*2* Posting

*Rob*

I ease my way through the crowded hall towards my next class with my best friend, Dan, in tow. I smile politely and nod to the few people who bother to look up from their phones as they rush by. Mostly these are girls, college co-eds attending the same community college and drawn to my boyish good looks, dimpled smile and perpetually tousled wild spikes of black hair. I know because I hear about it all the time from Dan.

“How do you do that, Rob?”

Here we go again.

“Do what?” I turn my head slightly to focus an ear Dan’s direction, waiting for his response.

“The girls, man. Every one of them that’s made eye contact with you has done a double take after they passed you. I mean you’re handsome enough—but certainly no model.”

There it is, as expected.

“Even at the bar, you pull some serious numbers—none of the rest of us gets digits like you do. How do you punch so much more than your weight?”

Unable to help myself, I laugh, shaking my head. While it’s true I seldom leave the bar without a girl slipping me her phone number—some of them more than once— it’s also true I seldom call them. I simply don’t consider myself in a position to do right by a girlfriend. It doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy looking at and interacting with them, but I’m not doing either of us the disservice of initiating a relationship when I wouldn’t even be at college if it weren’t for the Army and the GI bill.

Reaching the lecture hall, I pull the door open, physically blocking Dan with an arm and a look of exasperation.

A couple girls sweep in before us. Turning, they beam at me, chirping thank yous as they dart in, and both make an obvious show of looking me over.

“See? That! That’s what I mean!”

Continuing to hold the door while Dan enters, I shake my head. “Brace yourself—this is the stuff of magic.” I lay my hand on Dan’s shoulder, pulling him closer so I can speak softly. “Maybe if you stopped trying to be a master pick-up artist and tried treating a woman like a person—you know, being kind and taking pleasure in her company—everything would fall into place as you’d like it to. If nothing else, Dan, get the doors so you can enjoy the view both directions.”

Dan’s eyes focus on the lecture hall door with dawning comprehension as we move down the length of a row of seats, taking the last two.  We wait as a harried looking teaching assistant rushes to the podium, shuffling notes into order and takes roll.

I raise my hand when she calls, “Robert Zhao?” and her eyes flick over the audience, then away when she sees my hand. She tucks her roster under her notes and starts lecturing immediately.

When the class is over, Dan and I exit together, this time with me following. Ahead, Dan does his best copycat of my easy-going manners, fairing no better than before.

“You look like a lecher,” I comment as we stop in the hallway, forced by a clot of people ahead of us jockeying to get into another lecture hall while the current occupants struggle to get out.

“I’m trying to smolder.”

“Well, you’re definitely going down in smoking ruins.” I chuckle, earning myself a scathing look from Dan. Brushing against the bulletin board to my side, I make a quick grab and save the printed sheet I’d accidently torn loose before it slips to the floor. Noting the topic as I pin it back to the board, I tug at Dan. “Does this say what I think it says?”

Dan glances at the posting, then pauses to read it more closely before looking up at me. “Why are you so cheap? Seriously, man, why do you think going from one dump to another would be an improvement? Even if they’re offering room and board, it can’t be a good sign they want a handyman.”

Grinning, I tug one of the tiny contact tabs from the bottom on the sly, tucking it into my pocket. Dan thinks nothing of the oddness of the question, and I’m grateful for his obliviousness. Some people would call me out on the life hack I use to avoid making mistakes as a result of my dyslexia. Dan never thinks anything of it and hasn’t the entire time we’ve known each other. “Because it might be an improvement, and I like that kind of work.”

“A moldy cardboard box in a condemned building would be an improvement over that rat trap you live in now.” As the crowd thins, Dan pushes through it, tugging his coat on as we finally reach the building entrance.

He faces me, snorting as he zips his coat, and shakes his head. “I had enough of that work in the Army. I’m sick of having wood splinters under my fingernails and cement in my clothes. That’s why we’re going to college, Rob.” He leads the way towards the parking lot. “Besides, you’re not exactly acing classes, buddy. Shouldn’t you use your weekend time to study?”

“I’d like to save the rent money more and it’s not like my grades are going to improve by studying more at my noisy apartment with its paper-thin walls. I’m just not good at academics, you know that. I’m a hands-on learner.” I pace alongside Dan, stride for stride, smiling as a couple more co-eds pass, hurrying the opposite direction and complaining to each other of the cold. “It might actually help me do better, having something to organize my thoughts.”

