by Dave Derin
“So, utilities are actually included in the rent for this property,” the realtor trailed on before I turned to face him.
“How is the neighborhood?” I asked.
“Well…” he hesitated. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet, this is the real selling point.”
He waddled toward the back door which had been painted a horrible puke green color, wrenched it open, then led me into a bricked patio behind the building. The hidden outdoor lounge space was enclosed on three sides by ivy-covered red brick walls and looked out onto an ample parking lot behind the row of buildings. Two weathered lawn chairs slouched on the patio, but there was plenty of space for a full table and chairs set.
“This is incredible,” I exclaimed as I looked around the green space in amazement. “All of this is included?”
“It sure is,” the realtor gloated as he grinned at me and rocked back on his heels.
“But the neighborhood?” I asked.
“It’s getting gentrified,” he said as he cleared his throat.
I knew he was lying, but it probably didn’t matter. I really did love this place, and I saw a lot of potential for it once it was fixed up.
I had to start somewhere, and I didn’t want to spend all my savings on rent. Eventually, I’d get enough clients to upgrade, but this was as good a place as any to start.
“Where do I sign?” I smiled widely and offered him my hand to seal the deal. We shook hands before we parted ways, and I promised to have my financial representative call him first thing in the morning to coordinate all the details.
My stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day with an audible grumble and a sharp pain in my lower abdomen as I got in the beemer. I made it home in twenty minutes, not a bad commute to my new workplace, then made a turkey sandwich, grabbed a glass of ice water, and sat down on the living room couch to eat.
I turned on the television and changed it to HGTV where a happy couple showed huge fake smiles to the home improvement show’s hosts. I slowly chewed and watched as the big renovation was revealed, and the young couple gasped with excitement. I finished my sandwich, took a sip of water, and then opened my laptop to check my email.
There were ten new paralegal applications, but only one of them seemed qualified. Now that I had an office space, I could start to schedule the interviews. I emailed each of the six qualified applicants to request their availability for the next week, and all but one responded within thirty minutes. Over the next hour I combed through their responses, figured out the best time for each candidates’ interview, then responded to each one individually with their date, time, and location. The one unresponsive applicant never got back to me that evening, so I discounted their interest. You had to be plugged in and timely to work at John Stone Law.
I’d scheduled all five of the interviews for the following day and I spent the next few hours on the phone with my financial advisor, who assisted me with transferring the appropriate funds, and my family’s real estate agent, who arranged to handle the leasing documents the following day. I ended the final business call, closed my laptop, and called it a day at John Stone Law. Tomorrow would be the first official day at my newly founded, namesake firm, and I knew I had more to prepare for than I could possibly imagine.
At 6:30 the next morning, my phone alarm blared a brain-splitting wake-up call. I rolled over, shut off the annoying buzzer, and slowly sat up in bed before I remembered I had nowhere to be at a particular time. I smiled and relaxed back into my feather pillows. I allowed myself to sleep for two more hours before I grudgingly pulled myself out of the warmth of my bed. I’d slept hard that night and was a little groggy, so I headed straight to the kitchen and made myself a strong cup of coffee. I stood against the counter and sipped it slowly, careful not to burn my mouth.
It was almost nine o’clock before I felt awake enough to be productive. I pulled out my laptop and opened my email to see if I had any new responses to the job post. Surprisingly, the flow of applications had died down, and I only had three new candidates to review. Two were nowhere close to being qualified, but the other sounded promising. I emailed the qualified candidate to request her availability, leaned back on the couch and sighed deeply as I thought about everything I had to get done: finalize the lease paperwork, remodel and decorate my new office, confirm all the financial transactions and set up a business account, hire a quality assistant, start marketing the new firm, and figure out a way to connect with Susanna.
It was going to be a busy day after all.
I jumped back online and removed the job post from LegalHires. I had six interviews lined up for the next day, but if none of those worked out, I’d just repost it. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with my realtor and financial advisors and, by that evening, I’d convinced Mr. Owens, the property’s realtor, to let me pick up the keys the following morning after he received a payment confirmation from my banker.
This tedious stuff was the worst part of being a business owner, but it had to happen. By the time I dragged myself to bed at 10:30 p.m., I was so exhausted that I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.
I leapt out of bed that next morning at 6:15 a.m. and turned off my alarm before it had a chance to sound at 6:30. I headed toward the bathroom, took a leisurely shower in my faux rainforest, shaved my face, brushed my teeth, and threw on a pair of plaid boxers. I strode into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and chugged it before I returned to my closet to select the perfect boss outfit in which to conduct my paralegal interviews.
I landed on a solid black suit, a cerulean collared shirt, and a black and silver paisley tie. I slipped on my black Oxfords, put my phone in my pocket, and headed toward the front door. I locked it behind me, then made my way down to my car. I entered the address for Bradford Real Estate into the car’s GPS and noticed it was only about a thirty minute drive.
