The story so far:
Oh, right, the Nyquil and Vodka. It really says, “Private Investigator, must have reliable vehicle and cell phone,” I have both of those things. A private investigator, that sounds both wonderful and sleazy at the same time. It’s one of those jobs you know must exist, but never really hear about. Maybe the add is a trap set up by those Christians bent on ridding the world of sleaze-balls. I’ll arrive at the office only to be confronted by crucifix wearing bible thumpers spritzing holy water at me. Despite any reservations, my three month long depression starts dripping out of my fingertips as I click for more info. I’m no Sam Spade, but I could get a fedora. Or maybe I could grow a Thomas Magnum type mustache. There isn’t a phone number. Just one line under the ‘Job Requirements’ header that says, “The eye of the master will do more work than his hands,” and an address. I look up the quote, it’s Benjamin Franklin. Strange.
But I shower anyway. I haven’t showered in a couple of days. Showering daily is no longer necessary for the unemployed. No body has to actually hit-the-pavement anymore. With a slight depression of my finger I can apply for a job as a receptionist at a hair salon in three day old underwear and with a mustard stain right on my bare chest. And who’s to say I haven’t?
The private investigator’s office is on the second floor of a well kept brownstone. I’m not sure what to expect, but a distressed woman in one of those hats with a veil seems standard in a place like this. The black lettering on the door reads,
I listen for noises beyond the door but hear nothing. So in I go. A buzzer goes off somewhere inside when the door opens. Inside there isn’t a receptionist, like I expected, but a small room with two chairs and a table between them. No magazines. And another door. Before I can even decide what to do with myself, the other door opens.