“But they do usually have roles in movies,” Deiss says.
“He has an audition for some action flick on Thursday morning,” Phoebe says.
“Nice,” Deiss says. “Let’s do some stocking and see if we can bulk you up a little before then. The bins are looking as weak as your biceps.”
“I couldn’t watch the store and unload the boxes,” Booker says, holding up a flexed arm and prodding at it appraisingly. He looks pleased by his assessment of the bulge. “Someone could’ve robbed us while I was in the back. Liv knows what I’m talking about.”
“Booker!” Phoebe slaps his arm, widening her eyes at me.
“Your foresight is admirable,” Deiss says before I can feel forced to respond. “Phoebe, could you please take over Booker’s vigilant watch against the criminal element and their desperate desire for the eighteen dollars and fifty cents we most likely have in the cash register?”
“It’s the instruments I was worried about,” Booker says, still contentedly propped on the stool. “There are a lot of people lusting after that Gibson Les Paul, you know.”
“Defend the Les Paul at all cost,” Deiss says to Phoebe. “If at any point you feel your life is in danger . . .” He tilts his head and holds up an inspirational finger. “Sacrifice it.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Phoebe offers a sharp salute from her relaxed perch on the counter.
“What about her?” Booker gestures toward me. “Why can’t she help you stock?”
“Because she doesn’t work here,” Deiss says.
“I need to buy a laptop.” For some reason, maybe because I’m the one who’s just scored a free place to stay from his boss, my excuse comes out apologetically.
“That’s right. You’re a graphic designer, right? Why don’t you just use this one?” Booker gestures toward the counter, presumably where an invisible laptop is sitting.
“Oh.” Deiss looks over in surprise. “You should do that, actually. The iPad works to look up stock. Booker never even pulls the laptop out anymore.”
“It makes you type everything in.” Booker wrinkles his nose and holds up his phone. “It’s basically manual labor. This has voice prompt.”
“Speaking of manual labor,” Deiss says, “the new Fender Stratocaster isn’t going to mount itself.”
“Fine.” Booker gets off the stool and squats out of sight before rising back up to set a laptop on the counter. “Here you go, Fancy Face. Grab a seat.”
“She wasn’t going to use it here,” Deiss says. “She’s trying to start her own business.”
“Well, she can’t take it out of here,” Booker says. “I might need it.”
Phoebe flicks her eyes toward the ceiling. “You just said you never use it.”
“Not using it and not needing it are two different things,” Booker says, opening the laptop and turning it toward me enticingly.
“Like you not working and you being fundamentally lazy are two different things?” Phoebe asks.
“Exactly.” Booker nods agreeably.
“Liv can take the laptop home,” Deiss says, leaning against the wall like he’s losing interest in all of us. “Liv, feel free to use it wherever and whenever you’d like.”
“You can’t just give my laptop away!” Booker looks delighted to have a reason to complain.
“I wouldn’t mind working here.” I’d love to work here, actually. It would make the loan of the laptop feel less like charity, especially considering how desperately I need said charity. Plus, everyone knows working at home is a recipe for slovenly snacking and procrastination projects. This place has an energy that’s preferable to a coffee shop full of caffeine-fueled screenwriters. “And while I’m looking for projects, I could make a real flyer for your next show. It would be a good thing to add to my portfolio. If you give me a dollar for the job, I could even claim the shop as a client.”
“What’s wrong with my flyer?” Booker asks.
“It’s not a flyer,” I say. “It’s information scribbled on a piece of paper that happens to have been photocopied.”
Deiss laughs, and Booker looks at him with a wounded expression that’s the definition of overacting.
“I spent hours working on that,” he says mournfully.
“If you spent more than two minutes on it,” Deiss says, “I’m docking your pay for the difference.”