Hook, Line and Single

by Marcia King-Gamble

  Normally I keep my weekly meetings to two hours; after that no one pays attention. I stab a finger at the first items on the menu.

  “I’ll have oatmeal, a toasted bagel with a dab of butter and one egg over easy.”

  “Be back in a jiffy,” the waitress says, ambling off.

  I ignore the pot marked Decaf and reach for the real stuff. I pour a cup that will put hair on my chest, add cream, none of that low-fat stuff for me, and a packet of Equal.

  Vance, who doesn’t drink coffee, has brought his own teabag, which he takes from his backpack. He pours a cup of water and plops the bag in. Lydia reaches for the decaf and fills her cup.

  I take a big gulp of coffee before passing out next week’s schedule. With the Thanksgiving holiday just around the corner, business is starting to pick up. I have a long list of people who need shopping done, some even require a meal cooked and served.

  Typically this time of year is my busiest. People always need house-sitting and pet-care services. It is the time of year when some real money comes in.

  I am in the midst of negotiating with Lydia who wants a week off, but had forgotten to mention it before, when a voice comes over my shoulder.

  “Marina, good to see you.”

  The voice has a familiar ring to it. Busted! Marina is one of my online names. My crew stares at me waiting for an explanation. I don’t want anyone knowing I have a cyber life.

  I glance over my shoulder and can’t immediately place the hulk smiling down at me.

  “Rick, remember?”

  A vague memory surfaces. He is the guy who claimed to be a hospital administrator. Although he doesn’t look like any administrator I know. After several e-mails Rick and I met at a diner; a place similar to this almost eight months ago. Rick had shown up all sinew and bulging muscles, in a muscle shirt and track pants. Gross. I mean, this is a first date, you are supposed to dress to impress.

  I’d taken one look at him and determined he was not for me. We’d talked for a few minutes and although he seemed to be a perfectly nice guy, I couldn’t get past that first impression. Those fleeting first moments are ever so crucial. Intelligent or not, I hated the Joe Jock look.

  “Marina?” Rick repeats again in case I haven’t heard him. “I can’t believe I’ve run into you.”

  “Marina,” Lydia repeats, sounding puzzled. Her gaze alternates between me and Rick. “Roxi, you’re holding out on us. Is that your real name?”

  I wish she’d shut the hell up. I’ve protected my identity fiercely and she’s blown it in just a few seconds.

  Rick leers down at me as if seeing me made his day. Today he is fully clothed and those bulging biceps are hidden in winter garb.

  “Marina, why didn’t you answer my e-mails? You never returned my calls. Did I say something? Do something?”

  I stand up and place a hand on one of those corded biceps. When I lead him away from the group he is still jabbering about how he thought I was deliberately trying to dump him. Maybe he isn’t so dumb after all.

  “Look, Rick, I’m in the middle of a meeting. Can I call you later?”

  “Sure. Call my cell phone.”

  Rick and I had spent less than an hour during our initial meeting together. For some that might seem a short time but to me it felt like days. We’d had coffee and I’d downed my drink as quickly as possible, glad that we’d not made plans for dinner.

  Rick’s physical appearance just does not do it for me. I like my men more understated.

  “I’ll call you,” I say, all wide-eyed and sincere, although fat chance of that happening.

  “You still have my number?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who was that?” Lydia asks after he leaves.

  “A friend.”

  Vance looks skeptical but keeps his mouth shut.

  We resume our discussion and focus on the week’s schedule. Lydia, manipulative as ever, is doing a lot of talking. She is working on getting the guys to pick up her slack so that she can have the week off to go to her family’s place on the Cape.

  Kazoo who has been more fidgety than I ever remember drops a bomb.

  “I have to give two weeks’ notice,” he says, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Why?” I ask, concerned that maybe there is a family crisis he hasn’t discussed.

  “I’ve accepted another job.”