Chuckling, Dan flinches against a chilly gust, flipping the collar of his coat up. “We get a decent housing stipend as part of the GI Bill, Rob, and you’re already living like a cheapskate. Your tuition is paid, your car is paid off. You have money to blow at the bar every weekend. It’s not like when you were living with your uncle. Why would you need to save rent money?”

The comment about my so-called uncle makes my insides sour, but I don’t reply. Dan’s been my best friend since high school and pulled me through a lot, especially back then. Now, he’s attending this community college with me even though he doesn’t have to, because I got the best transfer of the college credits we’d taken in the military and because the cost of living is cheaper than it would be attending the state university. That’s where Cameron and Tim, our other buddies, also veterans from the Army, attend and Dan could have gone there, but he didn’t.

While my apartment might be a dump, the truth is I've slept in worse places while we were deployed. Dan’s right that I don’t have any debt and I have cash I can spend on the weekends. No matter how much I save though, it’s not enough. I have a definite plan for every penny I put away.

And it isn’t one I trust my friends would understand. Even my best friend.

“So I don’t run out of money before I’m done,” I lie. “I expect to be working my mojo in these hallowed halls retaking classes long after you’ve moved on to better things, Dan.” I clap him on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you at the tavern tonight.” Breaking away, I head for the opposite side of the parking lot as a way to avoid any further questions on the topic of money, even though my car isn’t far from Dan’s.

Seeing Dan’s car exit the lot, I reverse direction, jogging to my car to get out of the wind more quickly. The icy air holds a faint tang of metal and feels thick with moisture, sure signs there’ll be more snow and September isn’t even over. Putting the key in the ignition, I fire the engine, then pull the slip of paper from my pocket, waiting for the car to warm.

Retrieving my phone from a pocket on my backpack, enter the number, comparing it several times to what I see on the paper to make sure I have it right before dialing. I listen as it rings, expecting the call to roll to voicemail. I’m surprised when instead, it’s picked up.

“Hello?” The voice that answers is quiet and refined, throaty and undeniably sexy, at once delightful and paralyzing to hear.

“Uh…uh,” I stumble over words without knowing why. “Sorry. Hello. I’m calling about the handyman position.”

At the other end of the line, there’s a heavy sigh. Clearly, the woman’s had a rough time in this search. I hope she hasn’t given up.

“Is it still available?”

“Do you have any experience?” Her tone is lukewarm at best and she sounds frustrated before we’ve even started.

“Yes ma’am. Two tours in the Army as a carpentry and masonry specialist.” Expecting more questions and getting none, I press my advantage. “I don’t expect you need the same kind of rigging the Army does, but I’m also skilled in framing, sheathing and roofing all kinds of structures, both building and repair, as well as constructing concrete form work for slabs, walls and columns.”

At the other end of the line, the woman stutters before recovering like I did initially. This time when she speaks, it’s with interest. “What’s your name?”

“Robert Zhao. I go by Rob.” I wait, anxious. Introductions always worry me.

“This is farm work, Rob,” she says, and I’m coming undone at the sound of my name in her mouth.

“I need someone who can help restore an old farmhouse and make repairs to the barn and fences. There’s no salary. No paycheck. It’s in exchange for free room and board in the farmhouse. It’s not glamorous, but you’ll have a private room and your own bathroom. It’s clean and safe. Is that something you think you can do?”

I listen carefully, in no small part because I’m thoroughly enjoying the sound of her voice. “Yes ma’am. Actually, it sounds perfect.”

She’s quiet for long enough that I start to worry I’ve been disconnected, then she says, “Tell me more about yourself, Rob. Where do you work currently? Where do you live?”

And just like that, I’m relaxed and optimistic. “I’m a student at St. Mary’s Community College—that’s where I got your number—from a posting there. I live not far from the school, on the east side of town. I’m attending school on my GI Bill, so I’m not currently working.”

“The east side by St. Mary’s? Oh, my.” She sounds mildly horrified at the thought.

“Yeah, it’s not pretty, but it lets me save more of my housing stipend.”

“For what?”

I pause, considering. There’s no suspicion in her voice. Only a mild interest and maybe a slight concern, which she has a right to. I like the way her voice falls instead of rising when she asks questions. It makes her sound curious instead of condemning. “Travel. Eventually.”

“St. Mary’s is a half hour drive from the farmhouse. This time of year, with the weather and traffic, it can be longer. Do you have a car? Is that kind of drive a problem?”

She’s thought about this a lot and I can’t help but smile. “I do have a car, and no ma’am. The drive is no trouble.”

“Do you have a resume you can forward to me?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Wonderful. Let me give you my email address.”

