noticed my beautiful neighbor in a
wheelchair about two months before I was paid to. Maybe it was the novelty of not being the
only chair user out and about in our complex, or maybe because the way she
stopped short of imperfect perfection left me feeling love-and-hate inferior. She
was neat, stylish, and even though we’d only waved or made superficial chatter
at the mailbox, she had a charming but ready laugh that showed that she may
have been one of the few living and breathing impaired people that had a shot
at one of those great attitudes America liked us to have. A year and a half into my flirtation with the
entrepreneurial spirit, both my optimism and my haircut were both feeling a
little ragged. I hated to admit it, but people didn’t really trust my
investigative or researching skills. On some buried level, instead of seeing my
chair as a sign of resiliency and enhanced problem-solving as I tried to do, prospective
clients may have wondered why I didn’t see the oncoming car or whatever they
imagined the catalyst for my condition to be. If there was one thing life on
wheels had taught me, however, it was that no conversation is enhanced by
pointing out the futility of planning for a birth accident. That musing threatened to bring on a habitual
wave of maudlin thoughts that made me incredibly excited to lunge at my phone
before the vibration of the second ring had fully finished. I must have been panting like Mark Wahlberg
in an action sequence, though, because my mentor asked “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, sure. Perfectly imperfect.” I willed it to be true,
and hoped that I didn’t sound desperate. I also pushed my unruly bangs from my
face. By the end of the week, I had to at least make ground on the haircut
front.
“Whatever that means. Look, I may have some work for you…are you
interested?”
I tried to keep my expectations in
check. Cops from my late father’s
precinct wanted to help me out, but they could use the internet to find their
own lost dogs as well as I did, and, given the slowness of my two-fingered pecking,
probably faster, if the Web hadn’t freaked them out worse than any seamy corner
at midnight. (Although I had discovered
I had a knack. I’d found three and had pictures of happy canines and their
relieved guardians in my home office.) “Really?”
He cleared his throat and I felt as
though I could hear him thinking. “If
you’re not up for it, I understand. Billy Torres is already a PI but I didn’t
show him the ropes or anything… and you
do have to work for me for three years before you can get your own license.
Even so, though, I’d say that your experience is more relevant.”
Billy was
sweet, but strong as an ox and loud enough that I could hear him have a phone
call with Tommy when I was seated across the room. I couldn’t imagine what kind of job we’d both
be in the running for, and it felt like it had been a long time since my
experience was relevant. “No, I don’t
mean that…I’d like a chance. I was
just…thinking."
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