me around now,” he says. “Ronnie.”
“Ronnie’s a good lifeguard,” Mitch says.
Brody stares him down. Hard.
“Okay, yeah, I get it,” Mitch concedes. He rocks in his chair a few times. “But you just got to ride it out, okay? You can’t come crying to me every time shit goes badly. I’m not playing favorites.”
“This has nothing to do with the fact we’re roommates,” Brody says. “I mean, this can’t even be legal, can it? It’s got to be against some kind of rules? I get every crappy shift. I do all the nasty jobs, the ones no one else wants. Everyone else in my initiation class are well past this shit now.”
“You got off on the wrong foot here, you know that,” Mitch reminds him. “Nothing you’re telling me sounds that crazy. You should just go with it. You’ll earn cred in the long run if you do.”
“But I’m a grunt, Mitch,” Brody protests, and he has to protest. He knows he’s got too much pride, and he knows he’s got to keep it in check, but there’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Brody’s not the cocky smartass who thought he could flash a few gold medals and get what he wanted. But he’s ready to be part of the team - an equal part of this team he’s worked so hard to make his own. “I didn’t join Baywatch to be a grunt.”
“No, you joined to get out of a jail sentence,” Mitch reminds him.
Brody tightens his jaw. “Am I ever going to be able to move past that?” he asks, sulking a bit now. “It’s been three months.”
“You can,” Mitch says. “By going along with this.”
“By letting them haze me?” Brody asks.
Mitch makes a wide gesture with his hands. “It’s all part of being a team.”
“Abusing the new guy?” Brody snarks.
Mitch is not amused. “Learning your place.”
Uncomfortable, Brody squirms in his seat. This is not the way he wants this conversation to go. At all.
See, Baywatch is still the best thing that’s ever happened to Brody. He’s grown up; he’s responsible. He’s living a real life; he’s doing all the right things. He’s not being stupid. He’s got a job and he’s showing up and he’s making it work and most of the time it’s great. He likes the people - loves the people - and he likes being a part of something bigger than himself. He likes doing good things, and he knows that he can’t expect everything to be perfect, but still.
Still.
It’d be nice to know that he’s making progress.
He wants to put the past behind him, but it’s not that easy when everyone wants to remind him that he’s not there yet.
“I know my place,” he says, a little quieter now. “I belong here. With Baywatch. I’m not looking to be the hero. I’m not trying to be the center of attention, but I just want to be part of the team.”
“And you are,” Mitch says. “If they weren’t hazing you, then you wouldn’t be.”
“So that’s it, then?” Brody asks. He shrugs, feeling lost now. “I just have to accept their shit because what? It’s better than nothing?”
Mitch looks like he’s done with this conversation now. “Well, if you don’t like it, the door is right there, buddy,” he says. “No one is forcing you to be here.”
It hurts a little.
Or a lot.
Brody doesn’t let it show.
He can’t let it show.
With a heavy breath, he shakes his head. “What happened to that team is a family thing. What about that?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Mitch says. “Maybe family is different than you thought.”
“Yeah,” Brody says tersely as he gets to his feet, stalking to the door. “I guess it is.”
-o-
He’s hurt, he’s frustrated, he’s angry and he’s disappointed.
But it’s not like he has any choice.
Seriously, what is he going to do? Does anyone think he can actually walk out the door? Where would he go? Who else would take him? Baywatch is literally all he has. He has no fallback plan. There’s no alternative.
He’s got nothing else.
So he’ll do the grunt work. It’s better than sleeping under piers while reading articles about how everyone hates him. Or worse, being in prison.
It takes him some time to trudge across the beach - longer because the first time he makes the trek, he forgets to get the keys - and by the time he gets there, it’s scorching hot outside. He opens the unit and discovers, with absolutely no surprise, that the dreary shed is not air conditioned.
Most of the lights don’t work, but Brody does manage to get one bare overhead bulb to light in the center of the room. It emits a bald light that is both glaring and not nearly wide enough. Brody has his inventory checklist in hand, and he looks around the room again. It’s stuffed and mismanaged. He’ll have to fully reorganize the place if he’s going to get an accurate count of anything, and the light doesn’t even shine full into the corners.
