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.

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.