4. Pantry Panic
Brought to you by Gordy Fluffer, a man who believes every can has a story—and some should stay untold.
---
Rafael arrived wearing an apron.
Not just any apron. A full-length, slate-gray, reinforced-cotton wraparound that hugged his body like it owed him rent. It tied at the waist with visible strain, the fabric pulled just enough to suggest that beneath it was a man built like a bear who’d survived a boutique cleaning academy and a softcore action movie.
Embroidered across the chest in elegant, judgmental white stitching:
“I Came. I Saw. I Alphabetized.”
He carried no cleaning tote this time. Just a sleek, matte-black label gun, holstered at the hip like a weapon in a war against chaos.
Harold opened the door, saw the apron, saw the label gun, and immediately forgot how doors worked.
Glenn made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sigh and stepped back like Rafael might need a running start.
---
Rafael stood before the pantry door, all business and belly.
The apron shifted slightly as he adjusted his stance—feet wide, arms crossed, assessing the enemy.
Rafael:
“This will take focus.”
Harold (under his breath):
“So will I.”
Glenn:
“Harold.”
Harold:
“I didn’t even say anything.”
Glenn:
“Your pupils dilated.”
---
When Rafael opened the pantry, both men leaned instinctively forward—like suburban explorers watching someone peel back the lid of a tomb.
It was… not good.
Uneven shelves. Three half-empty spice racks. Dented cans. Two ziplocks of unlabeled mystery grains. And tucked in the corner, a bottle of red wine so dusty it looked like it had been aged in a cave and forgotten by time.
Rafael said nothing.
He simply reached for the label gun. It responded with a satisfying ka-chunk.
The first label read:
“Paprika (Use This One)”
He stuck it onto the freshest of the three containers, then looked over his shoulder—just briefly—and smirked.
---
He moved methodically—spices first.
He transferred each one into matching glass jars with airtight seals and crisp Helvetica labels.
Cumin. Oregano. Cinnamon.
Each got its own tier in the folding spice rack that now lived, permanently, on the inside of the door.
Harold watched, slack-jawed, as Rafael gently shook a jar of coriander to “wake it up.”
It wasn’t seductive.
It was just… deeply competent.
Which somehow made it worse.
---
Then came the cans.
Rafael:
“These will be ordered by use, then by type.”
He began sorting with the practiced ease of a man who had absolutely judged someone’s pantry before.
Harold:
“You’re just gonna—move them like that?”
Rafael (without looking):
“Are you emotionally attached to these beans?”
Harold:
“…No.”
Glenn:
“Yes.”
Harold:
“Glenn.”
Glenn:
“Some of them.”
Rafael paused. Looked back. Then continued sorting.
---
Then, he found it.
A plastic bin, tucked into the lowest shelf.
Unlabeled. Slightly elevated. Suspiciously pristine.
Inside: small metal tins of loose-leaf tea, all labeled in perfect cursive.
There were dozens.
Rafael pulled it out like he’d discovered someone’s diary.
Which, to be fair—he had.
He lifted a tin.
Rafael (reading):
“‘Courageous Grey.’ Hmm.”
Then another.
“‘Sage Regret.’”
He glanced at Glenn.
“Would you like these... by flavor, or by emotional resonance?”
Glenn (straight-faced):
“Resonance.”
Rafael nodded. And began reordering them aloud:
“Sleepy Hope.”
“Bitterness with Honey.”
“Anxiety Masala.”
“Afternoon With My Mother (Decaf).”
“Midnight Spiral.”
Harold blinked like he was watching a séance.
Rafael (gently):
“These are well cared for. I will not change their shelf. Just… refine it.”
He wiped the case with a cloth so soft Glenn nearly burst into tears.
---
Rafael reached the bottom shelf, crouched low—knees wide, fabric pulled across the curve of his hips in a way Harold would later describe as “inappropriate for legumes.”
There, at the very back, was a can.
Label worn. Dented. A mystery.
It simply read:
“MEAT?”
In faded permanent marker. The question mark was aggressive.
Rafael held it up between thumb and forefinger. Tilted it slightly.
Then reached for his label gun.
Ka-chunk.
He stuck a new tag directly over the original one.
“Unconfirmed Protein (Handle Gently)”
Then, without missing a beat:
Rafael:
“Not everything in your pantry should be revealed without proper context.”
He placed the can back on the shelf like it deserved privacy.
Then stood. Slowly. All of him. In one glorious, rising motion.
---
As the pantry door clicked shut—neatly, fully, for the first time in years—Rafael stepped back.
The entire room smelled like cinnamon, order, and repressed desire.
Spices gleamed in symmetrical rows. Cans were stacked with military precision.
The tea? Was now a curated emotional journey.
Rafael (softly):
“You’re all set. Enjoy your… clarity.”
He untied the apron in one smooth motion, folding it once over his arm.
Label gun still holstered. Bag zipped. No fuss.
And then—he left.
The door closed behind him like punctuation.
A full stop. With meaning.
---
Glenn and Harold stood in the kitchen in complete silence.
Glenn was still holding a tin of “Midnight Spiral.”
Harold had a towel over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure why.
Glenn (barely above a whisper):
“You still want that shower?”
Harold (quietly):
“I’m... good.”
Glenn:
“Good?”
Harold:
“I’m heading to the bedroom. Bring the tea.”
Glenn:
“Which one?”
Harold (pausing at the hallway):
“Dealer’s choice. Just not Decaf.”
—