tasteful. Her hair stretched down to her waist in waves–the kind that nature stubbornly refuses to create. Our mystery woman must have spent hours on her appearance every morning.
I staked out my brother’s house exactly one week after the day and time my mother had first spotted our blond Amazon. She exited his residence at roughly two P.M. There was no passionate embrace, but I did observe a warm hug that lingered longer than I thought appropriate. I was about to follow the mystery woman when my dad phoned from the office.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“In the Tenderloin, stocking up on a few rocks 1 so I don’t have to drive back later,” I replied.
I think it’s important that the parents of a thiry-two-year-old daughter should not expect to know her whereabouts at all hours of the day.
“When you’re done scoring crack, can you please come into the office? You have a three thirty appointment with a new client.”
“How come I didn’t know about it?”
“Because the call came in on the same day as Rule #22 2 and your mother just put it on your calendar without mentioning it.”
“Oh, I should start checking that more.”
“I agree.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a few minutes. I need to get high first.”
My plan to tail the big blonde was foiled and instead I picked up my drugs (coffee) and headed back to Spellman headquarters to have an utterly painful meeting with Jeremy Pratt—screenwriter, filmmaker, painter, video artist, guitarist, freelance reviewer, and Francophile. 3 I didn’t ask Jeremy whether his enthusiasm for France extended to speaking the language, mostly because Jeremy was really good at elaborating without any encouragement.
Before I launch into a hearty complaint about my new client, I’d like to file an official one regarding my mother. At Spellman Investigations, like many police departments, the investigator who answers the call has officially “caught” the case. My mother answered Jeremy’s call and made an executive decision, based on Jeremy’s age and my mother’s ability to convince my father to agree with her on almost any subject under the sun, that I should take the case since such a “youthful” client would respond better to a younger investigator.
I entered through the office window in case the client was already waiting in the foyer. I wanted at least the preliminary information from my mother before my first meeting with Jeremy began. Mom made it sound so simple and easy and maybe even fun. But she’s evil that way.
Jeremy, as Mom explained, is an amateur screenwriter who used to work with a writing partner named Shana Breslin. They parted ways over artistic differences and couldn’t come to any official custody agreement on the script, and so their contentious collaboration was doomed to fall into the gaping abyss of unproduced screenplays. Or so it seemed, until Jeremy heard rumblings about meetings in Los Angeles and Shana landing an agent. I first asked my mother the obvious question:
“How is an unemployed screenwriter going to pay our fee?”
“He lives off a monthly stipend provided by his well-to-do parents.”
“No regular job?” I asked.
“No,” my mother replied.
“Not even at a coffee shop?”
“No.”
“I hate him already.”
“I know,” Mom said, smiling wickedly. “Me too!”
I cleared my desk and told my mother to make herself disappear. The layout of the Spellman offices (I should really use the singular form—it’s one large room) prevents private client meetings unless the room is vacated by other employees. Mom slipped into the basement, where we hide one desk, a paper shredder, and a DVD player. The room is dark, damp, and depressing; we keep our visits down there to a minimum. When I was a kid, that’s where all my punishment hearings were held. But I digress. Back to my new nemesis, 4 Jeremy Pratt.
The Snowball Effect
I estimated Jeremy’s age to be somewhere between twenty-four and twenty-five. He
I staked out my brother’s house exactly one week after the day and time my mother had first spotted our blond Amazon. She exited his residence at roughly two P.M. There was no passionate embrace, but I did observe a warm hug that lingered longer than I thought appropriate. I was about to follow the mystery woman when my dad phoned from the office.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“In the Tenderloin, stocking up on a few rocks 1 so I don’t have to drive back later,” I replied.
I think it’s important that the parents of a thiry-two-year-old daughter should not expect to know her whereabouts at all hours of the day.
“When you’re done scoring crack, can you please come into the office? You have a three thirty appointment with a new client.”
“How come I didn’t know about it?”
“Because the call came in on the same day as Rule #22 2 and your mother just put it on your calendar without mentioning it.”
“Oh, I should start checking that more.”
“I agree.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a few minutes. I need to get high first.”
My plan to tail the big blonde was foiled and instead I picked up my drugs (coffee) and headed back to Spellman headquarters to have an utterly painful meeting with Jeremy Pratt—screenwriter, filmmaker, painter, video artist, guitarist, freelance reviewer, and Francophile. 3 I didn’t ask Jeremy whether his enthusiasm for France extended to speaking the language, mostly because Jeremy was really good at elaborating without any encouragement.
Before I launch into a hearty complaint about my new client, I’d like to file an official one regarding my mother. At Spellman Investigations, like many police departments, the investigator who answers the call has officially “caught” the case. My mother answered Jeremy’s call and made an executive decision, based on Jeremy’s age and my mother’s ability to convince my father to agree with her on almost any subject under the sun, that I should take the case since such a “youthful” client would respond better to a younger investigator.
I entered through the office window in case the client was already waiting in the foyer. I wanted at least the preliminary information from my mother before my first meeting with Jeremy began. Mom made it sound so simple and easy and maybe even fun. But she’s evil that way.
Jeremy, as Mom explained, is an amateur screenwriter who used to work with a writing partner named Shana Breslin. They parted ways over artistic differences and couldn’t come to any official custody agreement on the script, and so their contentious collaboration was doomed to fall into the gaping abyss of unproduced screenplays. Or so it seemed, until Jeremy heard rumblings about meetings in Los Angeles and Shana landing an agent. I first asked my mother the obvious question:
“How is an unemployed screenwriter going to pay our fee?”
“He lives off a monthly stipend provided by his well-to-do parents.”
“No regular job?” I asked.
“No,” my mother replied.
“Not even at a coffee shop?”
“No.”
“I hate him already.”
“I know,” Mom said, smiling wickedly. “Me too!”
I cleared my desk and told my mother to make herself disappear. The layout of the Spellman offices (I should really use the singular form—it’s one large room) prevents private client meetings unless the room is vacated by other employees. Mom slipped into the basement, where we hide one desk, a paper shredder, and a DVD player. The room is dark, damp, and depressing; we keep our visits down there to a minimum. When I was a kid, that’s where all my punishment hearings were held. But I digress. Back to my new nemesis, 4 Jeremy Pratt.
The Snowball Effect
I estimated Jeremy’s age to be somewhere between twenty-four and twenty-five. He
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