The Strong, Silent Type
The bell above the deli door jingled as Archie Benjamin Rogers — “Arch” to his friends, “Benny” to his parents — pushed through, balancing a crate of pickles on his broad shoulder like it was filled with feathers. Inside, the smell of cured meats and fresh bread mixed with the soft hum of a radio in the corner playing classic country hits. The small-town deli was a comforting routine, a predictable little world tucked inside a town that moved at its own slow pace.
Archie ducked slightly to clear the low doorway into the stockroom, the crate knocking a lightbulb loose from its socket as he passed. He winced at the tiny clink of glass but didn’t stop moving until the crate was on the counter.
“Archie, for Pete’s sake!” came the exasperated voice of Mr. Callahan, the wiry old owner, as he emerged from the back. “That’s the third lightbulb this month.”
“Sorry,” Archie mumbled, scratching the back of his neck, his sandy brown hair sticking up in spikes where his fingers raked it. “Didn’t realize it was that close.”
“You never realize, do ya? You’re built like a bull but handle things like one too,” Callahan said with a sigh, though there wasn’t much malice in it.
Archie nodded sheepishly, grabbing a broom and muttering an apology as he swept up the glass. He’d heard it all before. Careful, Arch. Pay attention, Arch. His parents, his boss, even his friends—everyone had something to say about his “strength.” He didn’t think much of it himself. Sure, he was strong, but wasn’t everyone? He just figured other people were better at keeping it in check.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the small town in soft shades of orange and gold, Archie’s shift ended. Callahan handed him an envelope of cash with the usual grumble about being careful, and Archie stuffed it into his jacket pocket before stepping out onto the cracked sidewalk.
His beat-up truck was parked under a flickering streetlamp. The metal door creaked as he pulled it open, climbing in and cranking the engine. He drove to the edge of town, to the kind of place you could only find in small towns like his — a barn converted into a half-decent hangout.
Inside, Archie found his usual crowd. Chester “Chess” Wright, all elbows and glasses, was hunched over a broken CB radio, its guts spilling across the makeshift table of a warped barn door balanced on cinder blocks. Across from him, Roy “Junior” Simmons leaned precariously in a creaking metal chair, the front legs hovering inches above the ground. His hands were stuffed in his overall pockets, his smirk as permanent as the grease under his nails.
“Arch, grab me a Coke,” Junior drawled without looking up, launching a bottle cap across the barn with a flick of his thumb. It arced through the air and landed with a satisfying clink in a coffee can sitting on the floor.
Archie rolled his eyes but obliged, pulling a chilled bottle from the ancient, humming mini-fridge in the corner. He cracked it open and handed it over. “Any luck with that thing, Chess?”
“It’s not about luck, Arch,” Chess replied, not looking up as he fiddled with the delicate wiring. “It’s about precision. You wouldn’t understand. If you’d ever take the time to—”
“Let me stop you right there, nerd,” Junior interrupted, finally tilting his chair forward and taking a sip of Coke. “Nobody’s here for a lecture. We’re here to shoot the breeze and drink soda. Quit messing with that junk.”
Chess scowled but didn’t stop tinkering. “At least I do something productive with my time. What’ve you done lately? Shot a squirrel with your BB gun?”
“Better than wasting hours pretending I’m gonna build some robot army or whatever it is you’re doin’,” Junior shot back, his grin widening. “Maybe I’ll aim for a raccoon next. Gotta set goals.”
“Sure, Roy,” Chess said with mock seriousness, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Aspire to greatness. Start a whole career as a rodent sniper.”
Archie leaned against the wall, sipping his drink as he watched them bicker. It was a ritual as old as their friendship, a constant back-and-forth that neither of them ever seemed to tire of. For all their jabs, it was clear they couldn’t function without each other. They were like an old married couple—if one half of the marriage was a wiry, bespectacled genius and the other a lazy farm boy with questionable decision-making skills.
The barn door creaked open, spilling cool night air into the musty space, and a voice called out, “You boys behaving yourselves, or is Chess explaining thermodynamics again?”
It was Lena Davis, Chess’ girlfriend, striding in with a confidence that belied the exhaustion in her eyes. She had just finished her shift at the Lucky Horseshoe, the only bar in town worth mentioning. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and she tossed a small wad of cash onto the table beside Chess’ work.
“Tips weren’t half bad tonight,” she said, slumping into the seat beside Chess. “Guess old man Sanders thought his fifty-cent tips were real generous.”
“Probably trying to impress you,” Junior teased, leaning back in his chair again. “Bet he was talking up his tractor collection, huh?”
“Don’t remind me.” Lena rolled her eyes and nudged Chess’ arm. “Hey, genius, take a break. You’ve been poking at that thing for days.”
“It’s almost done,” Chess muttered, but he set the radio aside when she gave him a look.
“Thanks,” Lena said, smiling before glancing at Archie. “How’s life in deli-land, Arch?”
“Same as always,” Archie replied. “Break things, apologize, get yelled at.”
Lena chuckled. “Sounds about right.”
Junior leaned forward, an uncharacteristic seriousness settling over his features. “Hey, speaking of work, you haven’t been hanging around that Rockslay guy, have you?”
Archie frowned. “What? No. Why?”
Junior exchanged a glance with Lena, who folded her arms and nodded. “He’s bad news, Arch. Real bad. You don’t want to get mixed up with him.”
Archie shifted uncomfortably. “I barely know the guy. What’s the big deal?”
“He’s a walking mess of trouble,” Junior said flatly. “Fights, drugs, theft—you name it. He drags everyone down with him. Even folks who don’t deserve it.”
