Erin, Girl

by Sandra Cunha

  I’m printing a hundred flyers. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to print more. I can’t rely on Carol being out of the office; this is the first doctor’s appointment she’s had in the time I’ve worked here. She even eats lunch at her desk. She’s like a watch dog, always on duty.

  My mission is to deliver at least twenty of the flyers today. I’ll drop off more each day until I run out. I’m focusing on companies that are part of the underground path. It will be faster for me to get around to a bunch of the office buildings, no suspicious jacket-wearing required.

  I love the underground path. It covers the majority of the downtown financial core and has all these shops and restaurants—without ever stepping foot outside. It’s amazing. It took me months to get the hang of it when I first started working downtown; I’d often have to come up to street level to find my way back to work. Since that time, I’ve had many occasions to explore on my countless long lunches, and I’ve figured out how most of the paths are interconnected.

  This afternoon’s flyer deliveries will be to First Canadian Place. My goal is to get half the odd-numbered floors completed. The building has separate elevator banks for odd- and even-numbered floors. (Confusing.)

  Tomorrow, I’ll do the other half. And then, there’s still the even-numbered floors, not to mention all the office kitchens at Scotia Plaza, The Royal Bank Building, Commerce Court, Brookfield Place . . . so many opportunities!

  Maybe I should print more flyers.

  “Hello,” I say, answering my phone.

  “Hey, is this that errand service?” a deep, male voice asks.

  “It is! How can I help you?” Fingers-crossed he’s not baking a pie.

  “I saw your flyer up in our staff kitchen. I’d like to create a standing order. I need someone to deliver my lunch on a daily basis. I can’t leave my desk; I’m an equity trader. And ever since the fuckheads got rid of our secretary, I don’t have anyone to grab it. Coffee lunches aren’t cutting it for me. What’s your rate?”

  I try to catch up. He saw my flyer—it’s working! And a standing order: that’s guaranteed business!

  Think, Erin. Does that mean I should charge more or less?

  I’ll stick with my standard rate. I don’t want to be greedy.

  “Well, given that you want me to hold that time exclusively for you, I’d have to charge twenty-five dollars an hour, plus the cost of food,” I say, trying to sound confident, but that seems like a heck of a lot of money to deliver someone’s lunch.

  “Fuck me! That’s more than I thought.” (Dammit!) “But a guy has to eat, and time is money.” (Phew.) “All right, let’s say the cost of food and seventy-five bucks a week guaranteed, even if it takes you less than an hour to deliver. Deal?”

  If I manage to run the errand in half-the-time, I’d get paid more than my standard rate. “Okay,” I say, “that sounds fair.”

  We work out the details. Apparently, he’s a health nut and likes to eat at this vegan joint that doesn’t offer a delivery service. His office is located near it at First Canadian Place, so it should be possible for me to make it under time.

  “One more thing,” he says as I’m about to end the call. “Will you be wearing that sexy costume when you deliver my lunch each day? I’d throw in a bonus if you did.”

  Weirdo number one.

  I have to deliver Mr. Trader’s lunch any time between noon and two o’clock. I thought it was nice of him to give me this window because I’d have the flexibility to run other errands on my lunch break. I calculated that given the distance from my office to his office, while stopping to pick up his lunch along the way, it shouldn’t take more than a half-hour to run the errand from start to finish.

  But as I approach the vegan place, I see a bank line setup. A bank line! And the reason for the bank line is because this lunch spot is so popular, they have to control the crowds. It’s not even a real restaurant; just a food vendor at the end of a busy underground pathway.

  Mr. Trader neglected to mention any of this, of course. I might have to start calling him Mr. Traitor.

  I ask the girl ahead of me how long it usually takes. She tells me when it first opened, she once waited an hour-and-a-half for her Buddha bowl, but now the wait was only thirty minutes. So much for making this a quickie.