Not too bad. I pulled out of the garage and into the blinding morning sunlight. I grabbed my sunglasses from their compartment and slipped them on to shield my eyes before I drove toward the interstate and made my way to Dave Owens’ office. At 8:00 a.m., I pulled into the sprawling suburban parking lot of a five-story mirrored glass office building. I drove around to the front and tried to determine where to park before I saw a hefty man standing on the sidewalk in front of the towering structure. He waved his beefy hand at me over his head when he saw my vehicle and waddled over to my passenger side window closest to him.
I rolled down the window, and he leaned his red, sweaty face in my car. “Dang, that air conditioning feels good,” he exclaimed, then held up a blue lanyard that had three small brass keys dangling from it. I held my right hand under them, excited finally to have control of my own office for the first time in my life.
“Here you are. Don’t lose them, now,” he joked and shot me a toothy smile. He dropped the keys in my open hand, gave me a quick thumbs up, then marched heavily back toward the dark mirrored building. I looked down at the small discolored keys in my palm and smiled. I couldn’t wait to get started on this new adventure.
I decided to pick up a biscuit and coffee on the way to my new office and finished it right as I pulled into the rear parking lot of the stripmall. I took the empty coffee cup and biscuit wrapper and threw them into the large, green metal garbage can behind the building before I slowly walked toward the back entrance of the newly established John Stone Law.
First things first, I’d need a new sign on the front door. Well, before that, I guess I needed a real front door. I jogged back to my car and grabbed a pen and notepad from the box on my floorboard, then wrote down those two items on a to-do list. I scrutinized the back patio and jotted down new patio set on the list before I stuck the key in the back door’s handle and turned it.
The door slowly creaked open and formed a small shaft of light on the dark wooden floors. I flipped on the light switch next to the open door and stepped inside the back entrance to my new office.
The dim light barely extended past the end of the hall, so I stepped down the hall and found another light panel with three switches. I flipped the first one, and it did nothing. The second one turned on a brilliant, large light fixture that I hadn’t noticed before in the middle of the ceiling.
The light was from a three-foot-long flat piece of oval, jade-colored glass that was mounted in the center of the room, almost flush against the ceiling, with only enough room for the lightbulbs between the ceiling and the top of the glass. Five cylindrical copper arms branched from the center of the green oval, each with multicolored, leaf-shaped pieces of sparkling glass attached to them. It gave the impression that you’d hovered above a giant tree and looked down on it; the branches expanded out in all directions. That was definitely a statement piece. I loved the dark green color of the centerpiece and made the decision to use that color in my logo design.
I wandered around the main level of the space and jotted down a few more things I noticed that needed to be addressed: call a pest control service, schedule Estelle to come in and work her design magic on the place, and buy basic office supplies. I’d send my new paralegal to get the legal pads, writing utensils, a new printer, and other assorted supplies, but would need to buy an office computer for them to use myself.
I checked my phone and saw that it was almost nine o’clock. My first interview was at ten, and I realized I didn’t have an appropriate space to conduct the meetings. I frantically searched the room with my eyes, and noticed a dingy, folded up card table propped against the back wall. I unfolded the cobweb-covered table, grabbed a paper towel that had been left behind on a counter, and wiped it down before I pulled it forward to sit a few feet in front of the stairs near the front entrance. I wiped down two of the wooden chairs in the reception area, then placed one on either side of the yellowed, plastic-top folding table. It would have to do.
I sighed, then turned around and walked down the back hallway toward my car. I retrieved my briefcase and the banker box filled with my former office’s accoutrements, then locked the door and headed back inside. There were only two other vehicles in the parking lot that morning; a faded, robin’s egg blue Astro minivan and a 90’s model burgundy Honda Accord. I wondered who they belonged to as I strode across the bricked patio and through the back entrance. I set the box and my briefcase on the card table and removed a silver-framed picture of my family from the box.
My father, mother, little sister, and I all stood smiling in my grandparents’ backyard in front of a towering magnolia tree that had huge white blossoms. I could still remember the sticky, sweet fragrance of the magnolia flowers as I thought back on that day. It had been taken only six months before my father passed away from colon cancer. I don’t think we even knew he was sick yet, but as I studied the picture again, I could tell his eyes were a bit darker than before, and his face more gaunt.
I delicately placed the picture frame back in the cardboard box and moved it to one of the countertops to get it out of the way. I checked my phone. It was 9:42 a.m., and I expected the first interviewee to arrive at any time. I carefully sat down in the orange-cushioned chair and tested my weight in it before I settled in and waited for my first potential paralegal to arrive.
I drummed my fingers on the table impatiently. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. It was now 10:05 a.m., and I was officially unimpressed. My phone buzzed to alert me that I had a new email. I pulled it up and was angered to see my first appointment had cancelled on me. She cited “location” as the reason behind her late-notice cancellation.
Great. I’d hoped the location wouldn’t be a deterrent, but had planned to offer a higher than average salary to compensate for it. She hadn’t even given me a chance to relay that, so I put her in the brat category and considered it a dodged bullet. My next interview was scheduled for 11 a.m., so I had close to an hour to kill before they arrived. I stood up, took off my suit jacket, and laid it on the card table before I interlaced my fingers, stretched my arms out in front of me, and groaned. I looked around the desolate shop, and the reality of my dire situation hit me.