An anxious knot clenches like a vice in my stomach. I don’t want to make a mistake and blow the opportunity. “Actually, ma’am. I just got out of class and I’m sitting in my car. May I give you my email address? If you’ll send me a brief message, I’ll reply and include my resume.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Sighing quietly in relief, I rattle off my email address, confirming when she reads it back.

“After I review your resume, if I think you’re a good fit, I’ll send you an email to schedule a time for you to see the farm.”

“If it’s alright, I’d prefer if you just called me. This number is my cell. It’s not on during class, but I check voicemail regularly.”

“Okay. Thank you for your interest, Rob. I look forward to seeing your resume. Good-bye.” With that, she ends the call.

Rubbing my eyes, I groan at how dry they are, despite the moisture hanging in the air. I set the phone aside, pull the car out of the lot and head home. There’s just enough time to call my parents and grab a quick bite to eat before I meet the guys at the bar.

**

The parking lot at Three Fools Tavern is full when I arrive, so I park along a side street. Entering the bar, I hear Dan, Tim and Cameron at the standing table near the darts cheer loudly. “Rob!”

Waving to a couple regulars I know, I make my way across the room to the table, smiling when a server sets a beer in front of me without my asking. One of the regular waitresses—she’s been there a couple years. I thank her politely, making brief eye contact, then looked to my friends.

The girl beams, laying her hand on my forearm, then stands tiptoe to talk into my ear before zipping away to the bar to collect more drinks.

“Ah! There he goes again,” Dan teases, slapping me lightly on the arm with the back of his fingers.

“Whatever. She told me you’re a douche, so she’s putting all my beer on your tab.” It isn’t true, but I don’t think it helps my case with any of them, particularly Tim who’s crushing on her, to tell them what she had suggested. Especially since it wasn’t the first time she’s suggested it.

The table erupts into laughter. Across from Dan, Tim slides darts to me along the table. “Speaking of losers, Dan-the-pansy-man wouldn’t play until you got here.”

“That’s because I am the master.” Swiping the darts and my beer with one hand, I rise, taking position and throwing one dart for what will undoubtedly be the first in a series of overly competitive games this evening.

In the dimly lit room, we drink and play several rounds of darts and pool, listen to music and talk to the regulars we know until after midnight. Tim, Cameron and I break twice to watch quietly as Dan tries his luck with a couple different groups of girls in the room. Like usual, he strikes out. We drink to commiserate with him and Tim and Cameron offer what I know is idiotic advice after both times Dan’s shot down. No wonder the poor guy fails.

Quietly, I wonder why my friends—many guys, in fact—think a girl appreciates fancy pickup lines. Or some smolder face. Or ridiculous, practiced moves designed to be charming. I prefer to avoid coming off like a dude with “mad game” and it pays off in spades, even without my trying.

Schooling my face to a blank mask, I avoid mentioning to Dan that both girls have already given me their numbers, one slipping it physically into my pocket much to my surprise when I spoke to her briefly while buying a round of shots at the bar, and the other, unashamedly stalking me outside the men’s bathroom.

As it nears closing, we wander out to the parking lot together. A light snow falls, cloaking the tops of vehicles in white, but not yet sticking to the pavement.

“I overheard that blonde you were hot about saying she and her friends are meeting tomorrow at four at the dance bar down the street.” Tim nudges Dan with an elbow. “Give us a chance to watch you fail miserably again.”

“Sounds like a good time,” Dan swaggers, smiling and undaunted. “Meet you guys there at four?”

“I’ll be late.” I shift uncomfortably when all eyes focus on me. “I have an appointment.”

“It’s Saturday.” Tim peers at me. “What kind of appointment can an unemployed college student have?”

“It’s,” I shrug, “an interview.”

“You didn’t apply for that handyman gig, did you?” Dan stares, incredulous, his mouth hanging open. “You already gave the best years of your life to the Army doing that stuff. Relax and let them pay you for it.”

I chuckle at the irony, shaking my head. “They gave me a springboard I intend to make the most of. And, she liked me, so I’m going to take a look tomorrow.”

Amid gaping grins and raised brows, the question arises in stereo. “She?”

“Oh come on, guys. Her name’s Grace. She’s got to be nine hundred years old.” I carefully omit that Grace didn’t sound like she was nine hundred years old. In fact, she speaks with a quiet refinement, but it’s tinged with something youthful, something—well, graceful. I can’t account for how her voice affected me, but I’m certain it wasn’t because she sounded old.

Dan elbows Tim beside him. “And offering free room and board for a handyman.”

“Shut up, Dan,” I laugh, heading for my car. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”