The Art of the Hustle
Page 31
***
We had a great time in Whistler. We went snowboarding, did a little shopping, and ate out at some nice restaurants. It was nice to get away, but it was obvious I needed to make more money. There was only so much I could do on ten dollars an hour.
We arrived back to Vancouver on Sunday night. There was a line of cabs already waiting at the bus station, so we quickly ran to the first one to avoid getting drenched in the rain. The cab dropped Ashley off first. She took a few bills out of her wallet and paid the cab driver.
“That should be enough for you to get home, including the tip,” she said, as she kissed me goodbye.
A few minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of my building. I unloaded my bag and snowboard equipment from the trunk and hauled it up the front steps and into the lobby. I struggled to maintain my grip the whole way down the hall. Finally reaching the front door of my apartment, I set down all my wet gear. I unlocked the door, opened it slightly, and put my foot in it to prevent it from shutting. Once I picked up all my stuff off the floor, I kicked the door wide open, and dragged everything inside. It felt good to be home. I was cold, wet, and exhausted. The place was quiet and empty. I flicked on the lights and called out to my roommate. There was no answer. He was probably at his brother’s place watching the football game.
I left all my stuff at the front entrance and then ran a hot shower. After that, I went to the kitchen to pour a large glass of chocolate milk, then went into the living room and flicked on the TV. I sank deep into the couch and began to drift away.
My slumber was interrupted by a loud knock at my door. I got up, sauntered over to the door, and looked through the peephole. A sloppy, heavy-set man was standing on the other side of the door. Judging by his untidy grayish goatee, I estimated he was in his late forties.
I opened the door and the man asked, “You, Trevor Morrison?”
“Yes,” I said suspiciously.
“You’ve been served,” the man said in a monotonous tone. He handed me a package and did not say another word. He turned around and walked back down the hallway. I’ve been served, what does that even mean, I thought. I opened the package and began reading.
‘Dear Mr. Morrison, on behalf of Power Crew Services,
The purpose of this letter is to inform you that my client, West Coast Press, is seeking damages totaling $3,653.16 (plus interest) for services rendered unpaid. A settlement conference has been scheduled for January 7th. Failure to show up will result in West Coast Press being automatically awarded the entire damages plus other costs that may follow. Failure to pay will result in West Coast Press being legally permitted to garnish your wages until the debt has been settled.’
“What the heck is this!” I said aloud. My heart sank into the bottom of my stomach. I immediately grabbed my phone and hit speed dial 1.
“Hello?”
“Ashley, guess what?”
“What?”
“Remember that business I had with Darrell?”
“Yeah.”
“Well apparently he racked up a bunch of debt with some advertising company and never paid them. Now they are suing both of us for over thirty six hundred dollars!”
“Are you being serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Geez, even when this guy is not in your life, he finds a way to bring you down.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I don’t get it though, why are they suing you?”
“I guess it’s because my name was still on file as a co-owner and co-operator of the business.”
“Can’t you just tell them you left the business?”
“I’m going to try, but they probably won’t believe me because I’m not credible.”
“I can testify for you then.”
“I appreciate that, but I don’t want to get you involved.”
“You should speak with a lawyer.”
“I can’t afford a lawyer.”
“Do you have a pen?”
“You know a lawyer?”
“Yeah, my dad. Do you have a pen?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, write down this number,” she said. I quickly jotted down the number she had given me. “I’ll call my dad right now so he will be expecting your call. Call him tomorrow morning before noon.”
“Thank you so much, Ashley. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just call him tomorrow and he’ll tell you what to do.”
“Okay, I’ll call him then I’ll call you afterwards. Thanks again, Ashley, have a good night.”
I hung up the phone and returned to the couch. What a weasel; I knew he would try to screw me over somehow.
My plan was to just attend the settlement conference and explain my side of the story, that I had nothing to do with the business. I figured Darrell would be there and it would be so obvious he was lying.
C H A P T E R
T W E N T Y - S I X
I sat down on the edge of my bed. I was holding my cell phone in one hand and a small piece of paper with a number scribbled on it in the other. Beside me was the Notice of Claim document that was served to me the previous night. I had everything ready to make the call. I stared down at my phone and prepared for what I was going to say. This would be the first conversation I had with the father of the girl I was dating. I hoped he would understand my situation. After all, it was not as if I was calling him to bail me out of prison or something. Here I was, a young guy trying to make an honest living, and someone screwed me over. I took a deep breath and dialed the number.
“Thank you for calling Bernstein, Taylor, and Associates, how may I direct your call?”
I cleared my throat and said, “Yes, hello, I would like to speak with Mr. Taylor please.”
“May I ask who is calling?”
“Yes, my name is Trevor Morrison.”
“One moment please.”
I took another deep breath.
A moment later, a deep voice came on the line with authority. “Howard Taylor speaking.”
The direct and concise greeting was from a man who was obviously aware of the importance of time. This made me even more nervous because I knew I was wasting his.
“Hi, Mr. Taylor, my name is Trevor Morrison, I’m friends with your daughter Ashley,” I said, as I waited for my cue to proceed.
“Mr. Morrison, hello, what can I do for you?”
“Well, sir, I’m being sued and was wondering if you could please give me some advice.”
“Who is suing you?”
“West Coast Press,” I said trying to match his conciseness.
“How much in damages?”
I grabbed the paper and read it to him. “$3,653.16.”
“Do you have the Notice of Claim handy?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, read it to me.”
“Dear Mr. Morrison, on behalf of Power Crew Services. The purpose of this letter is to inform you that my client, West Coast Press, seeks damages totaling $3,653.16 plus interest for services rendered unpaid. A settlement conference had been scheduled for January 7th. Failure to show up will result…”
“Okay okay, that’s enough,” Mr. Taylor interrupted. “Did you sign a contract?”
“I don’t know, I can’t remember.”
“You’ll need to find that out.”
“Okay, and if I did?”
“Then you’re liable for the damages unless you publicly terminated the business relationship with Power Crew Services. Did you do that?”
“No, but I do have a Record of Employment from my employer. Could I use that to prove I ended the business relationship?”
“Look, I’ll be frank with you. You don’t really have a case here.”
“Okay, that’s what I was afraid of. Thank you very much for your time, and I look forward to meeting you… perhaps under different circumstances.”
“Alright, good luck.”
I hung up the phone and got ready
for work.