Risk Management

Risk Management

Octavia Kuransky

           It’s funny what you’ll do when you’re desperate. Well not funny. Funny is not the word. Interesting. Sometimes shocking. It depends on the nature of the desperation. What you will do, I mean. How far you will go. It depends on the nature of the desperation, also maybe your age, your race, your gender. But, by way of example, let’s say you’re broke.

A certain kind of person of a certain background will - let’s say - eat the tough part of an asparagus stalk because they’re hungry and call that desperation. Another kind of person will smile at the son-of-a-bitch manager at the over-lighted, over-heated Office Max store while explaining how very much he wants this job standing for 8 hours at a stretch on a concrete floor – if desperate. Some people will drink too much or old people will complain at the Publix about the cost of tuna these days. It depends, you see? The point is the pitch of desperation determines what one might consider doing including the thing previously considered not doable. That thing which previously would have caused one to shake one’s head and sigh with wonderment, how could anyone do such a thing?  Now this thing becomes the thing that one now sits with deep in the night along with pen and paper listing out the pro’s as well as the con’s. The pro’s to be highlighted with a yellow marker – the con’s to be wrestled down into submission until only the pro’s remain. This is the parade of thought for a desperate person. I know.

My desperation was one of poverty. I was broke and looking for a lifeline. I was reading and listening to a lot of rags to riches stories and came upon a podcast on NPR about a man who was living in his car. This was in New York no less – a real tough place. Brutal winters up there. But anyway, this man was living in his car and he had been picking cans from trash bins and taking them to recycling. A tough cookie himself, he sold his car and bought a van to collect more cans. Apparently, New Yorkers do a lot of drinking out of cans and the next thing you know he has a contract with the city of New York recycling cans and now he’s on his way to his first million. Sounds great. But I can’t do that. I live in Birmingham, Alabama, somebody is already doing that and besides, I am something of a coward. So, me - with my gender and my age and my race - I decide to get a job.

I saw Mann Sawyer’s name in the local business newspaper. It was in the listings of new business licenses. He had applied for a business license as a private detective. I know nothing about private investigation, but I decided to write a letter telling him I saw his license application and asking if he needed an assistant. I thought if I have to get a job let me at least try for an interesting one. I felt a little uneasy about it. Did it telegraph desperation to write to a stranger about a job that hadn’t been advertised? And a private investigator at that? Was that wise? Suppose he decided to investigate me? He would find nothing but an uneven credit rating but still to invite that in… I waited a week, then two, then three. I heard nothing from him, and I went on to apply for other jobs. Then one day I had just gotten back to my apartment from an interview and opened the door.

           I noticed immediately something was different - the slight perfume of a man’s cologne. Sometimes I can smell cooking in my apartment from another apartment, and sometimes other things including cologne. But this was more immediate, as though someone wearing the cologne had just been there. What little I owned was still there, nothing else happened and I decided to forget it. Then several days later I got in my car and again caught a whiff of the same cologne. I turned on the radio and headed out to wherever I was going that day but somewhat unnerved. Who would visit my apartment? My car? I was sure it was the same cologne in both places, both times.

Over the next few weeks, my phone rang without a number showing and no one saying anything when I answered.

“Well, do you think it was this guy? Who has a name like Mann anyway? What’d you do that for in the first place?” I was having coffee with a friend some days later. She was referring to the letter I had written to Mann Sawyer. The first thing I thought was that I regretted telling her. I had also told her about the smell of cologne and the anonymous phone calls. She pulled out a beautiful alligator wallet to pay for our drinks. I was still broke.   “Now you’ll be wondering all the time about this, that and the other.” she said. The second thing I thought was she was insensitive and had no imagination and I never liked her anyway.

“No, I won’t.” I said. “Yeah, it was risky. But I’ve got it managed.“ I said. But it did bother me. I admit I’m not the most financially responsible person but I’m not a hysterical female.   Still, I passed on an opportunity to attend a party the next weekend.  More and more, activities outside my apartment felt risky. Inside my apartment, more and more space appeared inside the refrigerator.

