“A delivery.” I responded, dumbfounded. “You just told me that you run a house. Sorry. House, with a capital H. You run a House that exists outside of time and space, and you want me to run a delivery? Can’t you hire a courier service?”

Carver swapped a look with Sterns. “I could, I suppose. If you refuse, I’ll consider it. But Daniel, when I said that you met certain requirements…well. Let’s just say that you being a delivery driver was quite amusing to some of the staff, but it wasn’t even on the list.”

“Hilarious.” Sterns added. For the first time all night, his undivided focus seemed to be on the conversation, even though the bar was starting to get quite full behind us. “Gardener laughed himself so silly he had to replant one of the flower beds.”

“Yes yes, Sterns. It was a rousing good joke. But it was an accident. Archie spent a good deal of effort on this, you know.”

I recovered my composure enough to interject. “And he came up with me?”

“Yes, Daniel. He came up with you.”

“Any other hopefuls?” I had been working delivery for about six years, but I remembered the job search process. Dozens of applications for one interview. It’s a necessary hazard of living on a planet with nearly eight billion other people. In a city of several million.

Carver sighed, letting out a puff of air. “There’s always a few hopefuls, yes. But ultimately the decision came down to me. And I chose you, Daniel.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Yes. But at this stage of the conversation, I cannot. The qualities I was looking for have to do with the nature of the House. The nature of all the Houses. You aren’t allowed to know about those just yet. I can give you the short version, which is that in a lot of ways you remind me of myself, or the version of me from before I ever set foot on the Lane.”

“What, you drove delivery for Boxes N Stuff?”

“Well, driving was rather different in that time, and Boxes N Stuff was…” he looked at Sterns, who shrugged. “A couple hundred years from being established, give or take. I was an errand boy. Later, I was a manservant. Or, I believe the modern term of preference is valet” He pronounced the t in valet, like in British television or that show Archer. Val-it.

“So what, you’re immortal?”

“Not immortal. I age. I just happen to only age when I leave the Lane. Since I sleep there and take most of my meals there and do much of my work there, I’ve experienced roughly four hundred years of history, from your perspective.”

“Huh. Does that only apply to the Master of the House, or can guests extend their live by say…coming over for a game of pool twice a week?”

Carver chuckled, shaking his head. “Billiards was never much my thing. It was a rich man’s game, and I was not a rich man until I came to the House. Darts, perhaps. Or dice.”

“So it would work?”

“It would work, yes. But Daniel, we’re getting a little off point here. I’m looking to hire you. One delivery, to start. I’d like to retain your services a little longer, after it’s finished. You can be my personal assistant. The pay is good, I assure you.”

“I have a job. I’m pretty sure it has a no moonlighting clause in my contract.”

“We would be willing to work with your schedule. And as your employer has no access to the Lane, I suspect they would have difficulty proving you were moonlighting. If you like, I can send one of the staff to negotiate a special arrangement for you, to keep everything neat and within contract.”

I thought about Porter, in his natural appearance, walking into the local headquarters to hold negotiations with whatever corporate stooge they had placed in charge of the city. I almost told Carver to do it just for the mental image. Instead, I said, “No, that’s alright. I’ll talk to my manager. Tell her I’m doing odd jobs in the evenings, make a little extra cash. Pay off my car, my student loans. She’s understanding.”

“Splendid. We should get down to details at another time, though. One last round, I think. I’ll get it.” With that, he rose, smoothed his mustache, and went to the bar. A moment later, he and the bartender were laughing about something. Carver, it seemed, made friends easily.

Sterns was staring at me at this point. Doing my best not to imagine the natural form of the hob, I returned his gaze. He broke the silence first. “He likes you. Mister Carver, that is. Archie, too. Mister Carver didn’t mention it, but Archie recommended you foremost even before Mister Carver got the position. She’s got a good eye for this sort of thing.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’ll turn out okay. But I’m not letting you behind the wheel of any House cars until you’ve had a proper lesson with me and Driver.”

“What’s wrong with my driving? I’ve been doing it for over a decade.” I felt a little defensive about it. I had an excellent record. No tickets since adulthood. Not even parking.

“It’s fine for the work you do. Got no flair to it, though. You drive like a drudgeon.”

“So I guess I’ll be doing this delivery in my own car, then?”

“Mostly you’ll be doing it on foot. The House may have kept up with the latest technology, but the Lane as a whole hasn’t.”

“Wait. I’m delivering to another House on the Lane? Shouldn’t Carver--sorry, Mister Carver--have mentioned that?”

“Yes. And he will. It’s not a grand secret or anything. Look, your situation is…unique. The House hasn’t needed help from outside the Lane in a long time. Mister Carver has never had to hire someone like you before. Neither did his predecessor. I was scarcely in my second century the last time it happened. Everyone’s kinda…making it up as they go. Poor Archie. She just started, you know.”

