"How great it is when we come to know that times of disappointment can be followed by joy; that guilt over falling short of our ideals can be replaced by pride in doing all that we can; and that anger can be channeled into creative achievements... and into dreams that we can make come true."

― Fred Rogers, The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember

Chapter One

Interview with a Bartender

Little time had come to pass; it was just a few days shy of being a month since Springfield's most influential, multimillionaire owner of the nuclear power plant – C. Montgomery Burns – had met his fate at the clutches of a savage cancer. And yet, within that short period, life had once again fallen into the humdrum and mundane routine for nearly every resident. Kids woke up and went to school, adults got up and headed off to work, and animals went about their leisurely days – it was almost as though nothing had happened, and to most it would seem that way; most people didn't have their thoughts and emotions embedded within the deceased. Most people weren't Waylon.

It was only through a singular promise he had made to his boss that kept Waylon returning to the plant each day since Burns' death. Smithers had promised to keep the plant running like clockwork, seeing to it that nothing changed; if only the elderly man could have foreseen just how much changing it would have done not to the plant but to the assistant himself.

It had become almost sickening how eerily normal things had become. It seemed as though Burns had never existed, and the only person close enough to him to care was forced to act as though he didn't. Waylon had to swallow whatever broken shards of what-ifs and could-have-beens that had been left behind as a result of his tragedy.

He glared at the clipboard he held loosely in his hand, reviewing a stack of papers Burns' temporary replacement had thrust upon him. He sighed, using a hand to knead at the bridge of his nose and push his glasses atop his head, and drummed the end of his pen against the paper. Tiny ink specks were left over the empty boxes beside the list of qualifications that were mandated prior to Burns' passing for his permanent replacement. It seemed that was Waylon's only use anymore, finding someone suitable to take the place of someone he once thought to be irreplaceable. Each work day was nothing more than a bottomless sea of paperwork and interviews with klutzy hopefuls and oafish wannabes.

He cleared his throat, which burned from the acid of his inner cynicism, and spoke to the trembling man sitting in the chair opposite his own, "thank you for your time, we'll be in touch; send the next person in when you leave."

The other fumbled with his constantly crinkling tie as he stood upon wobbly knees and staggered toward the door. It was an ironic sight, for Waylon remembered a time when he was just the same – timid, nervous about failure, terrified and yet totally captivated by someone of a higher power. It was enough to bring a faint and feeble smile to his lips, one that played for but a moment before wilting into a frown. The assistant's chest flooded with a mix of indecipherable feelings, but for the moment he decided to be content with the foremost feeling of frustration over the daily routine.

He dashed a line through the hopeful's name, marking the checkboxes fittingly in accordance to the interview he'd just conducted. A groan ripped from his chest as he sat the clipboard atop his desk, tapping his fingers atop the stack of papers.

"How can they expect me of all people to do this? There's nobody out there that could even come close to replacing Mr. Burns."

As his thoughts began to drift and his body sunk deeper into the chair's leather, the creaking of the heavy office door being forced open called his attention. His weary eyes made no effort to travel toward the door or to the person who stepped from behind it; his hands simply grabbed for the clipboard and snatched his pen from its housing in his shirt's pocket.

"Alright," he sighed to himself, pressing the tip of the pen to his chin, "welcome to the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, we look forward to the possibility of you becoming a member of our tea-,"

A chuckle and a sneer of a snort, "relax dere, Waylon. No offense, but I'm pretty happy bein's a grubby old bartenders."

Just as his body had sunk into his chair, Waylon's heart slunk down into the pit of his stomach. His tongue seemed to knot around itself as he drew words to the back of his throat, which had to be cleared before any of them would pass.

"Wh-what are you doing here, Moe?" Smithers attempted to hiss, the stammer conjuring a certain self-loathing. "Look, I'm really busy today; if I can't find a permanent replacement in two weeks, this whole plant will go straight into the ground. So, if you aren't here for an interview, you can just go home."

The bartender sitting across the desk held a slight arrogant smirk as he glanced around the room, captivated by the many strings of expensive goods. He shook off the glamour of a life that had left behind the monetary riches, and his focus was placed back upon the man before him, who was busily rubbing at his temples with his eyes welded shut.

"I just wanted ta drops by and -," Moe started before taking his bottom lip nervously betwixt his teeth. He sighed weightily and his shoulders slumped as his body sank into the ridged chair where he sat. "I hasn't seen youse around much after da funeral. Where've ya been?"

The abrupt seriousness lacing the thickly-accented voice drove a dagger of bitterness into Waylon's heart, which nearly ceased to beat. He sighed, laid his clipboard upon the desk, and laced his fingers atop the papers – how ironic it was that he had suddenly found himself sitting where Burns had once sat, absent-mindedly mocking the deceased's former actions of frustration – and he tried to draw his thoughts away from the agonizing stress building at the base of his neck and shooting into his forehead.

"Well, unlike someone," he jeered, adjusting his glasses in a matter-of-fact manner while the eyes behind the specs narrowed in the other's direction, "I have actual things to do at work instead of serving beer and swatting roaches all day long."

"Ay!..." Moe snapped before reeling in his anger and replacing it with a tone of uneasy calmness, "dats don't answer my question."

"I've been busy, okay? And besides, it's not like you've exactly been trying to get up with me. I haven't heard from you in almost month, so, explain that."

How could Moe explain that? How could he explain that he'd do anything to go back force his past-self to send all those draft messages he'd typed up only to delete, or how the very vision of Waylon made him question every fling he'd ever had, or how just thinking about those hard-to-remember fragments of drunken yesterdays forced him to fumble with who he'd always thought he was? Moe's very being had been tossed asunder, and the person he'd thought he was had come to be but a mere figment. There was no possible answer, no logical way to express those feelings that kept him tossing throughout the night. There was no putting into words just what and how deeply he'd come to feel for Waylon.

"Uh… w-well - ay, I'm here nows, ain't I? Dat's all dat mattas."

The staggering remark with a twinge of a snap was returned with an exasperated breath and the pitiful sight of Waylon clutching harder upon his temples, trying to massage away the migraine that raged behind the flesh and bone.

Moe hesitated briefly before rising from his chair, "youse don't look so good, youse want me ta get ya's some aspirin or somethin's?"

"Gee, thanks, and no, I'm fine," Waylon answered in a monotone grumble and with a roll of his eyes as he gained the courage to open them and rise from his own seat, collecting a briefcase of paperwork before heading toward the door, "I was just about to head home anyway."

"You can never really know someone completely.

That's why it's the most terrifying thing in the world, really—taking someone on faith, hoping they'll take you on faith too.

It's such a precarious balance, it's a wonder we do it at all.

And yet..."

― Libba Bray