I was standing alone in a broken-down old barber shop, with no paralegal, no exterior signage, not even a business card. I really needed some help. I wiped down a few countertops out of frustration before I plopped back down in the wooden chair and waited for the next candidate to arrive. At 10:50 a.m. a young, African American gentleman who couldn’t have been a day over twenty entered the front doors. His black hair was cut short with a military-style fade, and he wore khaki pants and a black button-down shirt with no tie. I smiled, stood up to introduce myself and shake his hand, and he stared down at the ground as he mumbled his name.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” I questioned. I knew his name, but I genuinely had not heard him because he’d spoken so softly.
“Marcus Gary, sir,” the tall, lanky youth responded.
“Marcus Gary, nice to meet you, sir,” I replied and shook his hand firmly. “My name is John Stone, and I--”
“Uh, I’m sorry, but is this a barber shop? This is an interview for a paralegal position, right?” The young man looked bewildered as he glanced around the room.
“It is,” I responded. “I just got the keys this morning, so it’ll be completely renovated as soon as I can get the contractors here.”
“Oh, okay,” the gentleman responded, but eyed me suspiciously.
“Please, have a seat, and we’ll get started,” I gestured toward the chair facing away from the front door, and he sat down. I went through the basic questions: where he’d studied, who he’d worked for in the past, and if anyone would provide a reference for him. He answered all of my questions with flying colors until I asked him about professional references.
“Uh, I-I can’t really think of anyone,” he stuttered and wrung his hands together. He was not a good liar.
“Alright, well thank you, Mr. Gary. I appreciate you coming in today,” I replied after I’d studied his body language for a second, then stood up and offered him my hand across the table.
“Okay, so when should I expect to hear from you?” The oblivious young man asked.
“I’ll be making a decision tonight, and everyone will receive an email before tomorrow morning,” I gave him a tight smile as he shook my hand, then turned and left through the plywood door. My attorney sixth sense was tingling; I could tell something was off about that guy. I pulled out my phone and googled Marcus Gary Dallas, then hit search.
What I saw next made me want to go sanitize my hand. Apparently, this guy had decided to corner a few ladies at his old law office and flash them his privates, which got him promptly fired. However, according to the report I’d read, he was never officially charged with a crime, so technically his record was clean. You’ve got to love the internet.
I rolled my eyes and tossed my phone on the table. I hadn’t really cared much for the guy anyway, but after I’d learned about his sketchy pastime hobby, he was definitely a no. I hoped the next candidate was less of a pervert. I groaned, stood up, and glanced down at my phone. I still had twenty minutes until the next person arrived. I spun around and headed toward the bathroom for a quick break before they arrived, and when I returned a heavy-set young lady stared at me with a terrified expression from the reception area.
“Oh, hi there, you must be Amanda. I’m John Stone,” I said as I finished drying my hands with a paper towel, tossed it in the bathroom trash can, and then strode across the room to greet her.
She didn’t respond, just stood frozen in the middle of the floor and looked at me with watery brown eyes. Her mousy light brown hair was pulled back low against her neck, and she nervously twisted the ends of her long ponytail with her left hand as she pushed her black-rimmed glasses up on her short, button nose. She wore a dated skirt suit in an awful eggplant purple color that made her appear twenty years older than she probably was.
“I-I’m not sure this is what I was expecting,” she finally said in a wavering, high-pitched vo
ice. Her voice instantly grated on my nerves. It reminded me of a squirrel on helium.
“I completely understand,” I responded with a warm smile, then gestured toward the table and chairs for us to sit down. She still stood motionless in the middle of the lower level. “Please, come sit down, and let’s talk. I just signed the lease on this place yesterday, so we haven’t had time to do any renovations yet, but it’ll look very different in a few weeks,” I assured her.
Her face relaxed immediately. “Oh, goodness. That makes a lot more sense,” she said in that squeaky voice, and a tittering laugh escaped her thin lips. “So, you’re new in town?” She asked as she lowered herself onto the worn orange cushion of the wooden chair in front on me.
“No, not new in town, just starting up my own firm,” I stated proudly.
“Oh,” her face fell again. “So, would I be the only paralegal, then?”
“Yes, and the position is really more for a legal administrator and paralegal combined. They will help me keep the office running smoothly while I’m in court, but will be compensated for the extra duties. They’ll also receive a monthly travel reimbursement,” I answered.
“Oh,” she replied again, and her ear-piercing voice sounded dejected.
“Is that a problem?” I asked her tentatively.
“Mr. Stone, I honestly don’t think this will work for me,” she stated as she stood up from the chair and held out a shaky hand across the table. “My last position was very similar, I ended up being taken advantage of, so thank you for your time, Mr. Stone.”
I realized her mind was made up, so I stood, took her small hand in mine, and gave it a quick shake. I gave her a tight smile as I realized her hand was moist with sweat, then wiped my wet hand on my pants discreetly.
Her chunky heeled shoes clopped loudly across the wood floors as she exited the dilapidated front doors of the building. I slumped back down in my chair and sighed.