“And he’s got an ego the size of Franzo,” Lena added. “Saw him at the bar last week acting like he owned the place. Trust me, Arch, stay away from him.”
Archie sighed, feeling the familiar weight of their concern pressing down on him. He knew they meant well, but sometimes it felt like everyone in his life was trying to steer him one way or another. “Yeah, I get it,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “Thanks for the warning.”
Chess, oblivious to the tension, perked up suddenly. “Hey, you wanna see what this thing does when I power it on? I think I got it working.”
“Nope,” Junior said immediately, standing and grabbing his jacket. “Not sticking around for you to blow the barn up.”
“It’s not going to—oh, forget it,” Chess muttered as Junior and Lena both laughed.
Archie chuckled despite himself. These moments, as chaotic as they were, were his anchor. They reminded him of simpler things—of friendship, of loyalty, of people who genuinely cared, even if they had a funny way of showing it.
The house stood like a relic of a better time, a boxy suburban dollhouse with peeling white paint and mismatched shutters that had once been cheerful yellow but had faded into a sickly beige. The front lawn was patchy and uneven, dotted with weeds that refused to be tamed, much like the family inside. The porch light flickered as Archie stepped out of his truck, the metallic groan of the old vehicle’s door slamming shut echoing down the quiet street.
The windows glowed dimly, a television casting blue and gray shadows on the lace curtains. Even from the driveway, Archie could hear the low hum of voices—his parents, Heather and Andrew Rogers, talking in sharp, clipped tones. No shouting, not yet, but the kind of tight-lipped argument that could curdle the air.
He hesitated at the door. The familiar knot twisted in his stomach, but he pressed forward anyway, turning the handle and stepping inside. The faint smell of reheated leftovers lingered in the air, and the living room greeted him with its usual scene: his mother perched stiffly on the edge of the couch, her arms crossed, and his father slouched in the recliner, beer bottle in hand. They both turned to look at him the moment the door clicked shut.
“Nice of you to finally come home,” Heather said, her voice cutting through the silence like a razor. Her tone was light, almost conversational, but it carried a venom that made Archie’s neck tense. “Long day at work, I assume?”
Archie didn’t answer right away. He slipped off his boots and set them neatly by the door, brushing off the lingering cold of the evening air. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Busy day.”
“Busy,” Andrew echoed, taking a lazy swig of his beer. He gestured vaguely with the bottle, his words slurring just slightly around the edges. “Busy breaking stuff, I bet. Probably cost Callahan more in damages than you made him in sales, huh?”
Archie’s jaw tightened, but he kept his face neutral. “Didn’t break anything important.”
“Didn’t break anything important,” Heather repeated, mockingly, as she leaned forward. “That’s rich. How many times are you gonna waltz through life not caring about what you ruin, Archie? Because let me tell you, it’s getting real old.”
“I do care,” Archie said softly, his voice barely above a murmur. He met his mother’s sharp glare for a brief second before looking away.
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Heather snapped, standing and pacing a few steps across the room. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to have Callahan call me again? ‘Your son smashed another display case,’ or ‘Your son crushed a broom handle.’ What’s next, Archie? Are you going to tear the whole building down?”
“I said I was sorry,” Archie replied, quieter still, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until he felt his nails dig into his palms.
“Sorry doesn’t fix things,” Andrew chimed in, not looking up from the TV. The game played on, ignored except as background noise to his commentary. “Sorry doesn’t pay bills. Doesn’t keep this house running. And you sure as hell aren’t doing much of that, are you, Benny?”
Archie flinched at the nickname, the one his father always used when he wanted to cut him down. He hated it. But he didn’t say so. He didn’t say anything.
“You’d think,” Heather continued, gesturing animatedly, “that a kid with your strength would use it for something. Roofing, construction, landscaping. But no. You’re stuck in that deli, breaking more than you’re earning.”
Archie forced himself to stand still, his hands trembling slightly with the effort of holding back. Words pressed against the back of his throat, bitter and sharp, but he swallowed them down. Arguing never worked. It only made things worse.
“You’ve got no ambition, Benny,” Andrew added with a dismissive wave. “No direction. You’re strong, but you’ve got no spine. A waste of potential. Just like your mother says.”
Heather shot Andrew a sharp look, but she didn’t correct him. Instead, she turned her focus back to Archie, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Maybe you should think about what you’re going to do with your life, Archie. Because right now? You’re going nowhere. And dragging us down with you.”
The words hit like stones, but Archie didn’t flinch. He stood there, rooted in place, his face a blank slate. He wanted to yell, to tell them how hard he worked, how much he wanted things to be different, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Instead, he clenched his fists tighter, his nails biting into his skin, and nodded.
“Okay,” he said softly, his voice barely audible. “I’ll… I’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Heather said, her tone icy. “And while you’re at it, try not to break anything else.”
Archie turned without another word and headed for his room, his boots whispering against the worn carpet. He climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, each step creaking under his weight. His room was small and bare, more of a storage closet with a bed crammed into it. The walls were lined with faded wallpaper, and the ceiling sloped awkwardly, giving it the feel of an attic space.
He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, exhaling slowly. His hands were still shaking, and his palms bore half-moon indentations from his nails. He stared at them for a long moment, then shook his head and crossed the room to the bed.
Sinking onto the worn mattress, he let his head fall into his hands. The house was quiet again, the muffled sound of the TV and his parents’ low voices the only reminders of their presence. It always ended like this—sharp words, heavy silences, and Archie retreating to the safety of his room.
He didn’t cry. He hadn’t in years. Instead, he sat there in the dim light of the bedside lamp, his shoulders hunched and his mind turning over the same thoughts it always did.
{Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am just a screw-up. A waste.}