at the thought.
The truth is, Iâm not making nearly enough money at this job to put a dent in Brandonâs debt. And contrary to what collection agencies think, no relative is going to take interest in our sad plight and come up with the cash to spring us from MyFuture. All we have left is an uncle who subscribes to the idea that throwing money at a problem never solves it, which usually I would agree with.
Also, with Brandonâs interest piling up the way it is, heâs on track to be transferred to a colony thirty miles south where they sleep eight to a room and get one bathroom for an entire floor.
So a good-looking, richie-rich tourist is just what I need right now. He can either add some pretty to my feed and get me some ad revenue, or he can give me cash directly once I become his temporary townie girlfriend.
I try again with my e-frame. It still canât get a read on him. It also tells me the plume of brown liquid coming fromthe marble straw is not for human consumption. Way to advertise a soda, right? I try to think of something to say to him, something Lola might say to lure him into the choppy waters of our shop and moor him in a booth with a good camera angle.
I can get you a flavor foam Girl With Pleasing Anatomy four hours before the evening shift.
Please be advised this is not a public drinking fountain but a flawed attempt at advertising soda with something resembling soda but completely unsafe for consumption.
Iâm covered in my own skin!
That last one is a line from a feed that was popular last week, but maybe itâs too old to reference? Maybe heâs heard it so many times itâs not funny anymore? Heâll have to force a laugh and then wonder why he wastes his vacation hanging out on the plaza meeting desperate locals.
I get so flustered thinking about it that I finally just say, âThe seating is located inside. Where the chairs are.â It comes off a little snarky. Iâm not having the best of days.
Saint Professor, my Tuesday regular, is not happy that I abandoned him.
âIâve been watching your feed on my e-frame here,â he says. An image of me through one of Flavor Foamâs cameras shows on his clunky, school-prescribed e-frame. âI saw you loitering on the patio. When I place my order, you fill it right away.â
Iâm guessing he had a particularly bad day at school.
âAnd you donât shove it onto the table like you just did,âhe continues. âYou approach from right here near my elbow and gracefully slide it in front of me. Like a seal gliding over butter.â
As Saint Professor leans over the table, I notice a little notebook in his shirt pocket on which he has scrawled
T. S. Eliot
. I almost grunt in frustration. If youâre going to lecture me on something, how about poetry? How about ultra-dense symbolism that Iâd never be able to decode on my own?
âI come here every Tuesday,â Saint Professor says. âI know how these things are supposed to work.â
âIâm also here every Tuesday,â I say. âAlso, pretty much every other day of the week.â
Saint Professorâs frustrated scowl turns into a smile of genuine warmth. âDonât worry, youâll catch on,â he says, and gives me an encouraging chuck on the shoulder.
I grit my teeth. I make no further delay in searching out those imperiled ice-cream nuggets.
And, goodie, thereâs still some boxes left. I squat in the frosty air of the walk-in fridge and consider ways to prevent Brandonâs transfer to Debtorsâ House, which Iâve heard serves only one large meal a day and encourages residents to scour the surrounding neighborhood for cans to recycle in order to make some âsnack money.â Brandonâs skinny enough as it is. He thinks I donât know he sneaks his bacon onto my plate every morning like Iâm a little kid.
I could call Griffin and ask him to send us