My Roommate Is a Vampire(14)

“No, Miss Greenberg,” Frederick said. “I told you the apartment would be fully furnished. I gather that your expectations were that the kitchen would have everything you needed to cook your meals.”

“I mean . . . yeah. Sort of.”

“Then I will purchase cooking implements when I am out this evening.” He smiled at me, a little sheepishly. “Please forgive the oversight. It will not happen again.”

I opened my mouth to thank him. But before I could get out the words, Frederick sprang away from me and bolted from the apartment, ostensibly to get me something to cook my meals.





FOUR




    Text messages between Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Reginald R. Cleaves

Can I bother you for a favor, Reginald?

I thought you weren’t speaking to me anymore

Soon you will be rid of me forever.

But I need help one last time, and fairly urgently.

What is it

Where does one purchase cooking equipment in the twenty-first century?

And can you tell me how to get there?

Oh SHIT

We forgot to get pots and pans didn’t we

I also need to borrow your little plastic money card thing one last time.




I suspected the owners of Gossamer’s had originally wanted the place to be an artsy hipster coffee shop, with indie bands performing on the weekends and local art on the walls. It was in an old building Chicago tour guides would have called architecturally significant, with pretty, stained-glass windows facing the street and Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired clean lines. The furniture was thrift-shop funky, and all the coffee drinks had names starting with We Are and ending with an inspiring adjective.

None of us who worked there understood why a coffee shop that mostly served finance bros bothered with hipster naming conventions for their entirely generic drink offerings. Because despite what I suspect were the owners’ original plans, Gossamer’s neighborhood was much more suit-and-tie than hipster. Its location—right by a Brown Line stop—meant most of our customers were commuters on their way to or from their jobs in the Loop, with the occasional college student thrown in for variety.

Of course, I’d rather have worked at an actual hipster coffee shop. But a job was a job. And this one didn’t pay half bad.

Even if the food sucked and the drinks had silly names.

The dinner options were extra limited when I got there for my evening shift. Usually, by six o’clock most of Gossamer’s pre-made food had long since been sold. The only sandwiches left were a sad, soggy peanut butter and jelly and a hummus and red pepper on wheat bread. Whoever supplied Gossamer’s pre-made food really needed to learn how to make friends with flavor. And texture.

My shift didn’t start for fifteen minutes, so I had just enough time to scarf something down. I grabbed the hummus and pepper sandwich—the less tragic of the two options—and made my way to one of the tables near the back.

There was only one customer there—a guy who looked about thirty-five, with dirty-blond hair and a black fedora tilted so far forward it covered half his face. He had a mug of something hot and steaming in front of him.

I could feel his eyes on me as I crossed over to the table in the corner where I usually ate before my shifts.

He cleared his throat.

“Hm,” he said, to no one. “Let me see.” He was openly staring now, leaning slightly towards me, a weird, calculating expression on his face. His tone, his expression, even his posture—everything about him suggested he was sizing me up. Evaluating me. Not in a sexual or predatory way, exactly. More like he was an interviewer trying to decide whether I was right for a job.

It was still creepy as hell.

I glanced at the front door, hoping my manager Katie was on her way.

After another few moments the guy nodded as if he’d come to a decision. “I don’t know what he was so worried about. You should do fine.”

The job interview apparently over, he turned his full attention back to his phone.

Gossamer’s sometimes got perverts at night. Just part of working at a coffee shop. My typical approach was not to engage with them and just let my manager handle it if things got too weird. But at that moment I was exhausted from my move and too unnerved by this bizarre interaction to wait for Katie.

Against my better judgment, I engaged.

“What did you just say?”

“I said you should do fine,” he replied without looking up from his phone, sounding annoyed at the interruption.

“What do you mean, I should do fine?”

“Just exactly that.” He glanced at me, smirking. He pushed back from his chair and stood up. I noticed, for the first time, that he was wearing a floor-length navy-blue trench coat that clashed horribly with his black fedora. Underneath it was a bright red T-shirt that said Of course I’m right. I’m Todd!

Probably not a pervert, then. Just a garden variety weirdo. We got those sometimes, too.

“I’ll be going now,” he said, importantly but unnecessarily. “I must meet a friend in need at Crate & Barrel.”

When I looked up again he was gone. The only sign he’d even been there was the mug of still-steaming We Are Legion he’d left behind. The most expensive cappuccino drink we made. It was completely untouched.