by Sandra Cunha
Erin Girl.
That’s it!
But I’ll need a tagline so people know what the business is about: For all your errand needs, call Erin Girl!
It sort of makes me sound like a superhero.
Erin Girl: Saving the day, one errand at a time!
Oh, that’s even better.
I make myself some coffee and settle-in for the rest of Sunday afternoon. I spend hours perfecting my ads for Craigslist and Kijiji, being sure to leave dog walking off my list of service offerings. I scratch the idea of business cards as that would involve spending money. I have to keep this operation cheap. As in, no cost.
Later that night, I call Betty to let her know I’m becoming an entrepreneur. She thinks it’s a great idea, too. I’ve omitted the part about completing errands during working hours. Betty’s fairly by the book, so it’s for her own benefit.
I’ll have a hard time sleeping tonight.
Tomorrow, Erin Girl launches!
The next morning, I get into work bright and early.
Okay, on time (early for me).
Carol greets me with a raised eyebrow and a barely noticeable half-smile.
I’m shocked.
Maybe getting in on time is all I’ve needed to do to win her favour. But I’m not so easily fooled. Carol is my biggest obstacle in running my new venture. I’ll have to cover my tracks, and then add an extra layer of protection. I keep remembering that horrific laugh of hers in my dream. I’m getting shivers just thinking about it.
There’s no way I’m turning back now, though. I’m too excited. I have to do this. I’m meant to do this.
I’m logging in to my computer to post my ads when it informs me it needs fifteen minutes to perform an update that I should’ve completed ages ago, but as I didn’t, it has chosen this moment in time to do the update for me.
This is my reward for coming in early.
I take this as a sign—they’re everywhere these days—that I should go downstairs and grab a pre-celebratory latte.
As I walk past Carol, I get a frown.
That didn’t last long.
It’s taking longer than usual to get my latte as everyone working downtown, with the exclusion of the Carols of the world, seems to be avoiding work by grabbing a hot beverage.
Normally, I enjoy waiting in long lines: I get to listen-in on other people’s conversations, check out their outfits, and make general personal judgments. But today, I have a business to launch.
When it’s finally my turn, I’m told they’re out of lactose-free milk. It’s not even half-past nine! Has everyone become lactose-intolerant overnight? I order a tea, instead. I’ll celebrate with a proper drink once the money starts flowing in.
But as I’m walking back to my office building, I begin having second thoughts about the whole thing.
Am I really going to do this? Do I even want to run errands for other people? What if nobody calls? What if they do call, but they turn out to be crazy people who want me to do crazy things for them? What if they yell at me? Or worse.
And although I don’t want to think about it, it’s possible I could get caught.
But I’m too invested. I need the bag. I already feel as if I own it. Even the universe wants me to have it. How likely is it that the bag would be sent off for repairs, allowing me the time to come up with the necessary funds to buy it?
The bag needs me, too.
I pick up the pace and get back to my desk at record-speed, where I find my computer ready-and-waiting for me. Before I can change my mind, I post my ads on Craigslist and Kijiji.
Erin Girl has launched.
CHAPTER SIX
Project Coco Fund = $120.00
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, no one has responded to my ads. Maybe this isn’t going to work.
I’m about to consult Google for some backup ideas when I’m hit with a sudden craving for a martini—shaken, not stirred—which can mean only one thing: my phone is ringing. (I switched my ringtone to the James Bond theme song in light of my new, covert business operation. But the ringtone isn’t so covert-sounding as it plays loudly across my office floor.)
Quickly, I answer the call, noticing it’s a blocked number.
“Hi, this is Erin—” I’m about to add “Girl” in case it’s a client, but I can’t because this is a covert operation.
There’s a pause on the other end, then a crackly woman’s voice says, “Hello? Is this Erin Girl? The errand service?”
“Yes, yes it is,” I say. “How can I help you today?” That seems an appropriate reply.
“Well, I most certainly hope you can. My name is Margaret, Mrs. Margaret O’Connor. I need someone to run an errand for me. My son says he’s too busy, but he saw your ad on that Gregslist, or whatever it’s called. It’s not a big errand, but it’s very important.”
“No problem, Mrs. O’Connor. Big or small, I can handle it all,” I say. Err, that sounded lame.
“Oh, goody!” (She bought it.) “I need some Fuji apples picked up for me at the store. I forgot to get them when I was out yesterday, and now my knee is acting up, and I can’t get out again. I need exactly seven apples—no more, no less. And they must be medium in size with no bruises. That’s no bruises.”
“Okay, seven, medium Fuji apples with no bruises,” I say, suppressing a giggle.
“They also have to be organic; I eat only organic apples. I read an article about pesticides. You know, when I was a child, we didn’t have to worry about this sort of thing. We could pick an apple off the tree, and eat it right there. Now I have to pay extra to get the organic kind.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, taking down some notes. “I’ll need your address and when you’d like the apples delivered by.” Are these the types of requests I’m going to get?
She tells me where she lives: Rosedale. Quelle surprise. She also tells me the apples have to come from Whole Foods. She only trusts Whole Foods with her pesticide-free, organic apples.
