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The phone rang before the restaurant's doors even opened.
Bob glanced at the clock only briefly. It was still twenty minutes until opening, as he thought. Plenty of time to finish restocking the produce, and too early yet to answer the work line. With the kids at school, he wanted nothing more than to take advantage of the calm.
When the phone rang again only three minutes later, he heaved a sigh of resignation.
“Lin-” he started, but Linda was already standing by the counterside phone.
“I got it, I got it,” she said, waving him off as she lifted the receiver.
Her chipper greeting changed to surprise, and she put a hand over the phone to whisper to Bob through the kitchen window. “It's Mr. Fischoeder.”
What did Fischoeder want now? Their eccentric landlord always came to collect in person when he felt it was overdue, and they had already made a late rent payment recently - and the check had even cleared. He probably wasn't calling about rent money, then. A sense of foreboding settled in his stomach as he turned off the sink.
“Alright, alright, you wanna talk to him? I'll put Bobby on for you, okay?” Linda was saying, lifting her eyes to him. “Aww, you feel better soon!”
Before Bob could even think to protest, she was already passing the phone to him, and he put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Mr. Fischoeder.”
“Oh, Bob,” sighed Fischoeder on the other end of the phone. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything?”
“W-well, I'm just about to open up the restaurant, so-”
“Of course, the restaurant!” Fischoeder exclaimed, followed by a pained groan. “Actually, Bob, I wanted to place an order.”
Bob looked at the receiver, unsure that he'd heard correctly. “What? Seriously?”
He heard a soft click from behind him, and looked over his shoulder to find Linda listening on the kitchen's line.
“Yes, yes, seriously. But I need a favor.”
Of course.
“Right, makes sense. So… What do you need?”
“I was sort of hoping you could bring my order by in person,” said Fischoeder, astonishingly meek. “I'm a little under the weather at the moment, it would be a big help.”
“Oh, uhh… sorry to hear that. I can ask Linda to drop it off for you,” Bob started to say.
“Actually, I would really like it if you brought it to me yourself, no offense to Linda,” said Fischoeder, sighing again. “What is it worth to you? Let's say a month's rent?”
“A month's rent, just for a burger? Are you sure?”
“Two burgers,” corrected Fischoeder. “Better get an order of fries too, I think. You always have some silly daily special or another going on, don't you?”
“Uh, yeah,” Bob said, chuckling to himself quietly. “The burger of the day comes with a mushroom aioli-”
“Yes, yes, let’s make one of those a special, then. So two burgers, one with bacon, an order of fries, and hm… No, I'd better not get a drink,” he said, thinking aloud. ”Hm, diet should be alright, actually, let's do that.”
Bob could count the number of times his landlord had eaten his food on one hand, and now he was ordering two burgers in the same morning? “A-are you having company, or something?”
“God, I hope not. That's the last thing I need, with the state I'm in. No, I'm afraid it's all for me.”
Whatever had him down, it sounded serious. He closed his eyes, then sighed. “Uh, alright then, I'll get that ready for you and be over as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, Bob. See you soon.”
A worried look crossed his face as he said his goodbyes and passed the phone back to Linda, exchanging a look with her.
“You think he's got the flu or something?” asked Bob.
“No way, rich people never get sick,” she said, waving her hand at him. “Maybe he's depressed?”
“Fischoeder?”
“Sure, money can't buy happiness, right?”
“I mean, I don't know about that, I think it can buy some happiness. A little. I mean, he just gave us a month of free rent in exchange for about $20 worth of food, I feel pretty good about that.”
“Alright, maybe money can buy happiness a little bit, yeah,” said Linda.
“Whatever it is, I'll open up, take over for a little while,” she said, putting her hands up. “You let me know how it goes when you get back, okay?”
Bob stood in front of the door, having rung the doorbell twice before he heard any sign of life from within. There was a creak of old floorboards, and quiet cursing as someone fiddled with the locks, then the door slid open. “Mr. Fischoeder.”
