This Halloween I’ll be 45 years old. When I was young the world was nothing but possibilities and open windows, but as I’ve grown older the windows have begun to close and the choices I didn’t make have been relegated to the trash bin. For good. I know I’ve only got so many years on this planet, and how much of that time I’ll actually be on my game or fully operational is an open question. So without sounding too dramatic, the decision to commit myself to Green Room during what should be my peak earning years wasn't made lightly.
You made a commitment, I told myself when I’d hung up my phone last Monday. Even if these guys turn out to be totally cool, you’re a writer now. Everything else is everything else--’til March.
Right. Those were the thoughts that rebounded round my head as I rode the train into Manhattan, stood in the elevator as it ascended to the 21st floor of the downtown skyscraper; and still later--in the recesses of my mind, as I pretended to give this guy Greg my full attention as he explained his company and the nature of my assignment.
“My partner couldn’t be here to meet you,” he told me when we met last Monday. “We’re so busy right now he had to handle some things in Queens. In fact, I’m going upstate in a few hours. But when you finish your field-work, email him your pics and statement, and call this number to dictate your report. There’s no rush on the actual reporting, our client just needs someone there within 48 hours since this is a special insured.”
As it turned out, I accepted the assignment since the location was just two train stops from my house and the hourly pay was at an inflated rate. Because of the urgency. The insured himself was somewhat of a local celebrity (he owns several popular restaurants), which was why the company was so anxious to get someone over there.
Of course the fact-pattern wasn’t quite as simple as I’d been led to believe (they never are), but our insured was well organized and I was able to secure his statement as well as the needed documentation that same evening. I phoned-in my dictation before I went to bed, so not only had I turned the whole case over in less than 6 hours, but my bill totaled just below the threshold that would disqualify me from my unemployment.
Nice work Lodo, now lets wake up early tomorrow to work on Green Room.
Next morning (last Tuesday), I awoke at about 9:30. As usual I got my coffee, fired-up the old computer, waited for it to boot-up when suddenly...
Ring,..ring.
Ring,...ring.
The caller I.D. read Number not Available, but I picked up the phone.
“This is Lodo.”
“Yes is this Lodo Grdzak?”
“That’s right.”
“Hey!--this is Martin _____ . You met with my partner Greg yesterday.”
“Oh, okay. Sure,” I told him as I pulled Green Room up on my monitor. “Did you get that stuff I sent you? That should be everything.”
“Yeah we got it, that’s why I’m calling. Listen Lodo, this is a hot report. My client’s gonna love this. And there was actually a lot more to it, eh? I’m impressed with how fast you got this thing out.”
“Good,” I replied absently as I read the portion of Green Room I’d written the day before. “And there’s no problem with my bill?”
“Well, its a little more than I’d like; but I mean, no complaints. You turned that over really fast.”
“Good. So,..I’ll keep an eye out for that check,” I said, anxious to hang-up and get back to writing.
“Okay Lodo, sure...,” Martin responded as though he’d expected me to say more. Only when he realized I was ‘bout to hang-up did he continue. “...Hey!--listen, Lodo. Geez, before you hang up. I’ve got something else you can handle if you want it. In fact, I’ve got a bunch of stuff I can give you if you want. Beefy stuff. Good billing. And clean--no gypsy cabs or any of that nonsense.”
I still didn’t stop proofreading or give him my full attention since investigations were in my past. I was a writer now.
“Naw Martin, “ I told him as I pondered the grammar of one of my sentences, “don’t get offended, but before I’d even consider it you’d have to agree to pay me that RUSH wage all the time.”
“I could do that,” he answered without hesitation.
I laughed as my fingers pecked away at my keyboard.
“Wow, well, I appreciate that--I’m flattered. But really, my days of traveling out to Queens and the Bronx and all those rough places are over. I’m getting old for that kind of thing.”
“Lodo, I’ve got a half-dozen cases right in your neighborhood. You want Brooklyn stuff, I’ll keep you in Brooklyn.”
I stopped typing.
“Well,...that sounds pretty good,” I answered hesitantly, “but...I mean; I’d have to get paid right away. Or, you know, within a week or two of my bills. I’ve had a lot of issues with getting paid on time--particularly at my last job. I can’t lay out...”
“Lodo, you want to come into the office right now? I’ll have a check for what you did yesterday on my desk. I’d like to meet you anyways. Maybe take you to lunch.”
I sighed heavily into the phone as I stared silently at the type-written paragraphs on the screen. I don’t know how long that lasted, but suddenly I heard Martin’s voice.
“...Geez Lodo, I’m trying to offer you a job here, but you act like you're getting the death penalty.”
EPILOGUE:
So long as I can have things my way, I don’t mind being an investigator. It’s a good match for my skill-set: I get to work alone, outdoors. Take lots of pictures. Write detailed reports. And by today’s diminished standards the money’s pretty good (had I not got this new job I could have stayed in New York ‘til March and still had some bank in my account).
With this new job, I work where I want and when I want. They tried to put me on straight salary, but I insisted on being independent. At 45 years old, my days of answering to a boss are over. Now we’re all just partners. Equals.
Still, New York’s New York. Rent isn’t cheap, I pay for my own health insurance, and if you don’t go out 2 or 3 nights a week, New York’s just a lonely, expensive place with high taxes and dogshit weather. So while no one can tell me to work 40 or more hours a week, reality is reality.
Last week I accepted three new assignments as I reluctantly put Green Room on the back-burner. An intermission you might say. The first case was at a well known bar in Red Hook, the 2nd was at a nail salon that employed about a dozen Asian women, and the third was at a yoga studio in Manhattan. They were all pretty simple; but there were a lot of instructors and students at the yoga studio and I had to take a lot of statements.
Course whenever you have three or more witnesses to an event there’s bound to be discrepancies in their stories, and this case was no exception. So as the studio owner sat with me throughout my interviews, convinced that she knew the whole story as to what had taken place, she was both amused and awed at the new information we uncovered in a few hours.
But eventually I completed my last interview and it was time to leave. I gave the owner another blank business card with my handwritten number, along with a checklist of things she should be prepared to produce. Then I loaded my cameras, recorders, and paperwork into my backpack.
“...You do this everyday?” the owner asked me as she watched me zip my bag and retrieve my Xootr. “You know, talk to people like us.”
“Pretty much,” I told her with a professional smile.
“You must know the city by heart, huh?” she asked with wide eyes as we walked down the stairs toward the exit.
“I doubt anybody knows it by heart,” I answered modestly.
“Well,..I bet you’ve got lots of interesting stories to tell, eh?” she asked as she extended her small, feminine hand to shake goodbye.
I had to laugh at that comment as our hands embraced,
“I suppose I've picked-up a few along the way.”
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