I had no bank account, so the tiny unemployment checks I had been existing on came by mail. What I knew to be the last one arrived, and I decided to walk to the corner store to cash it. Save money instead of driving to the bank. When I returned an eviction notice in neon yellow paper was taped to the front door of the building entrance. I was behind in my rent at this point. The tag could be for me. I read the bottom of the tag first, reading bottom to top, finally getting to the name of the recipient. It was not mine. I took the elevator up to my floor. I opened the door. He was waiting for me.

He was nothing like I imaged he would be, and I had – in the beginning –had imagined what Man Sawyer would look like – an old codger with shredded clothes. The man before me was youngish. Star struck handsome. The body beneath the clothes had obviously seen many, many hours in the gym. He was blue eyed and steady as a rock.

“Hello.” he said. I already knew but I asked anyway. 

“Who are you?” He smiled at me and – oddly - I felt a kind of arousal. His smile snatched me back to a long time ago to a body memory of what it could mean to be smiled at like that.  

“I’m Sawyer.” he said. His voice – heavy, masculine – felt like hands on me. I knew there was no point in playing games. “You wrote to me.” he said. “I am here to answer you. Sorry for the delay.”

“Answer me?”  

“To interview you. For the job.” 

“How did you get in?”

“I’m a private investigator. It’s why you wrote to me right? Because I know how to do these kind of things.” There was a moment of silence. “Sit down.” he said like the joint belonged to him.

“I think you should not come into people’s houses uninvited.” I said and immediately regretted it. My voice was light and too polite. It confirmed who was in control here. He actually chuckled a little.

“Houses?” He looked around at my tiny studio. I suddenly felt ashamed and attempted to do what cowards do when shamed.  

“I’m leaving now.” I said.

“No.” he said. “Don’t think so.” 

“What do you mean?” I said. 

“I’ll tell you when to leave.” he said evenly. And even though I felt ashamed and hated him a little for being so beautiful and mean at the same time, I was chilled and heated at the same time. I sensed order and control and – possibly – rescue from desperation. After a few seconds he said, “I think I will hire you. And I think you should sit down for your orientation.”

Over the next few weeks, I got to do all sorts of things. Follow people. Listen in on very private conversations. Get yelled at by delinquent clients for calling to collect on bills owed Sawyer. I got to see people doing the best of their worst – lying and cheating and thieving. I didn’t like it at all, but quitting was out of the question.

He only paid me sometimes, and very little. I actually still had to get a survival job at Walmart. I had to work the overnight shift stocking shelves with peas and baby food and knitting wool. He required that I leave my phone on at all times so he could reach me whenever he needed. A year passed and – stabilized as I had managed to save a little money - I tried to quit but he found ways to show me what he could do to me if I did.

“Please.” I begged. “Please. Just leave me alone. Please.” 

“I thought you wanted to work for me. Didn’t you ask to work for me?”

“I thought it would be different.” I said.

Sometimes he made me rub his shoulders, his back. Several times he kissed me. Since we’re talking frankly I must tell you I enjoyed it. I’m not young. I’m not beautiful. I would not have said no to anything.

Then one day it all stopped. After several weeks I began to feel anxious. He had left me alone for a few days before but never more than that. This time his absence stretched to a week, then two weeks, then three weeks.  I began to wonder. Had something happened to him? There was that time in the bar. A man hit him. Hit him hard in his beautiful face. I remember the little grunt when the fist connected. 

I had trouble sleeping anticipating the restart of it all again. I continued to watch for signs. I startled easily. It’s been three months now. I found another job in a call center. I get up and go to bed at the same time every day. Go to the movies on the weekend. Sit in cafes. But every now and again, I think I see the tail end of a coat, sense a further implication in something someone says. Every day. Every day.