There stood Fischoeder in his sorry state, wrapped in a deep blue curtain draped over his head and about his shoulders. He squinted over Bob's shoulder at something in the distance, clinging to the door for support, then smiled lazily at Bob. One clammy hand clutched the curtain together at his throat, his forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. “Hi, Bob. Why don't you bring that into the lounge?”
Oh. This was a hangover cure.
Bob was skeptical of the invitation, but it was plain to see that Fischoeder was very sick, even if it was self-inflicted. “Huh, right, okay.”
As he led Bob deeper into the mansion, his movements seemed plodding, mechanical, like he was being pulled forward by strings. It suited Bob just fine that the uncharacteristically soft-spoken Fischoeder didn't seem to be in the mood for conversation, but there were other signs of the previous night's debauchery. Bottles and empty glasses were strewn about with increasing frequency as they neared their destination. Either he had been entertaining, or else he'd had one hell of a bad night.
The lounge itself was in even worse shape. The bar was in disarray, unfinished beverages of various volumes were littered across leather sofas and the lid of the white piano, its bench turned onto its side. The piano was surrounded by a circle of tall windows, each covered by a cerulean curtain, save one, which was missing both its curtain and its rod. Empty dishes were left abandoned wherever their owner had stood, crumbs scattered on every surface, centered around the billiard table. The only clean surface was the loveseat closest to the piano, with plates and drinkware arranged on the floor in front of it, suggesting that someone had pushed them off the cushions to clear the space. Bob couldn't be sure, but he guessed that someone had slept there.
“Mr. Fischoeder? I didn't wanna ask, but are you wearing a curtain?”
Somehow he looked surprised by this information, pulling the cerulean fabric tighter around him as he directed Bob to place the food on the counter of a presently devastated kitchenette in one corner of the room. “Evidently. Randolph pulled it down last night, and this just happened naturally when I finally drifted off.”
Forcing himself to look him over, that actually explained pretty much everything. He was more disheveled than Bob had realized, his hair unkempt and wilted and his suit visibly wrinkled, but more than that, he looked unbelievably tired.
Lifting one weary hand from his shroud, Fischoeder began to inspect the grease-stained bags, retrieving one of the sandwiches. He unwrapped it just enough to find that it was the bacon burger, then took the second bag containing his fries along with the soda and made his way painstakingly to the loveseat, sinking into it with ease.
“Alright, I guess I should get going.” Bob turned and started to leave the way he came in.
“Why don't you sit awhile, Bob? Have a seat.”
Bob pressed his lips together tightly and gestured over his shoulder. “Actually, Mr. Fischoeder, I have to get back to my restaurant and my job, we- we don't usually deliver.”
Fischoeder paused as he unwrapped his burger to look up at Bob with his big, sad eye and a slow smile. “Really? I had no idea. Maybe offering delivery would finally get your business going. Think about it.”
“Um, I will.” Despite saying this, Bob started away from him again.
“You can think about it right here, right next to me on the sofa. Just keep those sad clogs off my furniture, will you?”
Somehow, Bob found something he thought might have been pity amidst his feelings of discomfort and annoyance. He found himself moving deeper into the lounge, towards the sofa. “You really don't want me to go, huh?”
Fischoeder finally took the first bite of his burger, closing his eye as if allowing it to heal him. “I would like it if you stayed. But if you must know, I'm too sick to really stop you.”
“Well…”
“I'll throw in another month.”
Bob stood beside the sofa, while Fischoeder eyed his shoes skeptically, until he made a show of removing them when he sat down.
“You, uh… do this often?” asked Bob.
“Hm, no,” said Fischoeder, swallowing. “Well, I'm almost always drunk, if I can help it, but not this part.”
“Yeah, that. That makes sense.”
“It's just that last night was sort of…” he paused, then shook his head. “Nevermind, you don't want to hear all that.”
Bob trusted this assessment, but listening to his woes was slightly better than sitting in silence when he could be on his way back home already. Either way, now that Fischoeder had dismissed the idea of continuing, he wasn't sure how to encourage him.
Fischoeder ate in silence, ravenous, as if it were the only thing he'd eaten all day - and given the chaotic state of the room, that was probably the case. Bob was pretty sure he had only been awake long enough to call in his order.
