by Chris Kenry
“Okay,” Tina said, moving in front of the desk and deftly crossing her legs at the ankles. She looked at her watch and did a five-second countdown.
“The bitch session starts ... now!”
Eager hands shot up. She looked up and around and then pointed to Antonio and Victor. As usual, Antonio did all the talking while Victor sat nodding, sometimes prodding Antonio and whispering in his ear.
“We’re having a bad week,” Antonio said. “Kinda good and kinda bad, ya know? Like, we got tons of business, and we just pumped a lot of the ... what you call it, capital? into some new tools that we needed and a newspaper ad, so that’s good, eh? But the bad is that now we got axed from our biggest contractor ’cause we don’t got insurance.
“I’ll get some,’ I says to him, but then I find out, damn, that shit’s expensive, we ain’t got the money for it.”
They both shrugged their shoulders helplessly and looked to Tina.
Tina nodded. “That’s a tough one,” she said, drumming her long red nails rapidly on the desk. “But at least you paid for your ad and you got some tools, right?” They nodded.
“Contractors are nice ’cause they give you steady work, but you gotta have insurance.... Well, okay, then you can’t work for them until you get some more capital built up to get the insurance, right?” They nodded again.
“So who can tell them what they need to do?” she asked, scanning the room and eventually calling on Sharise, who was not paying attention. Sharise looked startled, and mulled over the problem for a moment; then she turned and looked back at Antonio and Victor.
“It seems to me you gotta go back to some smaller jobs maybe, see what you can get from your newspaper ad, and try to build up some capital again.” They nodded, but didn’t look happy.
“I know it’s a drag,” Tina said, “but sometimes you gotta take one step back for every two forward, okay?”
She looked around the room again at the upraised arms.
“Salvatore,” she called out, pointing at the little bug of a man, dressed, as ever, in his black suit.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, folding his hands neatly on the table, his manner still that of the gentle mortician.
“I too am having problems,” he said, clearing his throat. “I too have invested all of my capital in new equipment: video cameras, light meters, tripods, and the like, but these things are now in danger of being repossessed because I haven’t any customers. I’m certain there will be more weddings in the summer, but now the market is not doing well and I’m afraid I’m going to be forced to take a small job I’ve been offered at a cemetery.”
“Okay,” Tina said, as consolingly as one can say okay, “that doesn’t sound good, does it, class? But it can be. You’re learning, Salvatore, just like Antonio and Victor. One step back for every two forward. What should he do, class?”
Antonio and Victor both raised a hand.
“Take the graveyard job, bro,” said Victor.
“Take any job, but keep your equipment,” said Antonio, “and while you’re diggin’ graves or planting flowers or whatever, think about how you can get some more customers.”
“Excellent,” said Tina. “If you’re just focusing on weddings, maybe your market is too small. Take your downtime to reassess what you’re doing; think of other things you could do.”
Salvatore nodded thoughtfully and scribbled some notes on his legal pad.
“Millie,” Tina said, pointing at the woman to whom I had recently started paying twenty-five dollars every three days to do my laundry. She stood up.
“I think I have a different problem,” she said. “I’ve got lots of work, almost too much! I’m doing some washing and ironing, and I did go around to those vintage stores, like you all said, and handed out my cards for alterations and repairs, and I’ve had lots of responses for that, but I think that’s my problem—I’m so busy I don’t have any time to do my own sewing.”
“Millie, girl, I hear you,” Sharise said, nodding eagerly. “I’ve got no time! And Lord, I’m getting scared. I’m working so much and I still have to take care of my daughter and try and keep track of all the money coming in and going out and my taxes and, ohhh ...” She buried her face in her hands at the thought of it all.
“Take a deep breath, ladies.” Tina chuckled, although none of the rest of us found it very funny and threw her hostile glances. “Everybody take a deep breath.”
“I’m good at what I do,” Sharise continued, “but I’m getting too much, and that’s dangerous because I have to stay on top of the technology, and I can’t do that when I’m bustin’ ass on all the busywork.”
“Yes!” said Millie, identifying with the term. “Busywork!”
I thought of what Ray had said the Sunday before about his neglected artwork.
“Okay, hang on to those thoughts—we’ll deal with them today, I promise—but let’s get through everyone’s troubles first.” She pointed to me. “Jack.”
I looked up and quickly swallowed my mouthful of doughnut.
“Oh, I’m doing good,” I said. “I’m busy, but I don’t mind because I’m really getting my debt down, which as all of you know is nothing less than a miracle. If anything I wish I had more time to fit more people in. I feel like I could make more money if there was another me, and if I had someone to take care of the bookkeeping and taxes and the scheduling. Especially the scheduling.”
Again everyone nodded. “Okay, sounds like the same things Sharise and Millie are dealing with. Good, I think that’s everyone.”
She turned her back to us and rummaged around in one of her boxes, eventually pulling out several half-inch-thick packets. She counted them and then teetered her way around the tables, dropping one at each of our places.
“Now, I know some of you will think this is useless information, okay, but I guarantee as time goes by you’ll need it. Others—Millie, Jack, Sharise—this could be the answer to some of your problems.”
