I pursed my lips. At least he was asking questions now. I replied.
Cycleman: He’s a Golden Lab. Big but friendly.
Charly: Okay. I like Labs.
Cycleman: Do you have a resume?
Charly: attached
I opened and scanned it. It told me very little about the person, although I could see he had been working for over five years. The name on the top said C.L. Hooper and a phone number, but there was no address. The date of birth gave me pause. He was only twenty-five—twelve years younger than me. I rubbed my chin, deciding that didn’t matter. As long as he worked hard, I didn’t care. He was going to be an employee, not a friend. I was pleased to see a mechanic shop listed under past employment. I hated to admit it, but so far, he was the only viable candidate.
Cycleman: You worked in a garage? You know engines?
Charly: I get by. Not an expert. I was in the office more than under the hood.
I grunted in satisfaction. I didn’t want a mechanic, but someone who understood what I did was a bonus.
Charly: There is a reference from my last boss attached.
I scanned the document from Peter Phelps. Loyal, hardworking, honest, bondable were the keywords I picked up on. Those were important traits to me—especially now. The fact that he stated he would hire C.L. Hooper again in a heartbeat spoke well. There was a phone number to call for further details, so I could check that this was legitimate. As soon as I had time.
Cycleman: Why did you leave your job?
Charly: Company folded.
I paused, then made a decision. I needed someone, and Charly needed a job. He seemed like an okay kid. A little mouthy, but we could work on that.
Cycleman: The hours are long, and I expect you to work hard.
Charly: Hard work doesn’t bother me. You said board was included?
Cycleman: Yes.
Charly: Does the door lock?
That seemed a strange question, but I supposed a valid one.
Cycleman: Yes.
Charly: Okay.
Cycleman: You will have to drive to get groceries and pick up supplies.
Charly: Heavy lifting?
Cycleman: Is that a problem?
Charly: Yes, I have a disc problem.
I paused. I didn’t want some idiot I was going to have to baby.
Cycleman: Okay, we can work around that.
Charly: Where are you located?
Cycleman: Outside of Lomand. A small town.
Charly: Lomand is a small town.
Cycleman: This one is even smaller. Not much around.
Charly: No problem.
I sat back and studied the screen. He seemed like a decent guy. He asked fairly intelligent questions and his profile had a good ranking. He’d never given anyone a problem, and the people he’d connected with had scored him high on ratings.
Cycleman: Are you interested? Pay is $1000/month plus board. One-month trial.
I waited a few moments as the screen remained blank, then the reply appeared. I was prepared to go a little higher but waited to see his reaction.
Charly: When do I start?
I glanced at the calendar on the wall. It was Wednesday. I was booked solid tomorrow and Friday.
Cycleman: Are you driving here?
Charly: Bus. Coming from Toronto.
I scratched my chin. Toronto was about three hours from here. Far enough away, they probably had no connections to anyone here. That was a plus.
Cycleman: But do you drive? Stick a problem?
Charly: No problem. I can drive standard. Having a car in Toronto is too expensive.
That made sense. I checked the bus schedule then replied.
Cycleman: I looked at the schedule. There’s a bus that gets you here at ten Saturday. You get off at Littleburn. It’s the stop after Lomand. Tell the driver to let you out, or he’ll just go past it.
Charly: Okay.
Cycleman: I will be waiting by the general store.
Charly: Okay. See you then.
He signed off.
I sat back, feeling pleased. Having a guy made the accommodations decision easier. If it had been a woman, I was worried I might have to give them a room in the house, but I really didn’t want to. The space at the back of the garage wasn’t much, but it was private, had a comfortable enough bed and a decent bathroom. There was even a chair and a TV and a small storage area. The kid could use the fridge here in the office to store cold drinks if he wanted. He could keep some snacks around, although I would have to warn him about mice. Leaving unsealed food around was a written invitation for the little buggers. Even in the house, I kept stuff in sealed containers.
I stood and stretched, calling for Rufus. He appeared from the back, his tongue already out and his tail wagging. It was dinnertime, and he knew it.
I locked up and headed back to the house, wondering what frozen entrée I would heat up tonight. The kid said he could cook well enough. I hoped that meant it was better than mine.
I regarded the contents of the freezer and threw another tasteless meal into the microwave.