  As I’m fidgeting in line, my phone rings. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hello, there. I am looking for Erin Girl. Do I have the correct number?” an indistinguishable, robotic-sounding voice asks on the other end.

  “Yes, sorry, this is Erin Girl. How can I help you?”

  “I came across your flyer. I recently purchased some IKEA furniture. I would like to inquire whether furniture assembly is part of your service offering. And recognizing that perhaps it is not feasible, your availability for tomorrow?”

  Hmm, this should be interesting.

  For the record, it takes six hours and forty-eight minutes for someone with my skill level to assemble a dresser, two nightstands, a coffee table, and a bookcase. I know this because every single minute was being timed . . . and watched.

  I spent the previous Saturday with one of those IKEA thingamajiggy tools, permanently attached to my hand. I developed two calluses, as well as blurred vision and mild dehydration. But I wouldn’t stop until I was done. Not because I’ve some sort of Puritan work ethic—I think it’s already been established that isn’t the case—but because I wanted to get the heck out of the client’s apartment, as fast as possible.

  The entire time I was assembling said furniture, I had weirdo number two, standing over me, asking every few minutes, whether I was doing it correctly.

  Was I positive that piece belonged there? Perhaps I should take another look at the instructions.

  So what if I messed up a couple of times. No one ever gets it right the first time. Everyone knows that.

  The freakiest part was that I never determined if the client was a he or a she. It was impossible to tell, and nothing in the apartment led me to a conclusion either way. I finally decided “it” was an alien. And by assembling the furniture of the alien who was brought to planet Earth to spy on humans and gather intelligence, I’ve become a collaborator. (I may watch too much television.)

  Sunday was better. I had to water a client’s houseplants and collect his mail while he was away on vacation. He asked me to stay for a few hours to make it seem like someone was home. So I listened to loud music and danced around.

  I resisted the urge to go through his cabinets. I had a sneaking suspicion I was being watched, as if there were hidden cameras all over the place. (If so, I hope he enjoyed my rendition of Swan Lake.)

  Then, during the week, I had an unpleasant mishap.

  A client asked me to pick up his dry cleaning at the TD Tower building, which sounded easy enough. Except there isn’t just one TD Tower; there are at least four. There’s TD Tower North, TD Tower West, TD Tower South, and straight-up TD Tower. (I never did find out if there’s a TD Tower East.) And every single one of those towers has a thirtieth floor.

  After finally finding the client, in the right tower, he had the nerve to ask me if I was bonded. At first, I thought he was looking for sexual favours, and I was about to refuse when I clued-in that he meant bond insurance. He wouldn’t let me take his expensive, designer suits until I showed him proof. Well, of course, I didn’t have any proof. Getting bonded costs money, and I’m trying to make money. So I lost a potential client and wasted a bunch of time.

  I’m realizing entrepreneurship isn’t easy. I thought I’d have made more money by now. Even though I'm getting steady business and have some funds to show for it, I still haven’t reached the halfway mark.

  Okay, so it hasn’t been a full two weeks since Erin Girl launched, but this isn’t a normal business. I’m on an extremely tight deadline. Sooner or later, my mom’s bag will come back from repairs and someone will buy it. If I don’t make enough money fast, it won’t be me.

  There’s only one way I know how to make
some super-fast cash: I need to talk to Betty.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Project Coco Fund = $535.05

  I’M SURPRISING BETTY at the airport. She always takes the same flight back from Boston on Sundays.

  The best strategy is to do this face-to-face, even though getting to the airport is a major pain when you don’t have a car, and I wasn’t about to shell out my newly-earned cash on a cab ride.

  Betty’s been doing these weekend trips for months; this is the first time I’ve come to meet her. I was going to put her name on a piece of cardboard, but thought that would be overkill. (And she’d probably get suspicious.)

  I’ve been waiting at her arrival gate for what seems like forever. I’m running out of things to amuse myself with, and now my phone battery is dangerously low.

