Two: Odd Jobs 

The next morning, Philo tries to avoid Sara in the kitchen. He snags a cup of coffee from the pot, black and flavorless. Sara glares at him from the stove, an omelet on the pan, sizzling and ready to be flipped. Ian was seated at the small, two-person table. He had his homework sprawled onto the glass, and his pencil was scribbling at lightning speed. 

“And where are you going?” Sara snaps as Philo gets the front door open.  

Smoky charges in, demanding to be fed. He brushes past Philo’s leg, giving him a lick on his calf. Philo reaches down to greet him and pat at his head.  

“I got a job today.” Philo answers vaguely in hopes Sara will just let him leave.  

“Doing what?”  

“Landscaping.” He wants to roll his eyes. When did she get so invasive? 

“For who?” Sara grips the spatula she’s holding harder. Philo sees her knuckles turn white.  

“Ms. Lang. She’s a nice lady. Called me and told me she saw my flyers.” Philo explains, holding the door half-open now. Smoky runs outside again and heads straight for where he was normally fed. He sits there, meowing and waiting. 

“Is she married?” Sara turns her back to Philo now, and Philo knows he’s going to get a lecture later. 

“No. I don’t know. Why would I know that?” Sara clicks her tongue at this.  

“Just go.” She snaps, louder now. “And feed that damn cat!”  

Philo shuts the door quietly and walks over to Smoky. He pats his head, and the cat closes his eyes. He’s purring loudly at the affection. Philo knew now that if he had a place of his own, he would get a cat. Some cats he saw on the streets were aggressive, and they’d hiss and claw at him when he tried to pet them. However, he had met many cats like Smoky, adventurous, sweet, and fun. He figured any cat could be like that, if it were shown enough kindness.  

After feeding Smoky, he headed down the alleyway. Sara’s apartment had road access, but Philo found it quicker to head through the alley and into the main street instead of walking around the block.  

Philo commonly picked up odd jobs in the city. He had no degree, and he was not a fan of office jobs. Especially since Eero talked his ear off about how rude his boss was. Odd jobs paid good money if you advertised well enough. Philo got around three or four jobs a week. Sometimes he would cut someone’s lawn, fix someone’s fridge, clean their house, walk their dog, or paint a room or two for them. He liked the variety of it.  

He found himself strolling into a neat little neighborhood, lined with short white picket fences and freshly cut lawns. Ms. Lang had asked him kindly to help her plant some flowers, something easy enough. She offered one hundred bucks to do her whole front yard.  

With the promise of that kind of money, Philo knew she must be well off. Either that or her yard was massive, and this job would be way harder than he anticipated. 

When he got to her house, it was thankfully a cute little thing. It was a light yellow, small and well-kept. There were plain bushes in the front before two windows; one on either side of the door. There was a small little mat underneath the front door that offered its friendliest welcome. 

Ms. Lang eagerly answered the door after Philo’s third knock. She was a small, dark-haired lady. To Philo, she looked in her near fifties. He almost wanted to laugh at how frail she looked. Was Sara suspicious of this old lady? 

“Hello! Are you Philo, my landscaper for today?” She beamed.  

“Yes ma’am.” Philo smiled just as wide.  

“Oh, great. Just give me a moment, and I’ll be back with the shovel and gloves. The flowers are in my garage. I’ll open the door for you, and then I’ll show you where I want them to go.” Ms. Lang explains, hands firm on her hips.  

Philo is quick to start his work once Ms. Lang has shown him where she wants the flowers. She stands a few feet behind him, watching intently as he digs a small spot for each flower. He then sets the flowers down, careful not to damage the roots, covers them back up, pats them down, and sprinkles some water over them.  

“Let me know if you need some water, okay? I know it’s hot out today.” Ms. Lang says. “Thanks again for helping me out. I can’t bend my knees too well anymore.” 

Philo offers her another genuine smile. 

“No problem, Ms. Lang.”  

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ☆ ☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ 

Once he was finished, Ms. Lang came back outside and approved of his work. Philo liked working with his hands, and he liked being outside. He liked the sun, and he liked smelling the flowers. Ms. Lang gave him his payment and a generous tip. Philo tried to refuse it, but Ms. Lang insisted.  

It was noon by the time Philo left Ms. Lang’s home, and he walked slowly on the sidewalk. Today had been a good day. Most of the time, his odd jobs were not as pleasant. Sometimes, the people expected more out of him than he realized. They would call him for a broken tile and then get mad when he wouldn’t offer to redo the whole kitchen floor. So, having a job like the one he had today was a nice breath of fresh air for him. 

Having earned more cash than he expected that day, Philo stopped by a cafe he used to frequent in college. He would always get the fanciest drinks, topped obnoxiously with whipped cream and dotted with chocolate chips. Today, he decided on an iced matcha latte that was way too expensive. 

He sat himself at a table outside the cafe, lounging out and resting his feet on the other chair in front of him. Sara went into work at the club around eight tonight, so he had to kill time until then. Philo did not want to see her again today, if he could manage it. He felt shameful enough about the night before, and when Sara got like that, the way she was this morning, she would only get worse throughout the day.  

Philo was not too sure how long he was sat there before someone else approached him. His latte was nothing but melted ice in his cup, and the sun had been blocked by a tall figure, hovering awkwardly around him until he was noticed.  

“Philo?” The voice said, unsure and questioning.  

Philo snapped his head up, eyes wide.  

Before him, stood a man he had not seen for over a year.  

“Rocket?”