He broke his silence at last with a quiet groan as he chewed, then freed one hand to rub exhaustion from his tired eye.
“I'm still a bit drunk, I think,” he said, taking a moment to help himself to a couple of the fries. “Takes a while to work its way through my system, every once in a while, and then I'm reduced to this. Exhausted, nauseous, and with no consolation but some greasy something-or-other, but on the other hand, there’s no better cure to soak up a hangover, hmm?”
Bob grunted in acknowledgement. The open bag was offered to him, and he took a fry just to be polite. In his haste to fulfill the order and get this favor over with, he might have actually oversalted the fries, but Fischoeder really didn't seem to mind.
“Do you… Want some water or something?”
Fischoeder thought about it for a few moments. “You know, I really don't want your little hands rifling through my belongings, but if you can find a clean glass…”
Bob scoffed a little at that, but stood up, looking towards the cabinets in the little bar and kitchenette. “I mean, I'm not going to be rifling through anything, they're just in here, right?”
Fischoeder shrugged and let him go. “Actually, could you make me a prairie oyster instead?”
Bob was temporarily distracted, finding that there was very little in the way of clean glassware remaining in the cabinets. “A. A what? Does that actually work?”
Fischoeder shrugged. “Maybe. It makes me feel better, anyway. Eggs are in the fridge under the bar. There should be a few left over from last night.”
“Right.”
Bob navigated the cabinets with cautious unfamiliarity, aware of Fischoeder watching with slight suspicion while he navigated the unfamiliar and completely disorganized kitchenette. He managed to find a tall glass, then combined the requisite egg, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, and salt and pepper.
He returned to the couch with the glass just in time to catch Fischoeder replacing the lid of his soda, holding a flask in his other hand, an act that didn't particularly surprise or impress him. What was surprising was that in the relatively short time he was gone, he seemed to have put away the rest of the burger and was now balancing the empty wrapper in his lap, sighing against the open hand of the arm he leaned against. As he took the glass from Bob, he sniffed it, then opened the flask once more to add a dash of its contents to the cocktail as well.
“You know, I’ve only ever seen these in movies before,” offered Bob.
“And there they should have remained. Cheers,” he said sardonically, then gulped its contents down with a shudder. He gave a sigh of satisfaction, and Bob firmly decided to keep his comments to himself. Did he really drink like this all the time?
Fischoeder made an odd expression, then crumpled the wrapper up to switch to picking at the fries. “I held a gathering here last night, you might have guessed. Nothing too impressive, just twenty of my closest friends and their dates.”
“Yeah, it, uh, kind of looks like it. I mean, I guess it's not that bad? But.”
“Oh, I know, Inga hasn't been through here yet today. Yes, I think she's avoiding this side of the house on purpose.”
Bob only grunted in response, watching out of the corner of his eye as Fischoeder covered his mouth with his hand.
“Oh.” he said after a moment, making that expression again, his face abnormally pale.
Bob turned to look at him. “‘Oh,’ what?”
“No.” Fischoeder rose, abandoning both the curtain he had wrapped himself in and Bob on the sofa, and hurried off in some unfamiliar direction into another room. “Ohhh no. Oh no no no…”
Bob pressed his lips together. He had a feeling he wasn't meant to go anywhere, but he recognized that look, the panic, that shuffle. With a sigh, he got to his feet and followed him.
It seemed that the destruction had made its way outside, but it was significantly more clean than the lounge. There were discarded drinks and napkins on the hallway tables, occasionally abandoned on the floor. Was this what Fischoeder considered to be a small get-together?
In glancing around the seldom-seen interior of his landlord’s home, Bob had been a little slow on the uptake and nearly lost track of him, but he spotted the open bathroom door farther down the hall and heard the telltale retching from within.
As he pushed the door open a little wider, there was Fischoeder on his hands and knees before the porcelain thing, trembling, almost as white as the suit he wore.