  When she finally comes out of the gate, she looks worn-out. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. It probably would’ve been smarter to wait until tomorrow. But it’s too late, I’ve already come all this way.

  “Betty! Betty! Over here!”

  She doesn’t immediately realize someone is calling her name. When she sees me waving while jumping up and down, she hurries towards my direction.

  “Erin? Is everything all right? What are you doing here?”

  “I came to surprise you!”

  “Really? Okay, phew. I thought maybe something bad had happened,” she says, visibly exhaling.

  “Can’t a big sister surprise her little sister at the airport, every now and again?”

  “Well, you haven’t before, so you caught me off guard. But I’m so glad you’re here. I needed to see a friendly face,” she says, giving me a side hug with her baggage-free arm.

  “And I’m glad to see you, sis,” I say, hugging her back. “Hey, are we cabbing it or taking public transit?”

  “Cabbing it. There’s no way I can deal with people after my flight. There was a baby on-board who cried the entire time. Babies shouldn’t fly.”

  “Betty! Little people need to see the world, too.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just cranky and hungry.”

  Uh-oh. I should’ve brought her a snack. “Here, let me take your bag. How was your weekend?” I ask, taking the bag from her.

  “Horrible. Matt and I got into a huge fight about this whole long distance thing. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back in Toronto. I’m so tired of going back and forth all the time.”

  “Yeah, it’s rough, but you guys will work something out. You always do.”

  “I don’t know. I have my limits.”

  We’re the first ones in the taxi line and get a cab right away. We ride in silence for a while until I can’t wait any longer. I need to ask her.

  “Hey, Betty . . .”

  “Yeah?” she answers as she looks out the window at the passing horizon.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Project Coco.”

  Betty turns towards me and says, “I knew you didn’t come to surprise me. Seriously, this is becoming an obsession. Let it go. It’s just a bag.”

  “It’s not ‘just a bag,’ and you know it, Betty.” She can be so cold. “It’s mom’s bag. I need to at least try to get it back.”

  “It’s not ‘mom’s bag,’ and you know that, Erin. Mom’s gone, and you can’t get her back by buying some bag. Plus, her bag could be anywhere. For all we know, some posh socialite on the other side of the world is wearing it as we speak.”

  “I don’t think so. I feel a connection to it. And I’m getting all of these signs from the universe. I know it sounds crazy, but there’s a chance, a slight one I’ll admit, that it really is her bag.”

  “It does sound crazy. I’m sure the universe has better things to do than point you in the direction of a bag.”

  “Fine, let’s agree to disagree on that. All I’m asking—and you can say no if you want—but I was thinking maybe you could—”

  “I’m not giving you the money.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to give me the money. It would be more of a loan. I’ll pay you back with the money I’m making from the errand service. We can share the bag until I can buy out your portion.”

  “I’m not loaning you thousands of dollars so you can buy some silly bag.”

  “IT’S NOT A SILLY BAG!”

  The taxi driver turns his head slightly. I lower my voice and say, “Whatever. You’re the reason we don’t have it anymore.”

  “I should’ve known you would eventually bring this up. Don’t try to guilt-trip me, Erin. I needed braces. Don’t you remember how bad my teeth were?”

  “Yeah, but don’t you see? This is our chance to get it back. After all these years, it can be ours again!” I hesitate before adding, “You kind of owe me.”

  “For what? Being orthodontically-challenged?”

  “Betty, you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh, that’s low!” Betty looks at me as if I slapped her on the face. “I was on an audit! I came every weekend. I took care of her, too. I don’t see how one thing has to do with the other, but if we’re keeping score, you owe me: nine thousand, five hundred, and thirty-seven dollars to be exact.”

  “For what?”

  “Your share of mom’s funeral and final expenses. I paid for everything.”

  “I didn’t have any money! Not everyone gets a scholarship to cover their university expenses; some people have to get student loans.”