I looked down at the packet. “State and Federal Regulations Governing the Hiring and Firing of Employees.”
We all looked up, perplexed.
“Whoa!” said Sharise. “I don’t know about this.”
“Employees!” cried Millie, and looked up at Tina as if she had suggested the hiring of trained hamsters.
“Be patient,” Tina said, and flipped open her booklet to page one.
I thought again about Ray. He was clearly as overwhelmed as Millie and Sharise, and as for me, I did honestly wish there was another me so that I could bring in more money. I opened the booklet eagerly.
For the next hour and a half we talked about budgets and cash-flow projections and how much of a wage we could pay and still maintain a profit. We did some figuring, and Millie actually began to look hopeful, like maybe this employee thing wasn’t so farfetched. Then Tina pulled the bottom out and told us about how much more money we would need to have to cover state taxes, and federal taxes, and Social Security, and worker’s compensation. We did some more figuring, silently, and then one by one looked up at Tina resentfully, as a child might look at a teasing parent waving a piece of candy at an impossible height.
“Man, this sucks,” said Sharise. “If I did the math right, I’m coming out way in the hole. Now you’re telling me that if I want to pay someone six bucks an hour, I’m really going to have to pay twelve or thirteen because half of it goes to the government!”
Tina nodded, smiling. “Welcome to the legal world of business.”
“Fuck that,” Antonio said, crumpling up his sheet full of figures, and tossing it on the floor. “I’ll just pay ’em under the table.”
Again Tina smiled calmly, evidently prepared for this response.
“Okay, suppose you do that, pay your workers under the table. What do you do when it comes time to pay your taxes—or worse, what if you get audited? How are you gonna account for that missing money? Are you gonna let your employees take the money while you pay the taxes on it?”
He puzzled
a minute.
“I just wouldn’t tell the IRS I made that much money.” Antonio smiled. “I just tell ’em I made less than I actually did. I done it before and they never caught me.”
“Well, yes, you could do that,” Tina said wearily, “but we’re teaching you how to run a legal business and keep out of trouble, and besides, you’re wanting to work for big contractors, right?”
He and Victor looked at each other and nodded.
“Okay, well, those big contractors have big accountants, who are going to report every penny they pay you to the IRS. The same pennies you use to pay your workers. How are you suddenly gonna say you made less than what the accountant says you made?”
Antonio said nothing. Victor nudged him. “She’s right, homie.”
She let us stew in our misery for a minute longer. Millie wept quietly.
“Does anyone see a solution here?” Tina asked. “It’s hidden in what we were just talking about.”
None of us said anything, unable—and at this point unwilling—to play her stupid games, feeling betrayed and wondering why she’d spent the last half hour inflating our hopes, only to gleefully stab them with a sharp pin.
“Yes, Salvatore,” she said, pointing to where he was seated at the back of the room.
“Ma’am,” he said softly, “it would seem to me that the answer lies in the word ‘contractor.’”
We all looked back, confused.
“Exactly!” Tina said, clapping her hands together. “And why the contractor?”
“Well,” Salvatore continued nervously, all eyes on him now, “as I see it, and I may very well be incorrect, he, the contractor, has managed to place the burden of paying taxes onto the employees.”
“Oh, Salvatore, excellent! I was wondering if you were with us this morning; you’re always so quiet there in the back. Excellent. Okay, now do the rest of you see that? The contractor hires subcontractors to do the work for him and has them take care of their own taxes. Also, if you subcontract you don’t have to pay worker’s compensation.”
We all gave a sigh of relief.
“Well, why doesn’t everyone do that, then?” asked Sharise skeptically.
“Okay, good question!” She turned her back again and removed more papers from her box, giving us each a two-sided list of the subtle differences between an employee and a subcontractor, which we went through line by line.
“Okay, now it is very important to follow these requirements if you decide to subcontract work because the people down at Workman’s Comp don’t like this loophole one little bit, and if they catch you crossing the line, if they can prove you really have an employee instead of a subcontractor, they’ll hit you with everything they’ve got: every penalty, every charge, all the interest, and you’ll be out of business so fast it will make your head spin.”
We trudged on through the list for the remainder of the class time, but once we’d finished I still had questions. Subcontracting people seemed the natural solution to my problems and Ray’s. It would give me more time to run the business and bring in more money, and give Ray the free time he wanted, but how would I go about finding subcontractors? How would I front the business? What facade could I use? And then how would I do the books? All valid questions to which I needed answers, but questions I was wary of voicing in class, afraid I would slip up and reveal the truth that I was not, as they all thought, a personal trainer, but a personal hooker. I needed to talk to someone who had a good business sense but who also knew what I was doing.
Naturally, I thought of Hole.
After class, I stepped outside, lowered my sunglasses, and looked at my watch: ten-thirty. I didn’t have an appointment until noon, so I walked down to Sixteenth Street, caught the shuttle, and headed to lower downtown. I thought maybe I ought to have called first, but he’d either be home or he wouldn’t, and if he wasn’t, maybe Andre would be home and we could go for coffee.