“I’ll need the apples no later than two this afternoon. I’m hosting my bridge club this evening, and everyone expects me to bake an apple pie, and there I go forgetting the most important ingredient. Oh, goodness! I almost forgot something else. How much is this going to cost me?” she says, taking on a serious tone.
Crap. I’m not sure what to say. I had an approximate rate in mind for my services, but it’s different now that I’m on the spot. I mean, she just wants some apples.
“It shouldn’t take me more than an hour to complete the errand with delivery, so . . . ten dollars, plus the cost of the apples?”
Silence. Minutes seem to pass before she says, “All right, then. I suppose that’s the price you pay for forgetfulness. I’ll need to see the receipt, though.”
I let out my breath. “Of course! I look forward to meeting you.”
Erin Girl has its first client!
This is a great way to kick things off. The timing is perfect. I can go out on my lunch and get back without raising any suspicions. Maybe all my errands will be this easy.
I start humming to myself.
“Someone’s in a good mood.” Bradford says, peering over my cubicle wall.
Why do they always do that? I have a door—sort of.
“I am. It’s . . . I’m . . . loving this weather we’re having,” I say, trying to come up with something. The weather seems like a safe bet.
“Indeed. Was that the travel agency on the phone?”
“Um, no—but I confirmed your flight details; everything is in order. I got the flight you requested and printed your itinerary for you. It’s right here . . .”
While I’m rummaging through the papers on my desk, I notice my notes from the call with Mrs. O’Connor, in plain view. In my haste to hide them, I knock over my coffee cup, spilling the half-drunk latte contents across my desk.
“That’s not good. Looks like your humming is done for the day. Print it again and drop it off on my desk once you’ve cleaned that up,” he says, walking away without of
fering any assistance. (Chivalry is most certainly dead.)
I grab and try to salvage my notes. I can make out some of what I wrote. Mrs. O’Connor’s address is visible, but the type and quantity of apples she requested are completely smudged.
I’m almost certain she wanted eight apples . . . or was it seven? I know they have to be organic and purchased at Whole Foods. But what kind did she want? It wasn’t a common type of apple, definitely not Granny Smith or McIntosh. I’d remember if it were one of those. It was something more exotic.
C’mon, Erin! You just talked to her. What kind of apple did she want?
I go through the letters of the alphabet, hoping that will jog my memory. It’s a trick I use that normally works. I go through it again and again.
But I can’t remember.
I get off the subway at Museum station and walk up Avenue Road until I hit Whole Foods. I’ve shopped here only once before. I bought six things, and my bill came to almost seventy dollars. I haven’t been back since. I have yet to embrace the organics movement—I still eat hot dogs.
Making my way down the escalator, I take in the store as it appears below. There’s something cool about an underground grocery store. It seems illicit somehow. I bet there’s a secret code to get some black market stuff at the meat counter. I know it.
The produce section has a plethora of apples. I look at the names to see if any spark my memory. I’ve safely crossed Granny Smith and McIntosh off the list, as well as anything that isn’t organic, but that still leaves several options.
I see a produce guy. Maybe he’ll know.
“Excuse me, sir?” (Politeness gets you everywhere.)
“Something I can help you with?”
“I hope so. I have to buy some apples for . . . my grandma. She’s baking an apple pie, but I can’t seem to recall what kind she needs.”
“Why don’t you give her a call and ask?”
“Thank you, Sherlock. But if I had ‘grandma’s’ number, I’d of already done that. Sadly, I’m new to the business world and forgot that tiny detail.” But, instead, I say, “She’s hard of hearing and doesn’t pick up her phone. What type of apples do people buy for a pie?”
“Granny Smith is a popular—”
“I’m looking for something more exotic.”
“How about Pink Lady?”
“That sounds pretty, but I don’t think that’s what my grandma wanted.”
“We have some Rome apples that just came in. I could go to the back and get you some.”
That does sound more like it. In fact, I do believe the apple had a name of a city or something like that.
“Are they organic?” I ask.
“They are!” he says with pride.
“All right, I’ll take some of those.”
He goes into a backroom while I wander around, examining the other apples. There’s some named Red Prince, Lady Alice, Royal Gala—they all sound so regal. I see some Fuji apples, which sort of rings a bell. But what about the Rome apples? Honestly, I can’t be sure if it’s either one.
“Here are the Rome apples. How many would you like?” the produce guy asks me as he wheels over a cart with a box of apples on top of it.
“Um, seven. No—make it eight. And only medium-sized ones with no bruises. That’s no bruises.”
He gives me a funny look, and then starts picking through them. As he does, I pick out eight of the Fuji apples.
I’ll have to buy both.
It’s past one by the time I get to Mrs. O’Connor’s place. Who knew that picking up apples would take so long, or that organic apples cost so much. More than a buck a pop!
I ring the doorbell of her quaint townhouse. I was expecting another McMansion, so this puts me somewhat at ease, although I’m stressing about the apple situation. I’ve worked out a complicated scheme to figure out what kind of apple she wants, without her knowing I have both types in my purse (which is on the verge of bursting at any moment).