It’s hot, dark, tedious and utterly lonely.
“Family,” Brody mutters as he looks at the first item on his list. “It’s got to be better than nothing.”
-o-
Brody knows he’s not a genius, but he is fairly good at following simple directions when he chooses to. And apparently, he’s choosing to do it now, which means he gets to work and well, works. Going through the categories is easier said than done - he has to cart all the items together to get an accurate count, and some of the items are especially annoying. He has to lug buoys around; he has to stack boxes of replacement anti-skid marks for the decks of each lifeguard tower. There is an odd assortment of outdate and broken life preservers, and he finds a disturbing number of unused clipboards still in boxes.
The cleaning supplies make up the bulk of the rest, though Brody’s not sure why. The cleaning sprays and liquid look to be at least ten years old; he doubts they’re still usable. There are mops and brooms and rakes and shit, spears?
Why the hell are there spears?
15 spears, just to be official about it. He figures they are probably used for cleaning up the shoreline, or maybe they’re leftover fishing supplies from...something. Maybe Baywatch used to run a fishing business on the side to compensate for the slipshod funding. He tries to imagine they might have other maintenance purposes, but Brody can honestly say in his three months at Baywatch he’s never had to use one.
Whatever. This isn’t about criticizing the inventory. It’s just about, well, inventorying it. So Brody leaves the spears stacked on top of those damn clipboards and moves on to...first aid kits.
The remnants of first aid kits from, like, 1980, apparently. Brody finds three boxes of complete sets and with 10 per box, he quickly figures that’s 30 kits. See, he has some math skills. He’s enjoying the fact that he can, in fact, multiply, when he spies another box. It’s high up, perched precariously on another nearby stack Brody hasn’t gotten to yet, beyond the cleaning supplies and spears.
Brody gets on his toes to try to nudge it down. He thinks if he can tip it toward himself enough he can catch it and see what’s inside and finish his official tally. He has to hop on his toes again, jarring it to the side. One more good jump and it starts to tumble. Brody hurries to catch it, but before he can guide it safely to the floor he realizes that the box isn’t the only thing he’s dislodged. The box hits the stack next to it, and the cleaning supplies rattle. From the top of the stack, several of the hand spears fall. One clatters to the floor next to him. Two more fall behind the boxes. The fourth falls down and Brody is too busy catching the box to worry about the spear.
Even as it hits him in the shoulder.
Point first.
The force of it sends Brody to the ground. The box slips from his hand and skitters away. He hits hard on his backside, ramming into another stack of boxes behind him. An array of life preservers clatter down, one or two hitting his head as the mess spills across the floor. It’s such a flurry of movement that Brody has barely processed any of it. The mess he’s going to have to pick up. The time he’s wasted.
The spear sticking out of his chest.
Brody blinks and clarifies the thought. His eyes see the spear, see it jutting from his upper right chest, just short of his collarbone. It’s gone all the way through, he realizes, the point pinning him to the floor.
Well, shit. There’s a word for this, isn’t there? There’s a word for it.
The word escapes him as he lies there. He’s starting to feel the pain now, lancing through him like white hot fire. There’s blood, red and stick, and he gasps for air, struggling to keep his mind working. He thinks he needs to get up, but it seems like too tall a task.
This is why he’s the new guy. This is why he’s the rookie. This is why he still needs to prove himself.
He can’t even do inventory right.
Not without getting himself impaled.
That’s the word.
Brody’s impaled.
On a spear in a dark, hot storage shed that no one ever goes to. He didn’t even bring his phone; he’s been good about that. You don’t have your phone on duty; that’s the rules.
The rules don’t talk about impalement.
Brody shudders, his vision starting to fade. The pain is eclipsing his consciousness. It’s not his vision that’s fading; it’s him.
The rules should talk about impalement.
He decides, if he gets out of this alive, he’s definitely going to complain about this one.
-o-