Page 4 of Hold the Pickle
The older woman surveys me as she locks the door. “You look like something the cat dragged in. You sure you’re not coming off a bender?”
“Just a twenty-four-hour shift in the ER.”
The manager harrumphs. I’m not sure if that means she doesn’t believe me or if she thinks the marathon shifts are a bad idea. Most everyone does, but it happens anyway.
“Is it legal to work that much?” Rescue Princess asks.
Maybe I can charm her into letting me have the place. Surely she can afford something nicer. She looks like she comes from money.
I give her the grin that worked earlier. “First-years average seventy-two hours a week.”
She gasps as we cross the scraggly courtyard where we first met. “That’s terrible! How do you care for patients if you’re exhausted?”
“They don’t,” the manager says. “They are heavily supervised. We get a lot of interns from South General in my building.”
My head snaps in her direction. “Are there others?”
“Not currently. I threw out the one who rented the unit you’re about to look at. He was too buried in med school debt to make rent.” She narrows her eyes at me as we approach the side of the building lined with doors. “Are you financially sound, Mr. Doctor?”
Not really, but I say, “I’m good.”
“Me, too.” Rescue Princess adds her assurance quickly, but I get a hint of uncertainty, like something might be amiss despite her clothes and overall presence.
Maybe she’s not what she seems.
We pause in front of a scratched-up door with a metal plate at the base. It looks like it’s been kicked a time or two.
“Home, sweet home,” the manager says and swings it open.
The smell of smoke hits us. That’s not great, but I can always Febreeze the place to hell.
It’s modestly furnished with an orange plaid sofa, a dinged-up oval coffee table, and a TV stand. I don’t have a stick of furniture of my own, which is why my apartment options have been limited.
“All bills are included,” the woman says, leading us farther into the place. “But I keep an eye on that electric. I’ll pound your door if you keep the A/C running twenty-four-seven.”
The kitchen isn’t particularly inspiring, a sickly sort of beige, but it has the basics, including a dishwasher, stove, and fridge.
“No microwave?” Rescue Princess asks.
The manager rolls her eyes. “It’s not the Taj Mahal.”
We peek into a bedroom with gray carpet.
A large round stain marks the floor beside a bare mattress on a metal frame. There’s nothing else in the room, but the bed is what I need.
Time to grab the bull by the horns. “I’ll take it,” I say. “I can move in this afternoon.”
“Hey!” Rescue Princess protests. “I was here first!”
“And it’s clearly not up to your standards,” I say.
“What do you know about my standards?” Her cheeks flush pink.
“This can’t be good enough for you.”
She lets out a huff. “Why does a doctor need to live in a place like this, anyway? I bet those scrubs aren’t even real.”
Wait, what? “Why would I fake being a lowly intern with a heap of student loans?”