  “Yeah, well, not everyone adds to those student loans by backpacking across Europe for the summer, spending money they don’t have, instead of getting a job to pay off their debts, like a responsible adult would.”

  “You suck, Betty.”

  “You suck more. This is the last thing I need to worry about right now. I think it’s better if you take the subway the rest of your way home. I want to be alone.”

  “Fine.”

  We ride in silence until the taxi driver lets me off at the nearest subway station. I get out of the cab and take one last look at Betty, who has her face turned away from me.

  Betty and I don’t fight. Okay, we’ve had the odd disagreement, but this time is different. We went places we’ve never gone before. I open my mouth to say something, but there’s nothing left to say.

  I slam the cab door and make my way to the station.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Project Coco Fund = $535.05

  I NEED TO stay focused. I hate fighting with Betty, but there’s no way I’m backing down now.

  She doesn’t realize how important this “silly” bag is to me. It’s like the missing piece of a puzzle I can’t solve. And until I get that final piece, I can’t move forward.

  Plus, it’s already led to a bunch of positive changes in my life: I’ve started my own business, I’ve made more than five-hundred dollars, and I’m building up a client base.

  Maybe Erin Girl will become my full-time gig, and I can quit my job once and for all. So what if I haven’t enjoyed most of the errands I’ve run. At least, it’s my own show. I can’t say that about my desk job.

  I know I can do this. I just have to keep going.

  And as the universe (no matter what Betty thinks) is in on this with me, my phone rings. Another client. Destiny.

  “Hello, Erin Girl.” What the heck; I don’t care if anyone hears me, even Carol.

  “Oh, hello. I’m so glad to have reached you. Is this the real Erin or one of her assistants?”

  I never thought about having assistants. I could turn this solo operation of mine into an army of errand-running superheroes. But instead of assistants, they would be called sidekicks. (Obviously.)

  “In the flesh!” I say. I like this lady already. “How can I help you today?”

  “Well, I’m calling from Vancouver, but I’m originally from Toronto. My father passed away a year ago, and I haven’t been back since the funeral.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” I say automatically.

  “Thank you. You see, my father loved daisies, and I feel horrible that he’s gone th
is long without any flowers. So I was wondering—I know it sounds somewhat unorthodox—but I was hoping you could take some daisies to his gravestone at Mount Pleasant—”

  “I’m so sorry, but that’s out of Erin Girl’s jurisdiction. We focus exclusively on the downtown core. Maybe another errand service can help you with your request. I’m so sorry,” I say again and end the call.

  I can’t breathe. I need to get some fresh air.

  I’m calling in sick.

  I’ve never called in sick before. Sure, I come to work late every single morning, but somehow calling in sick seemed like the last straw. As if once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

  But I have a long list of errands to run today, and there’s no way I can get them completed under Carol’s watchful eyes. And it’s not a total lie; I’m not feeling the greatest.

  So I’m leaving Carol a voice message, saying I won’t be coming in. To play it safe, I’m calling at a quarter-to-seven. I hope she doesn’t get in that early. I have no idea when she arrives at work, as I’ve never been there before her. Actually, I’ve never left work after her, either. She may never go home.

  I’ve been practicing my sick voice, which is easy at this time of the morning; I already sound pretty hoarse. My voice box doesn’t normally open for business before eight.

  The phone rings a few times, then goes to Carol’s voicemail. Even her voice annoys me, so I hit the pound key to skip to the end.

  “Hey, Carol. It’s Erin . . . cough . . . I’m not feeling well . . . sniff . . . I think I’ve come down with one of those twenty-four-hour bugs or something . . . gag . . . so I’ll be staying home today. Please, let Bradford know. I’m sure I’ll be fine by tomorrow. Bye!”

  Ugh. My “bye” was too chipper.

  There’s nothing I can do now—except enjoy my first-ever sick day. Ah, the freedom! Maybe I’ll catch an afternoon matinée or spend the entire day in bed . . .