My boyfriend has a friend that is a real Private Investigator, one that goes on stakeouts and trails people and files reports and does all the cool stuff I've only read about. My boyfriend, before he got his real job, used to help him out, serving people. He became a licensed process server. I was a little unclear on why you needed a license for serving. "You get ten," he explained. "Ten?" I said. "Ten serves for free," he said. "Then with the eleventh, you need to have a license." "Why?" I asked. "How would they know?" He had no answer for me. Aside from getting a license, you don't really need anything else to be a process server. One of the downsides is that people who get served sometimes live in sketchy places.
The other morning, driving to work, I got a call from my boyfriend. His PI friend had a job for him- not exactly a serve, but delivering a message to a women who lived in my county. My boyfriend, now that he's a working stiff like the rest of us, couldn't do it; maybe I could do it on my lunch break? Since I'd get paid for it, I agreed. He e-mailed me the name and address.
On my precious lunch hour, I set off. Since I work in an office I was dressed in boring work clothes- and motorcycle boots. After all, a girl needs to keep her edge. I was heading for a neighborhood that I didn't know anything about, had never been to in spite of living in my county for twenty years.
I got off the freeway, and turned into the neighborhood. Two turns later I was deep in the projects. Rap music was blaring from a boom box in the middle of a group of young men hanging out across the street from where I was parking my car. They all stopped talking and watched me park, and watched me get out of the car. The only sound was the music and and the footsteps of my boots. The sound of my car beeping as I locked it was a punctuation mark to everything. I just wrapped my attitude around me and walked determinedly to the apartment.
Once upon a time I lived in the Lower Haight. I used to walk to work in the financial district every morning with a good friend of mine who lived up the block from me. We found walking to work got us a bit of exercise, and provided relief from the erratic schedule and insanity of the 7-Haight Muni line that serviced our area. To save time, we would walk past the projects on Haight Street. After all, no one seemed to be around at 7:30 in the morning. Then, one morning, as we walked past the projects, we heard running footsteps behind us. A young man suddenly reached out and shoved my friend, grabbed her purse, and ran back into the projects. His companion was coming for my purse. A bit of background, here: I am a purse slut. That bag was a new Coach one, and irreplaceable on my meager salary. It also contained my lunch and my work shoes. Okay, I am also a food and shoe slut. This punk wasn't going to get any of those things if I could help it. I whirled around and stared at him, and opened my mouth and started screaming every expletive I knew, at the top of my lungs. I have a prodigious vocabulary, and I can project. He stopped dead and stared at me. I remember his face like it was yesterday- black Jheri curls, green eyes, skin the color of black coffee with a touch of cream. He suddenly turned around and ran back into the projects. Later, it occurred to me- maybe he had a gun. He could have shot me. Fortunately, he didn't. I still have that purse- it's older than my children.
Delivering the message was actually anticlimactic. The tv was on in the apartment I went to, but no one answered my knock. I left the message in a pile of mail stuck in the screen door. I walked back to my car, watched silently by the youths. I actually waved good-bye to them as I drove off. No one waved back. I treated myself to a Pumpkin Spice Latte before returning to work.
I went back to a busy, bad afternoon at the job from hell. "Why can't I just quit my job?" I asked my boyfriend. "Because," he said reasonably. "You don't want to be a process server."
Good point.
The other morning, driving to work, I got a call from my boyfriend. His PI friend had a job for him- not exactly a serve, but delivering a message to a women who lived in my county. My boyfriend, now that he's a working stiff like the rest of us, couldn't do it; maybe I could do it on my lunch break? Since I'd get paid for it, I agreed. He e-mailed me the name and address.
On my precious lunch hour, I set off. Since I work in an office I was dressed in boring work clothes- and motorcycle boots. After all, a girl needs to keep her edge. I was heading for a neighborhood that I didn't know anything about, had never been to in spite of living in my county for twenty years.
I got off the freeway, and turned into the neighborhood. Two turns later I was deep in the projects. Rap music was blaring from a boom box in the middle of a group of young men hanging out across the street from where I was parking my car. They all stopped talking and watched me park, and watched me get out of the car. The only sound was the music and and the footsteps of my boots. The sound of my car beeping as I locked it was a punctuation mark to everything. I just wrapped my attitude around me and walked determinedly to the apartment.
Once upon a time I lived in the Lower Haight. I used to walk to work in the financial district every morning with a good friend of mine who lived up the block from me. We found walking to work got us a bit of exercise, and provided relief from the erratic schedule and insanity of the 7-Haight Muni line that serviced our area. To save time, we would walk past the projects on Haight Street. After all, no one seemed to be around at 7:30 in the morning. Then, one morning, as we walked past the projects, we heard running footsteps behind us. A young man suddenly reached out and shoved my friend, grabbed her purse, and ran back into the projects. His companion was coming for my purse. A bit of background, here: I am a purse slut. That bag was a new Coach one, and irreplaceable on my meager salary. It also contained my lunch and my work shoes. Okay, I am also a food and shoe slut. This punk wasn't going to get any of those things if I could help it. I whirled around and stared at him, and opened my mouth and started screaming every expletive I knew, at the top of my lungs. I have a prodigious vocabulary, and I can project. He stopped dead and stared at me. I remember his face like it was yesterday- black Jheri curls, green eyes, skin the color of black coffee with a touch of cream. He suddenly turned around and ran back into the projects. Later, it occurred to me- maybe he had a gun. He could have shot me. Fortunately, he didn't. I still have that purse- it's older than my children.
Delivering the message was actually anticlimactic. The tv was on in the apartment I went to, but no one answered my knock. I left the message in a pile of mail stuck in the screen door. I walked back to my car, watched silently by the youths. I actually waved good-bye to them as I drove off. No one waved back. I treated myself to a Pumpkin Spice Latte before returning to work.
I went back to a busy, bad afternoon at the job from hell. "Why can't I just quit my job?" I asked my boyfriend. "Because," he said reasonably. "You don't want to be a process server."
Good point.
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