  I hadn’t seen it coming. From the expression on everyone else’s faces, none of us had. Kazoo has never indicated he is unhappy. He is reliable and dependable and I take him for granted. I count on him because he always does what he is supposed to, never once complaining, and he resolves problems with minimal help.

  “You can’t abandon us,” Lydia wails. “We’re a team. Walking out on us is not an option.” Lydia sounds as if she is about to get hysterical. I suspect that Kazoo has picked up a lot of her slack and now she is panicked.

  Kazoo, remorseful, hangs his head.

  “Who with?” I pry.

  “A new business starting up.”

  I am instantly on the alert. “What new business?”

  I think he is ungrateful. Kazoo’s appearance initially did not inspire confidence. But I kept an open mind and he turned out to be a nice surprise. My soon-to-be-ex-employee has silver hair with black streaks and piercings everywhere. His arms and legs are wreathed in tattoos and he wears homeboy clothes.

  Kazoo can’t meet my eyes. I’m not about to let him off the hook.

  “Who owns this new business?”

  His eyes dart left then right. “SNI.”

  “You’re kidding! Service Not Incidental!” Lydia snorts. She sounds totally outraged. “That’s a new start-up operation.”

  I step in. “Kazoo, I wish you’d spoken to me before accepting.”

  He shutters his eyes. “I tried to, but they offered me more money.”

  “Who are they?”

  Kazoo’s mouth opens and then closes. Vance and Lydia wait to see what I’m going to do. We wait. Nothing more from Kazoo.

  “Okay, I’ll accept your resignation as of today,” I say, taking charge.

  “But I’m giving you two weeks notice, Roxi,” Kazoo pleads, sounding surprised that I am not ecstatic about him moving on.

  “Thank you but that’s not necessary. You no longer have a job.” I turn to Vance and Lydia for support. “If you know anyone who can take Kazoo’s place have them contact me. I’ll take on his duties until we find a replacement.”

  Gathering my paperwork, I shove it into my briefcase. I am really pissed. Someone is infringing on my territory and pilfering my employees.

  And I am bent and determined to find out who owns SNI.

  CHAPTER 5

  The moment I get home I begin calling everyone I know. But no one in my immediate circle seems to know who the owners of Service Not Incidental are. I begin punching in the numbers of business acquaintances I haven’t spoken to in years, hoping that someone might have a clue. I am willing to do just about anything to find out what I need to know. This is my livelihood we are talking about.

  Since no one knows anything, or if they do are reluctant to say, I am left with one option, call the company myself or find someone to call for me. I pick up the phone and call Margot.

  “Yes, Roxi?” she says as if she’s been expecting me.

  From the sound of her voice, Margot is on a high right now which means she’s been in contact with Earl. I decide to take advantage of her good mood before it passes.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” I say.

  “Sure. As long as it doesn’t require me getting into a car. I’m at the beauty salon getting my hair relaxed.”

  I tell her what I’ve heard and what I need.

  “No problem. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get back to you.”

  While I wait for Margot to call me back I turn on my laptop and scan my e-mail messages. I am feeling pretty good. I’ve picked up some new clients. I shoot them my standard welcome e-mail introducing myself and tel
ling them what they can expect from my service. I attach a copy of my contract and zap the messages into cyberspace.

  I go surfing, find a job site where I can post an ad, and describe that I need a friendly and dedicated customer-service type. I’ve learned a long time ago that experience does not necessarily mean service orientated. Attitude is not something you can train. I can’t just sit back and wait for my employees, Vance or Lydia, to find me help. In today’s world the only person you can rely on is yourself.

  I’ve just posted my ad when my cell phone rings. I check caller ID. Margot is already getting back to me.

  “What did you find out?” I quiz, before she can get the first word out.

  “You know a Karen Miller or Tamara Fisher?”

  “They sound vaguely familiar.” I am thinking.

  “They’re the owners of Service Not Incidental.”

  It clicks. I remember now.

  “Those lowdown dirty…” I swallow the cussword before it escapes. Talk about feeling betrayed.