Bob knelt down beside him with a grunt, certain that the popping of his knees would be enough to alert the other to his presence. When he reached out his hand to him, however, Calvin flinched and tilted his head to center Bob in his limited vision. He steadily relaxed as Bob gently gathered the back of Calvin’s hair in one hand to pull it out of his face, seeming to accept that his aid.
Without thinking, Bob soothed his other hand over Calvin’s lower back, waiting for him to ride out the worst of his illness. At this point, he grimaced, both from the smell and running through the events that had led him here in his head. A normal work day was all he asked for, and here he was, holding back his landlord’s hair while he puked.
Finally, Calvin finished, confident enough to reach the pull chain to flush the toilet. He leaned back to sit on his legs and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve as he looked at Bob.
“What was that for?”
Bob shrugged. “I don't know, I guess you looked like you needed it.”
He cast a skeptical glance at Bob’s arm as he retracted it, then looked back up at him. “If you're coming on to me, you might want to wait until I've brushed my teeth.”
“Um, okay, so it sounds like you're feeling better?”
“A little,” he admitted. “What was that you were doing to my back?”
“Oh.” Bob thought about it for a second. “Well, I've got three kids-”
“Kind of a weird time to brag about it.”
“-and Linda got awful morning sickness with all three of them. And after she had them too, actually. I-I guess I just did what I've always done without thinking.”
“So you confused me with your little Queasy Queen? And you're absolutely sure you're not hitting on me?”
“I’m. Definitely not,” said Bob, watching as Calvin got to his feet. “Do you- Do you think you could…?”
Calvin scoffed and offered his open arms for Bob to hold onto to pull himself up. He supported himself against Calvin's chest on the way up, mostly by accident, but stayed there for a fraction of a second too long.
“Oh, wow. You really stink.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I'll just let you-”
“Thank you.”
Bob brushed past him awkwardly and returned to the lounge, but stopped in the doorway to assess the damage. With a sigh, he began stacking similarly-sized glasses, dumping any remaining contents down the sink and then arranging them on the counter. Calvin didn't really need the help, but it seemed like the right thing to do anyway.
Calvin leaned against the archway, eyebrows raised as he watched Bob rinse out a wine bottle. “What the hell are you doing?”
He glanced up from his task, taking note that Calvin had completely discarded his suit jacket and stood in his dress shirt and waistcoat. “Just, uh, helping out.”
At this, a look of genuine disbelief crossed his features. “Why? This is what I pay people for! You could be putting Inga out of a job right this second.”
Bob froze, turning to look at him. “I'm not actually, am I?”
“No! No, but you get what I mean, don't you?”
His shoulders relaxed as he set the bottle down, glancing over the now slightly more organized countertops. “Uh, not really. I just thought it might make your life like. Five percent easier.”
“I didn't ask you to come here to clean my house, Bob, you can relax.”
“You didn't ask your guests last night either, and they trashed the place.”
Calvin stood quietly for a few moments, then turned away. “Revelers will revel, I suppose. Come sit with me.”
He plucked the second burger from the paper bag, then motioned to Bob.
Bob followed him to the sofa, then held out his hand for the slightly greasy glass with the remains of hot sauce and egg white. “You need water.”
Calvin looked taken aback momentarily, then flicked his gaze to the glass and passed it to him gingerly. “Yes.”
“You've met some of my… friends before, haven't you, Bob?” asked Calvin, hesitantly allowing the word to linger as he watched him fill the glass from the sink.
Bob had to think about it. He couldn't exactly recall any faces and was grateful he did not need to recall their names off the top of his head. “In passing, sure.”
Calvin waved his hand, then began nibbling at the burger. “It's alright, I doubt they remember you either. They're a busy bunch, you know how it is.”
He had no idea, but he had a full glass of water with Calvin's name on it, which seemed more important at the moment. He handed him the glass, which Calvin accepted with a small murmur, then put to his lips, taking a long few moments to down it all.
“Point is that you have some idea of how they are, I suppose. Well, a good few more men and their dates were here last night, living it up, and…” he shrugged, setting the glass down at his feet. “I don't know. It's been a long time since I noticed it, but something was off.”