“What’s Archie short for?” I asked. “I mean, if she’s House staff, and she’s as old as you say, she must be a hob also? Or…is that insensitive? I’m not exactly sure how to manage my biases with uhhh…” I floundered for a polite expression, “Non-humans.”

“Eh, you’re doing better than most when they first meet my kin. Not great. We can work on it. For starters, it isn’t polite to make assumptions about someone’s species. You can ask ‘what type of kin are you?’, once. Only when you first meet a kin. Don’t ask ‘are you a hob?’.”

“Okay, what type of kin is Archie?”

“Oh, she’s a hob. Everyone in our House is a hob, to save you a little trouble. Saving, of course, for Mister Carver. And you, if you get hired on.”

“And uh…Mister Carver mentioned that for the house staff, name and profession are pretty much the same?”

“Yeah. There’s exceptions, like myself. And you know…hobs ain’t immutable like golems or hamadryads. We can learn more than one trade. But to a human perspective, yeah. Name and profession, all one and package deal.”

“So…Archie?”

“Short for Archivist. A lot of the younger hobs, myself included, choose a nickname. Helps when we have to come out of the Lane, like today.”

“But it’s still…related to your job.”

Sterns gave me a stern look, working his jaw up and down. “Aye. It’s in our nature. I wouldn’t expect a human to get it, but you’re verging on being unneighborly, Mister Daniel.”

I decided to drop the subject. I checked on Carver. He was miming a golf swing. Must be telling the bartender a story. Sterns returned to bar-watching. He seemed mostly to enjoy watching new people come in.

“The House.” I started. Sterns turned back toward me. “What is its…role? Mister Carver said he did most of his work in the Lane. What, exactly, does that mean? If he decides to hire me as his personal assistant, what sort of work will I be doing?”

“You got Houses out here in the realis, yeah?”

“I think so. I mean, not here. Or not officially. But some parts of Europe. Great Britain, for sure. I want to say there are others.”

“What’s their job?’

“Uh…I’m not sure. Once upon a time,” I paused, considering the ages in play here. Sterns was over two-hundred years old, according to Carver. Carver had seen four centuries of human history. “Well, once upon a time from my perspective. It would have been during your first century, I guess.” Sterns nodded, hrming in his throat.

“It used to be that the houses were in charge of different regions. Each house would report to a bigger house, and so on, until it reached a king? It’s been a while since I read up on feudalism.”

“And now? What’s the job of the Houses of, say, Great Britain these days?” Sterns prompted, leaning forward.

“I’m not sure. They have something to do with the government. Representation of their former holdings. But mostly, I think they just…exist. Their job is to make sure they keep existing.”

Sterns nodded. “Exactly,” he concluded, then leaned back in his chair. People watching. I rotated slightly in my chair and joined him.

By the time Carver finished his story, I had seen three groups enter and four groups leave. I was a little surprised at the variety of people coming in. A group of middle-aged factory workers, still wearing work boots,  trundled in right behind a man who looked like he could buy my whole apartment complex as an afterthought. They both seemed perfectly in place, and shockingly, when they all wound up at the same table due to the bar being at this point full, they all seemed to hit it off. A group of hipsters at the next table were swapping hot sauce recipes with a pair of tech nerds. I looked around some more. Every table, every cluster of chairs, seemed like it was a meeting of different cultures. In a way, it made me proud. Humanity on display. When you gave them half a chance, they remembered that we all shared the space and they found common ground.

My philosophizing was short-lived, though. Carver returned, this time with three champagne flutes. He passed one each to Sterns and I.

“I’m afraid I have little taste for French champagne, so I ordered us a nice prosecco instead.” He offered, moving to stand in front of his seat. “Now then, let’s have a nice toast. To Daniel’s new job.” He raised his glass. I stood, joining him. I tried to think of a response. The best I came up with was “To Mister Carver’s generosity.” He seemed to like it. Sterns offered “To the House.”

We all drained our glasses. For another hour and another two glasses (what must my tab look like now?), we swapped stories about the latest television shows and the first games of the basketball season. I wasn’t much for following either, but it seemed comfortable to talk about them with others.

I arranged to go to the House over the next weekend to discuss the nature of my delivery. Carver promised me that Porter would be more sensitive to the idea of a human visiting. I reassured him that now that I knew what to expect Porter needn’t take human shape for my sake.

When the conversations were growing long and I started to get tired, I excused myself and went to pay my tab. The bartender handed my ID back instead, explaining that Carver had covered my whole tab for the evening. I dropped a tenner into his tip jar anyway.

As I left, Sterns met me at the door and handed me an envelope made from heavy, coarse paper. “Mister Carver wants you to have this. He suggests you read it when you get home.”

Grinning and slightly tipsy, I took it and clapped Sterns on the shoulder. The stout man. Excuse me. The hob-in-the-shape-of-a stout man returned the gesture. I strode out into the chilly air of the night and began to walk home.