  Karen Miller and Tamara Fisher were graduate students at Hofstra when I hired them a year or so ago. Their schedules weren’t that flexible and neither had worked with the public before. But they were bright, enthusiastic and definitely trainable, and I am a sucker for the underdog. I’d given them a shot and this is how they are paying me back.

  Why did I do it? Because I know what it’s like to be a starving college student. I have a starving college student of my own. I’d been flexible and accommodating with their schedules. I’ve always thought black folks should help each other out. Give each other a jumpstart.

  Less than three months later, Karen quit claiming she couldn’t keep up with her schoolwork. Tamara lasted another six weeks and then just disappeared. I’d been happy to see the last of her. She’d had one too many customer complaints and a history of absences. I hadn’t seen or heard from either since.

  “Where did they set up shop?” I snap, irritated that these two young women I helped were now competing against me.

  “You’re not going to like this,” Margot warns sounding cagey.

  “Just tell me.”

  “In Hempstead.”

  “That’s practically next door! First they steal one of my employees and now they’re after my customers.”

  This time I let the cuss words rip.

  “Don’t take my head off, I’m just the messenger. They’re offering a twenty-percent discount certificate to anyone signing up for their services. And they’re offering a holiday gift of one service free. ’Course that service has a price limit.”

  I cuss again. Now I need to come one better.

  These women are trying to put me out of business. I have to create my own marketing promotion and fast.

  “I made an appointment to come in and see their operation,” Margot said, loyal as ever and thinking ahead. “I told them I couldn’t commit to anything unless I met them in person.”

  “You rock, girl. Don’t tell me they have offices.”

  “Yup, in a renovated old house. In case you need it I wrote down the address and directions.”

  Karen and Tamara are definitely out to give me a run for my money. I have a home office, and it sounds as if they have rental space. Whenever I meet a client, I arrange to have lunch or coffee at a restaurant, so what I want to know is where a start-up business gets the money to lease an office, usually you need to cut down on overhead.

  They’ve taken out loans I guess, but it still galls me. It took me two years to make a profit on my business. And I’m still in no position to rent office space much less a whole house.

  Through clenched teeth I grind out, “Check the place out for me and ask lots of questions.”

  “You know I will.”

  The conversation shifts to other things. We begin to talk about the dinner party Margot invited me to on Christmas Day. It is one of those deals where you bring along a single friend. Since someone else invited her, I am the “single” friend.

  “We need to go shopping and get something hot to wear,” Margot suggests, her voice high.

  It doesn’t take much coaxing. Shopping has always been a favorite pastime of mine. Some people eat when they’re pissed. Not me, I shop.

  “Anyone at this dinner party worth meeting?” I ask.

  “If you mean men, Keisha claims she met a doctor at something similar.”

  “Keisha meets men when she’s taking out the garbage.”

  Margot’s friend dresses like a “ho,” and acts like a “ho.” Her clothes are so tight they look like a second skin. If her boobs aren’t hanging out, then it isn’t worth wearing.

  “How about we meet in a couple of hours? I should be out from under the dryer by then,” Margot adds.

  She’s never been one to let grass grow under her feet. The wheels are already grinding away in her head, and she is probably fantasizing about the doctor she thinks she will meet.

  “I’m thinking animal-print skirt and an off-the-shoulder sweater, maybe earrings that skim my shoulders, wonder if I should wear tights with my boots?” Margot jabbers, in one of her famous run-on sentences, “Warm, rich colors look good on me.”

  “Who’s driving?” I ask.

  “Me. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

  My cell phone rings. A customer, hopefully.

  Sadie DeVila is on the line. She is a big mucka-mucka with a software company and a major pain in the ass. Since Sadie spends most of her life on the road, she frequently needs my services. Usually she is looking for a house sitter to pick up the mail, water the plants and give the impression her place is occupied. Those jobs are usually tailor-made for Lydia. After I get done with Sadie I send Lydia a quick e-mail.