When I got there, I buzzed Hole’s apartment and was let into the building without any questions as to my identity. I walked to the apartment door, knocked, and was admitted by a large, barrel-shaped man, whom I immediately recognized, despite the addition of a handlebar mustache, as my old partner in misery, Marvin.
“Marvin?” I asked, and he looked at me for a moment, puzzled. “It’s me, Jack, from Cardmember Authorizations....” His face lit up with recognition and he grabbed me in a crushing hug. Then he pulled back and clasped his hands together in a feminine gesture of surprise.
“Oh, Jack! What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m a friend of Ho—Frank’s. I just stopped by to see him. I didn’t call, so he’s not expecting me. Is he here?”
“Yes, I think he’s napping tho—”
Hole’s shrill voice called out from the bedroom: “Who the fuck can sleep with all that goddamned noise!”
Marvin and I smiled at each other. He ushered me in, closed the front door, and then tiptoed his large frame over to the bedroom door and pulled it shut with a thud.
“But what are you doing here?” I asked him.
“I’m the nurse’s aide,” he said cheerfully. “The regular nurse quit yesterday. I guess Mr. Crabby in there had a little tantrum and threw an oxygen bottle at him, so they sent me until they can find a new one.”
We talked for a while, and he told me how he’d been fired from the authorizations job for showing up late and had been doing “this and that” since then—“You know, cleaning some houses, walking some dogs, things like that.”
“Who the hell are you talking to!” Hole cried from behind the door, and I saw the knob twist slowly back and forth, never with enough force to actually disengage it. Marvin rolled his eyes. I smiled and went over to the bedroom, giving Marvin a little pat on the shoulder and a look that said We’ll talk later.
I knocked on the door and opened it. Hole looked up and smiled.
“Oh, it’s you! I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, eyeing the fading bruise on my cheek. “Ray told me about your trouble the other night. Come in, come in. And shut that door!”
He shuffled over and sat down at his desk, which was covered with neat piles of papers and receipts. I looked around the spartan room for something to sit on.
“There’s a stool in the closet,” he said. I went and retrieved it and seated myself next to him.
“I’m trying to do some paperwork,” he whined, “but big sissy out there won’t let me close the door—in case I fall, or some stupid crap—so I have to listen to all his fuckin’ soap operas, and game shows on that fuckin’ TV, which is a helluva lot better than havin’ it off, because then I have to listen to him mince around singin’ some goddamned show tune. Why do they keep sending me guys like that! This is his first and his last day, that’s for sure!”
Poor Marvin, I thought. But that was not why I was here, and I twiddled my thumbs as I thought how best to approach the subject.
“I like your Ray,” he said teasingly. “That boy’s a real catch!” He looked up to catch my response. I smiled weakly.
“You’re not playing matchmaker in your old age, are you?” I asked, patting him on the shoulder. He raised what was left of one eyebrow and grinned slyly. I thought of Ray and his reaction the other day after the attack, and felt confused. I was thrilled to discover the depth of his feelings for me, but scared for the same reason. I knew I felt strongly for him, but what exactly that meant, I didn’t know. I shook my head, willing it away, for the moment at least.
“Actually, I did come for some of your help,” I said, leaning forward, “but not in matters of the heart.” And I related to him the topic of that day’s class, and my desire to legally subcontract people, and to learn more about bookkeeping, and taxes, and how to do payroll.
“I know you’ve done all that for your own businesses,” I said, “so I was hoping maybe you’d help me out with some of it. I really want to do it right.”
He listened intently, but when I’d finished he switched off the oxygen and lit a
cigarette.
“You do realize,” he said, exhaling a gray stream of smoke, “that what you’re doing, no matter how you paint it, is prostitution?”
I nodded.
“And of course you know it’s illegal?”
“Well, yes, but—” I was silenced by his upheld hand.
“Now I know you’re not stupid, Jack, but do you mind telling me why you want to set up a legal structure for an illegal business? That’s like robbin’ a bank and then sending in taxes on the money you stole.”
“So you won’t help me,” I whined, in the piteous voice I’d always used when I was in trouble with Paul.
“Good Christ,” he said with faint disgust, evidently surprised that such a pathetic tone could come from my mouth. “I didn’t say that! I just want to know why. I mean, if you wanna set up some dummy front so you have something to report to the IRS, I can definitely help with that, but there’s no need to go overboard and pay everything you owe.”
I sat there silently, watching his smoke as it rose into the afternoon light, and considered my classmates: a roomful of welfare losers and me one of them—or at least so I’d thought at first. I considered how the class we’d all agreed to take because it would exempt us from having to do the Job Search program had invested a belief in us, had given us all a goal, something important to fight for, and how for the first time in our lives we were all trying to succeed. Were all trying to play by the rules. I thought of my father then too, and how I still wanted to prove something to him, and then again, I thought of Ray. I saw him sitting on the bed, excitedly explaining his dreams and ideas, and the faith he had in me to be a part of them. I wanted to do things right for once. Or at least see if I could.