Room & Board

Part 6

Together, you and Tabaeus make a list of preferences in a house. It takes the better part of two days to get the bulk of it - and the reasons behind the wants - solidified in your head.

A finished basement and an easy to board-up attic, which would give Tabaeus options for their own room.

Two or more bedrooms. At least one for yourself and an office, you decided. Perhaps an extra bedroom for a roommate, if that ever became a possibility.

Two or more bathrooms, a necessity for any multi-person living situation.

A garage, preferably with a workshop, since homeownership meant upkeep. Plus, you might need a place to hewn some wooden stakes.

Hardwood floors, for ease of clean-up. Especially if blood was involved.

Perhaps a garden, ideally a greenhouse. You always wanted to grow fruits and vegetables. Plus, the more you read of vampires, the more you realized there were herbs you could use for protection.

As you work on the list, new concerns cropped up. Mainly, what records you may need for Tabaeus. Birth certificate? Proof of citizenship? A bank account?

These are the worries swirling around your brain as you stand at your job. You decided not to call off for the third day in a row. Even if Tabaeus had enough valuable trinkets to make you a billionaire, you figure it's best to keep working for now. Who knew what would draw suspicion your way?

So you stood, cleaning the counters after the main dinner rush of the Milk King Lemon Jollies at North Plaza Mall. You stare blankly at the perpetually sticky counter as you move the damp rag around, concerns about house hunting swarming your thoughts.

It's quiet now, with your previous mob of customers sated with sweets and meats. Some still linger around the food court, munching away. The ice cream machinery and refrigeration hums around you as the hotdog cooker clicks and clacks and rolls the fresh hissing wieners. The ambient sound of the food court chatter draws you further into your head.

"Excuse me? Hello?" An irritable voice finally cuts through your fog and you jerk to attention.

Blinking away your worries, your best customer service smile stretches over your lips as you turn to face the potential patron standing in front of the registers. As you approach them, your tone is no less fake as your farce of a smile. "Oh, I'm sorry! What can I get for you?"

"Finally, I've been standing here for fifteen minutes!" Liar, you think, knowing that - despite your distraction - you always make a habit of checking for customers every few minutes. On the person's chest, you notice a name tag from one of the more ritzy boutiques from down the road. Somewhere that caters to more obscenely wealthy clientele.

You only vaguely register the she/her under the customer's name, before your attention is dragged back to her face by her snapping fingers. "Pay attention! My goodness, I know this is a minimum wage job, but do better!"

To your credit, your smile doesn't falter. "Your order?"

"Yeeaaaah," drawls the woman, turning her eyes to the lighted menu board hanging overhead. You sourly think she does not sound like someone who has been pondering their order for fifteen minutes. She points her finger, tipped in a long sharp nail, at the menu. "Can I get a sample of the slushie?"

"I'm sorry, but we don't give samples of the slushie," you answer, apologetically. Your cheeks hurt from how much you've turned the sweetness up on your smile. You brace for the customer's aggravation, as you always do when you cannot comply with a request.

No amount of sweet smiling can save you as the customer turns an icy look to your face. "Excuse me?"

"We have no measurement for sample sizes, other than samples for the Lemon Jollies," you explain, indicating the blenders of pre-prepared drinks in a cooler between the registers. "I can get you a sample of one of these. Our new passionfruit flavor is really good!"