“Off?”
“Yes, um… even I don't consider the League to be my very close friends, but… I don't know what I'm saying, this sounds ridiculous,” he mumbled. “In a room full of thirty or forty people, I don't know… I realized that none of them were really there for me. Does… that make sense?”
“I'm… not very good at parties,” said Bob, shrugging just a little.
“Well I always have been. My gatherings are legendary, I always have the best entertainment, the best catering - the best entertainment!” he boasted, slightly put off by an implication Bob hadn't actually made. “But… I guess I realized that those things are the reason people come here. Not, you know…”
“Because they enjoy your company? Yeah, I could see that. No offense, they just never came off as particularly… dependable, I guess?”
“Not like you,” added Calvin, taking a moment to drink the water at last. “You came just because I called, that counts for something.”
Bob wasn't sure he should point out that Calvin had essentially bribed him to take care of him while he was drunk. It was difficult to imagine himself here without being offered some kind of motivation.
Instead, he decided to say the thing that had been on his mind since he arrived. “Mr. Fischoeder, do you ever… get lonely?”
“Mm? Well… Not recently, I guess. I have Felix, sort of,” he nodded towards the window, shrugging. “Loneliness. Is that what this is?”
Bob only shrugged.
Calvin folded the partially eaten burger back into its wrapper and set it aside. “Do I seem lonely to you?”
“...I don't know. Maybe? Your whole lifestyle… doesn’t make any sense to me. I-I don't really have a frame of reference,” he said, blinking. “I guess you wouldn't have brought me over here if you weren't? A little?”
“That doesn't sound right,” he said, frowning. He sighed. “Maybe. Maybe I am.”
Calvin grimaced and clutched at his side with a groan.
“Are you going to throw up again?” Bob asked, starting once again to regret his attendance.
“No, no, I just need to…” Instead of offering an explanation, he began to shift in the seat so that he could rest his head against Bob's thigh, pulling his legs onto the sofa. “It hasn't been this bad in a while.”
Bob gave a noncommittal hum of discomfort, or perhaps acknowledgement. His landlord's head was resting in his lap. What was he supposed to do?
“Um?”
He closed his eye, getting comfortable. “Just a minute, Bob.”
Bob's mortified expression didn't change much, but he stayed.
“You’re a lifesaver, Bob,” he said quietly, since it seemed like the right thing to say. “Could you do me one more favor?”
“Maybe. What is it?”
“It's just my stomach is upset.”
“Um? I. Don't know what you want me to do about it.”
“It's alright, just… put your hands on me, please. Don't be shy,” he said.
Bob began to feel flustered, sitting with Calvin's head in his lap. He could comfortably reach his middle if he tried, but he kept turning over the implications of obliging him, and of denying him. He got the sense that at this vulnerable moment, Calvin wasn't intentionally taking advantage of their positions, but the older man wasn't exactly known for being predictable and easy to read. Just because he appeared to be in a good mood didn't mean retaliation was out of the question.
At best, it seemed… kind of intimate? Probably too intimate.
“It’s going to be alright,” said Calvin, prompting him again. “I’ll add another month if you indulge me.”
At that, Bob groaned, but began to reach out his hand towards Calvin.
“I wish I didn't have to ask,” he heard Calvin say as his fingertips grazed the fabric of his white waistcoat. “It's not very flattering, bargaining for companionship, but I have no other choice, do I?”
Bob didn't know what to say to that, instead making his hands useful. He brushed his hand tentatively against Calvin's generous stomach, then stroked over the waistcoat in halfhearted, circular motions.
This was weird, right?
Calvin sighed softly at the contact, turning his head to one side to press his cheek against Bob's thigh.
“I like you, Bob, and Linda too,” he said, finally relaxing under his limp touch. “You've got that certain something about you. Not only do you genuinely care about the people around you, people like you in return. Me? Power makes the working class nervous, all my tenants are afraid of me.”
“Mm-hmm. I mean, uhhh. That's too bad.”
“I know you are too, Bob, no need to butter me up.”
“Yep. Sorry.”