The door opens. I have to look down in order to see the sweetest, little, old lady smiling up at me.
“Hello, dear. You must be Erin.” She reaches out her hand and pats my arm. (I love her.) “Let me go fetch my purse. They had the Fujis then, did they?” she calls from the hallway.
So much for my elaborate plan. “They did. All organic,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. I quickly reach into my bag to pull out the Fuji apples. I guess I’ll be eating overpriced Rome apples for the rest of the week.
“Oh, goody!” she says, returning with her purse. “I’ll need to check the apples and see the receipt.”
I hand them to her, along with the separate receipt I got for the Fuji apples.
She looks through the bag, then says, “Oh, dear,” in a tone that implies the worst possible thing in the world has happened. “There are eight apples in here, not seven. And one of them . . . one of them has a bruise.” She looks at me horrified. “I won’t pay for a bruised apple.”
The apples are for a pie. I’m not a baker, but I’m guessing a couple of bruises wouldn’t be a big deal. Alas, the customer is always right.
“No worries, Mrs. O’Connor. I threw that one in as a bonus, in case they got banged up. I’ll deduct it from your total.”
“Let me get my calculator and specs then,” she says, heading back into the townhouse.
I nervously check the time. This is taking longer than I expected.
When she returns, Mrs. O’Connor works out the total and hands me eighteen dollars and forty cents—exactly.
I thank her, then make my way towards the subway station.
Once on the subway, I do some mental calculations and realize I lost money on my first errand run.
Maybe it’s time to review my business model.
I don’t get back to the office until almost two o’clock. I walk-run to my desk. I can’t be late for my status meeting with Bradford before he leaves on his business trip.
Hopefully, no one noticed I was gone this whole time. I’ll just drop off my jacket and purse at my desk and go straight to his office.
As I approach my cubicle, I see a shadow inside of it. Please, don’t let it be . . .
“Carol! What are you doing in here?” I say, out of breath.
She puts her index finger up to her mouth, then points to my work phone at her ear. I pause in the entryway of my cubicle, not knowing what to do.
“I’m sorry, sir. You have the wrong number. We’re a multinational corporation, not an errand service,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. “There is no errand girl here . . . I’m certain . . . That’s quite all right. Okay, goodbye now.” Carol puts the phone back on the receiver and turns to face me from my office chair.
“How strange, that man was looking for an errand service,” she says, appraising me through her thick, black-rimmed glasses.
“That is strange,” I say innocently. “I’ve had a few calls this week asking for the same thing. Maybe my number is similar to that errand business. Anyway, is there something I can help you with?”
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to find you for an hour.” She takes in my jacket and purse with a sneer on her face. “Late lunch?”
“Um, no.” Think. “I was . . . in the restroom. I must have eaten something bad at lunch because I wasn’t feeling well. It was probably the seafood salad I ate,” I say, squishing up my face.
“And you brought your jacket and purse with you?”
“I was, um, on my way back when it hit me. I’ve been in there for more than an hour.”
“Hmm. Well, you look fine to me now. Bradford asked me to join your meeting.” She gets up and walks towards me. “Let’s go before you make us both late. Don’t forget your notebook.”
“Got it,” I say through clenched teeth as I grab my notebook, then throw my jacket and purse onto my liberated chair.
That was close. Way too close. I forgot that I’d forwarded my calls to my work number so my personal phone wouldn’t be ringing throughout the day.
I won’t be doing that again.
I need to come up with a better system before someone catches on to what I’m doing.
And by someone, I mean, Carol.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Project Coco Fund = $119.20
WITH BRADFORD GONE on his business trip for the next week, I have additional time on my already idle hands. So I’m spending the morning researching how to properly run an errand service. This involves consulting my silent, but extremely knowledgeable, business partner: Google.
The first thing I realize is that I need a higher-paying clientele. Charging ten bucks an hour won’t cut it. If I focus on clients in the downtown core, I can charge at least twenty-five dollars an hour. And it will be easier to run errands during the day, as there will be less travel time.
I’ve also designed a flyer that I’m planning to drop off at the main reception desks of the many companies downtown. I’ll ask if the flyer can be put up in their office kitchen. And if no one is around, I’ll sneak in and do it myself.
To jazz up the flyer, I added a cartoon image of myself wearing a superhero costume with a big “E” on my front and a cape on my back. I figure it works with my tagline. And because doodling is one of my mastered skills, it looks pretty good. But I hope I don’t get any weirdos expecting me to show up dressed like that.
I found some colour paper stock hidden away in the supply room. I think Carol has been hoarding it. Initially, I chose pink, but my growing business sense said to go with blue. I want to attract male clients, too, and I somehow don’t think pink is the way to do that.
Carol is away all afternoon at a doctor’s appointment, so I can print the flyers and deliver them without her prying eyes on me.
After I load up the printer with the fancy blue paper, I run back to my desk to hit the print button. Then, I run back to the copy room to make sure no one else picks up my copies. All this running back and forth may raise some eyebrows, but I can’t think of any way around it. The printer is finicky, so I can only print ten copies at a time. The last thing I need is a paper jam.