  I return a few phone calls from messages left earlier and then I check on those jobs that Kazoo was supposed to be handling. Luckily I have a handful of back-up employees on standby for situations like this.

  I call four before I finally get lucky. One of the women has just graduated college and is looking for a job. That means she needs money. I dangle the possibility of a permanent position in front of her and she bites.

  That takes care of one issue. Now it’s back to checking my personal e-mail. E-mail gets pretty addictive when you’re listed on a dating site. You’re pumped when someone new contacts you because you think each new prospect brings you one step closer to finding Mr. Right.

  I read my mail dutifully and scan the respective profiles and photos. None are going to set me on fire. But I respond anyway, giving the Cliff’s Notes version of my life. Then it’s back to work I go, making sure groceries are delivered to a client in Garden City.

  I check to make sure the plants at the Millers’ are watered and the housekeeper is doing what she is supposed to do. Now I still have an hour to kill before Margot shows up. I decide to take a nap and turn off the ringer on the phones, leaving the answering machine to pick up.

  What seems minutes later, I awake with the roar of a freight train running through my head. I punch the snooze button, glance at the bedside clock and damn near have a stroke. I am about to screw up royally, but at least Margot is late. I run a marathon getting dressed.

  While I am putting on my makeup, a horn blasts out front.

  I stick my head out the window letting in the chill November air and yell, “I’m coming.” Margot is sitting swaddled in furs behind the wheel of her Lexus. Around her, kids zip by on Rollerblades trying to get an evasive hockey puck into the net. The game is fast and furious.

  Malverne is one of these neighborhoods that draws both the middle and upper-middle class. It is home to executives sick of city living and those who prefer a simpler life with less stress. It is not normally a place where single women live. But I got the house and I have no plans of moving. We’re a mixed community, though whites outnumber blacks. But we’re cool here and race is not a major issue.

  Lindsay, my daughter, grew up in Malverne playing lacrosse and hockey along with basketball and soccer. She’s had sleepove
rs with kids of every ethnicity and she knows just about everyone in town and vice versa.

  Margot toots her horn again. This time I go flying out of the front door belting my leather coat, the strap of a Coach purse slung over my shoulder. I climb into the Lexus and angle my cheek for Margot’s air kiss. Eyes closed, I lie back on the headrest. “Whoosh!”

  “What took you so long?” she growls once I am settled.

  “I fell asleep. Pardon me for being human. Where are we heading?”

  “Roosevelt Field.”

  And with that we zoom off.

  Three hours later we are still trudging around the mall, arms laden with packages and feet beginning to ache.

  “We need to stop somewhere and get something cool to drink,” I suggest.

  We head into one of those fast-food joints that malls are famous for and take a seat. I order a milk shake—I deserve it I figure—and Margot orders coffee and a chunk of red-velvet cake. The place actually has it on the menu which surprises me.

  “I’m worried about this new company starting up,” I admit after I’ve had several slurps.

  “Why? You’re established. You’ve got a name.”

  Margot is only saying this to make me feel better.

  “There are two of them and one of me. Those women know how Wife for Hire works,” I wail.

  “They’re rookies. You know how to soothe the most difficult customers, and you’re expert at resolving issues in a diplomatic way.”

  I feel better. Margot, neurotic as she can be, suffers from the loyalty trait. You don’t find that in too many people these days.

  We talk about the outfits we’ve just bought and what would go with what. Then we convince ourselves we need shoes and cosmetics to really make them work. It turns into an evening of retail therapy and very well deserved. By the time Margot drops me off I am dragging.

  As soon as I walk into my house I spot the blinking red light on the answering machine and groan. I kick off my shoes, pour myself a glass of wine and decide that I might as well get it over with and find out who I have to call back.

  It’s Rick Jones, the guy I’d run into at the diner earlier. Unbelievable he still has my number.

  “Hey, princess,” he croons. “Sure was nice to see you again. I almost forgot how fine you are. I’d really like for us to get together. If you name a place I’ll take you there.”