Yeah, this was weird.
With a wince, Calvin turned to rest on his back, draping his legs over the arm of the sofa to give Bob easier access. “My father knew the feeling too, I think, but if it got to him, he never let on. Even I never knew what he was thinking. He couldn't afford to show any weakness, even to his family.”
Bob pressed his lips together tightly, thinking briefly of his own childhood. “I kind of relate to that, actually?”
Calvin lifted his head slightly. “Really? That's hard to picture.”
“Oh, I mean… not as a father, no,” said Bob, glancing away from him. “Um, my dad was pretty hard on me growing up, and he's… still. Pretty much exactly the same now. He held back a lot from me.”
Calvin rested his head against Bob’s thigh once more, glaring sourly at the ceiling. “My father loved me.”
“So did mine. O-or does, I mean, he’s. Still alive. But he never showed it, and it definitely affected me,” said Bob, feeling suddenly defensive for some reason. “I don’t really know where I’m going with this, this kind of seems like something that’s maybe none of my business, actually.”
“It’s not,” agreed Calvin. “But candidness is refreshing, coming from you. People are always telling me what they think I want to hear.”
He chose not to mention how often Calvin decided he wasn’t interested in his opinion without even giving him a chance. He guessed his condition made him more agreeable, like he was too sick to really protest. Suddenly, Bob felt a wave of sympathy for Calvin that didn’t often get to him.
His touch became a little less reserved, stroking more firmly over the curve of his surprisingly plush middle. As he applied gentle pressure, Calvin squirmed and melted into the sofa with a soft moan that made Bob glance away from him.
A peaceful expression fell over Calvin as he folded his hands together and closed his eye, content to let Bob handle him in a way that he would never allow if he weren't suffering from his hangover. His defenses were always so unfathomably high, yet here he was, purring like a kitten. If not for how out of his depth Bob felt, he could almost appreciate the absurdity of the position Calvin was putting himself into willingly. Almost.
There was little in the world Calvin seemed to hate more than being touched, but Bob's rough, sturdy hands were presently an exception, if the noises he produced or the arch of his back were any indication. Though some of the color had returned to his cheeks after purging some of the alcohol from his system, the motion seemed to soothe his poor stomach. Up and down over the slope of his belly, mapping out the shape of his body in a way that definitely felt too intimate. Finally, he stopped squirming and let Bob fall into a rhythm, fully relaxing at last.
After a while, it seemed like Calvin might be starting to doze off. That seemed like as good enough time as any for Bob to try to extract himself from the loveseat. He leaned back and pulled his hand away slowly, watching the deep rise and fall of Calvin’s chest as he drifted.
“Mr. Fischoeder.” He nudged Calvin's shoulder gently.
Calvin's eye fluttered open, and he looked up at Bob, drowsier than he'd ever seen him. “Mmh?”
“I've gotta get going.”
He stretched his legs with a loud sigh, still dangling from the side of the sofa. “Back to the humdrum, hmm? I could have used another forty winks.”
“Y. Yeah. Sorry. You'll have to find another pillow. Maybe one that's… actually a pillow.”
Calvin waved him off, dragging himself upright into a sitting position. “Well, hopefully this time I'll actually make it to bed.”
“Hopefully.”
With great effort, he rose to his feet and walked Bob back to the front door, escorting him out of his luxurious home. Back through the halls with discarded drinks and unsettled furniture, and far from whatever had happened on the sofa. Over the creaking hardwood floor in the entryway, and across the threshold into reality.
“This means a lot to me, Bob,” Fischoeder said quietly. “Three months - I won't forget.”
“Right, thank you. I guess I'll see you around, Mr. Fischoeder,” said Bob, turning from the doorstep to return to his car.
A soft murmur of farewell, and he was gone.
As the front door closed behind him, Bob had to admit that he wasn't surprised how one favor had turned into several weird favors that seemed disproportionate to what he received in exchange, but he guessed he wasn't complaining. It was worth it, and more than that, it was probably the right thing to do.
He groaned to himself as he started his car.
Linda was going to want to hear every detail.