DISCLAIMER – I own no rights to Jill Valentine, Raccoon City, IHOP, etc., etc.

A/N – Many thanks to my roommate John and my friends Jimmy, Jake, and Joel.

YOU ARE FRED

By Sean M. Cogan

May

1998

I attempted to slick back my messy, sand-colored hair as I looked in the mirror. I took stock of myself: a few inches shorter than I would have liked to be, not in very good shape, and in an incredibly drab blue and gray outfit. I sighed.

"You are Fred," I said to my reflection.

I stepped outside of the dorm house and took a look around the RCU campus. A happy couple was strolling around the sidewalk and a few slackers were playing hacky-sack in the parking lot, but other than that the night was quiet. It was a humid night in Raccoon City. I looked at my watch. It was getting late, and I promised I'd meet my sister, Jill, at the local International House of Pancakes at ten o'clock.

I got into my car. Then, I reached into my fanny pack and removed my car key. I examined it. Then I used the car key on the ignition and the car started. The car key went back into its storage compartment in the fanny pack. I turned the air conditioner up as high as it would go (I couldn't roll down the windows, because I'd used duct tape on them to keep them shut a couple winters ago) and drove to the IHOP.

Jill stood up when I came through the front door. I could tell she had been getting impatient before I came in, but she put on a smile and we hugged. We were led to a table for two and sat down.

My sister obviously had just gotten off duty because she hadn't changed out of her S.T.A.R.S. uniform, complete with the bulging shoulder pads, her navy blue beret in her hand. S.T.A.R.S., of course, stands for Special Tactics and Rescue Squad, an elite division of the Raccoon City Police Department. Jill was still finishing her training at the police academy the last time I saw her, and now she was already becoming something of a local hero. The Star of the S.T.A.R.S.

I love my older sister, but I always got the impression everyone liked her better than me, even mom and dad. She brought home the better report cards in grade school. She's the one who actually finished piano lessons. (She must have played the Moonlight Sonata in every possible local talent show.) In high school, she was the pretty, popular girl everyone liked. And I was the annoying younger sibling. Now, she was a hero cop. And I was studying to be an accountant.

The waitress appeared out of nowhere, all of a sudden. Jill and I both ordered a cup of coffee.

When the waitress disappeared, Jill and I stared at the table top. She twisted her beret while I tried to think of something to say to her.

"I haven't seen you in a while," I finally said.

"Been busy," Jill replied. "Police stuff."

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

"How's school going?"

"It's . . . going. Finals are coming up soon. I'm kind of nervous."

"I'm sure you'll do fine." She unrolled her napkin and carefully examined each piece of silverware, mentioning that she found "nothing unusual" about each piece before moving on to the next one. "What are you studying again?"

Just then, the waitress reappeared with the coffee.

"Will you take the cup of coffee? Yes or no?" the waitress asked me.

"Yes," I said. "Of course. That's why I ordered it. So I could take it."

She poured the coffee and I reached for the sugar in the center of the table.

"You found some sugar," the waitress said. "There's only enough there for a few uses. Will you take some? Yes or no?"

"Sure," I said, a little bit confused by the waitress's concern.

I took the packet of sugar. I combined the cup of coffee with the packet of sugar in an attempt to make coffee with sugar. That's when I unrolled my napkin and realized there was no spoon.

"You can't combine those," the waitress said. "You don't have a spoon."

"It looks like they accidentally gave me two forks instead of a spoon," I said. "Could you please get me one?"

The waitress just gave me a dirty look.

"Don't worry, Li'l Bro," Jill said. "I always carry an extra spoon with me, just in case I manage to get myself in some sort of trouble in which I'd need an extra spoon."

"No," I said. "That's alright. I'm sure I can just borrow one from another table, or . . ."

But Jill was already taking a spoon from the storage compartment of her uniform. She handed it across the table to me.

"Take the silver spoon? Yes or no?" she said.

I sighed.

"I'll take it."

I used the spoon on my cup to make coffee with sugar.

"Would you like some pancakes? Yes or no?" the waitress said.

"Yes," I said.

"How many pancakes would you like? 1? 2? 3? 4? Or leave the plate empty?"

"Why would I want to leave the plate empty?" I said.

"Maybe so you can see what the plate looks like empty before you try anything else," Jill suggested.

"I'll just go with 2."

Jill ordered 4. She manages to be a champion pancake eater while still keeping in fighting form, more than able to pass S.T.A.R.S.' most rigorous physical examinations.

"Anyway," Jill said, when the waitress had gone for our pancakes, "if you get sick of Raccoon City U, I have a few friends in the Academy. Just say the word, and I can get you a job somewhere on the Force, just like that." She snapped her fingers, immediately drawing the attention of every man in the restaraunt, and a few jealous women.

"Jill, you don't have to . . ."

"There's nothing to worry about. As a Valentine, you'll be a shoo-in."

"It's not that. It's just, I don't want to be a cop. I mean, that's fine for you. But, I like numbers. I want to be an accountant."

"You're a whiz when it comes to math, Fred. But I always thought you could do something more worthwhile in your life. You know. Help people."

"Accountants do help people, Jill."

"Help them what?"

"Accountants help people . . . well, count!"

The waitress brought our pancakes. Jill took the blueberry syrup and combined it with her pancakes. I took the hot maple syrup the waitress had brought to the table and combined it with my pancakes. Jill and I tried to make small talk here and there, but mainly we ate our pancakes and sipped our coffee in silence.

When my cup was empty, I flagged down the waitress.

"There's half a pitcher of coffee left," the waitress said. "Refill your cup? Yes or no?"

"Yes," I said.

The waitress poured for Jill and me.

"There is not a single drop of coffee left," the waitress then said.

I reached for the sugar in the center of the table again.

"You can no longer sweeten your coffee," the waitress said.

"What do you mean?" I asked, motioning to the still-full server of sugar packets. "There's plenty of sugar left."

"You can no longer sweeten your coffee," the waitress repeated.

"But there's . . ." I tried to argue, once again motioning to the sugar packets.

"You can no longer sweeten your coffee," the waitress repeated.

I groaned in surrender and sipped my coffee black. Jill was already halfway finished with her second cup, as she always took hers black, anyway.

"Seriously, Fred," Jill said. "If you get sick of this math and business stuff, I'm sure they could use you at the Academy."

"Thanks, sis," I said. "But I just want to finish up school, graduate, and become a CPA."

Jill put on a smile again, but I could tell she was disappointed in me.

The waitress brought the check. I picked it up and read it. Then I opened up my fanny pack to use my credit card.

"It is not necessary use that now," the waitress said.

"I'm just trying to pay for my meal."

"It is not necessary use that now."

"Why do you say it like that? If you don't accept Discover card as payment, just say so."

"It is not necessary use that now."

"It's okay," Jill said. "I brought cash."

"No," I said, reaching into another compartment. "I can take care of this."

But Jill had already taken out a wad of cash and paid for both of our meals, plus the tip.

I walked with Jill to the door and then we hugged again. Then my sister, Jill Valentine, passed through the door and into the night.

A/N – More later . . .