by Erin Huss
I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. "That's a good idea. Then I would call the police once I've gathered enough evidence. Like, who are the visitors? How long do they stay...?" I began writing my answer. "I think the police code for that is, like, 10-50 or something."
Chase shrugged.
"I watch a lot of crime shows," I explained. "I need to get this right because I really need this job."
"I'm not sure how much help I can be. But I'll try." He rested his chin on his palm and watched me scrawl down my answer.
"Can't you give someone a three-day notice if they are being loud, or do you have to give them a certain number of warnings before you give the notice?" I asked.
Chase shrugged again. "They told you about Kevin, right? That'd be more concerning than foot traffic."
"Who?" "He's the owner's son who lives here. He can be a real bleep." My light bulb flipped on. "Does he happen to live in the third courtyard?" He nodded yes then returned his chin to his palm. "I take it he and Joyce don't get along?" "You could say that." I looked past the pool and out to the third courtyard. All I could see from where I
sat was another courtyard for Lilly to play in, Chase's left bicep deliciously bulging under his sleeve, and, at the top of the back stairwell, a black door. There appeared to be red paint dripping down the front, and the window beside it was boarded up with fresh wood.
Strange but...meh. It's LA. I'd encountered every shade of strange since moving here. If there was anything concerning happening in the third courtyard, it would have
been reported on the Rent or Run app. People love to complain. It would take a lot more than a black door and an unruly teenager to stop me from
taking the job, if I were offered it. I still had to get through an interview, and if there was one lesson I'd learned during my employment drought, it was that I was a terrible
interviewee. I'd been practicing though. Watching dozens of YouTube videos on what to say, and more importantly, what not to say. I prayed I'd be able to come across as poised, skilled, and normal.
I hurried through the questionnaire without further input from Chase, who was summoned away by a bathroom emergency. His presence served only as a physical motivator anyway—and what a physical motivator he was. A cute co-worker could offset whatever was happening with Kevin.
I think.
I should probably get more specifics on that.
When I swung open the lobby door, Joyce was seated in the floral armchair. She looked to have aged during the time I'd been gone.
"Here she is," Joyce announced, sounding as if she had swallowed sandpaper. "This is Patrick." She motioned toward a tall man with a cul-de-sac of brown hair sitting on the couch.
Patrick half stood and held out his hand. I shook it, hoping he didn't notice my sweaty palms. A casual wipe on his pants afterward told me he had. Great.
"Have a seat." He plopped back down and began rummaging through his briefcase.
"Here, take mine," Joyce offered, sliding off the chair. "I'm going to get some packing done."
"Thank you." I slipped into the floral atrocity, feeling like a child waiting in the principal's office. Nerves crawled through my stomach and down to my intestines, butterflying around in my gut. Authoritative figures had this effect on me. It didn't matter how many deep breaths I took or positive thoughts I had—my nerves still managed to get the best of me.
Joyce leaned down. "Good luck. I'm pulling for you," she wheezed into my ear before shuffling back to her apartment.
"You have the application?" Patrick asked. He struck me as a no-nonsense type of guy with his stern face and permanent stress lines around his eyes. He wore khakis, a checkered shirt, a silver band on his left ring finger, and stark white Nike running shoes. His attire reminded me of Forrest Gump.
I handed him the application and watched as he sat back, crossed his Nike over his knee, and read through it. At one point he squinted and looked closer with a scrunch of his forehead. Perhaps moving the drummer in Apartment 19 next to the arguing neighbors in Apartments 6 and 5 wasn't the right answer. I thought the two could bond over their shared hatred of their new neighbor. Then I'd give the drummer a three-day notice to find a new hobby. Seemed like a creative win-win to me.
Patrick tossed the application on the coffee table and grabbed a yellow notepad. "First, you pronounce your name Came-bree-ah not Cam-bree-ah, right?" he asked with a click of his pen.
"Yes. The correct pronunciation of my name is Came-bree-ah." Then, for no apparent reason, I added, "I'm named after the city I was conceived in. Just two teenagers on a little road trip, and bada-bing-bada-boom, here I am."
Whyyy?
Obviously, my nerves had taken my mouth hostage.
Patrick made a noise I believed to be a stifled laugh or a burp. I wasn't sure. I bit my lip, afraid I would ask. He made note of my stupidity on his notepad then continued to ask sharp questions regarding my previous employment and how I might handle situations that seemed unlikely to ever occur. I stammered through, fidgeting with my thumbs, trying to use the whole "think before you speak" notion I'd been practicing. When we finished, he placed the notepad on the coffee table and rubbed his temples with his forefingers.
"I will say this," Patrick began. "I was impressed with how you answered the questions on the application. You seem like a 'think outside of the box' kind of person. That's a good quality for this job. I like that you've had some management experience. I spoke to your references yesterday, and they all sang your praises."
I'd used my grandma as a reference. "I need to tell you this," he continued. "The owner's son lives on the property." "Oh, I know about Kevin," I hastily interrupted, too desperate to recover from the
whole "bada-bing" incident to remember my manners. Patrick's eyes grew in diameter. "You know about Kevin?" I nodded. "Chase told me all about him, and it's not a problem." His gaping
expression told me I might have redeemed myself from the unfortunate "bada-bing" incident.
"That's good to know," he said. "I still have a few people to interview today and will be making my final decision tomorrow. Thanks for coming in."
"My pleasu-roo."
Stop talking, Cambria.
Grab French Vanilla & Felonies at erinhuss.com
Also by Erin Huss
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