Best Friend for Hire Read online

  “Those used to fit, those never fit, these might fit,” she itemized them for me. Like Goldilocks, she was starting to make some hard decisions.

  In an effort to establish some middle ground, I took out all the pieces that represented the extremes; she had sizes 2 to 14. The pants she had on were a 10 and fit perfectly, five pounds or not. We quickly eliminated the size 2s, the 4s, the 6s, and the 8s. As we did so, I recited a little cheer that I had learned in little league, “2, 4, 6, 8 who do we appreciate! Caroline the 10, Caroline the 10, yay, Caroline!”

  After about two hours of trying things on, we had piled 15 brand new pairs of pants and 10 blouses that did not fit onto one of the Henry VIII chairs, hoping the sheer weight of the clothes would not cause its spindly legs to collapse. Perhaps, if they held up, there was a better use for these chairs after all. The rolling rack summoned me from the far side of the closet; I knew damn well that half, if not all, of that stuff had to go back as well. Caroline confessed to me as much.

  “When I get depressed, I shop, and since I have nothing to wear, I bought all this stuff to try on at home to see what I liked best.”

  Caroline had developed another bad habit, it seemed. She would buy things off the rack and plan to return them later. All of the clothes on this rack and the shopping bags on the floor were bought without trying them on. For someone who had lost weight and was still in the process of slimming down, this was not a great habit to have. This myriad of sizes was making her feel bad about not fitting into her latest purchases. It would have been better if she had taken the extra time to try the items on and buy them in the right size in the first place.

  We painstakingly went through everything and amassed quite a return pile. The Caribbean trip was looking closer and closer.

  “Do you want me to come with you to do some returns today? It might be easier with two of us,” I offered.

  “That would be great,” she said.

  She was relieved to have the company and I was relieved to have a task. We ended our trip at Saks and stopped at the café for coffee and a snack, and, more important, to review how much money we had recouped: $2,450 had been credited back to her card.

  “Can we make another date to do this again? This was fun,” she asked over cappuccino and biscotti.

  I took out my hot pink iPad case and opened it to arrange our next appointment.

  “Nice case, I love it,” she commented.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” I joked.

  We agreed to meet every weekend until the bulk of the returns and closet purging would be completed.

  “I just love making new friends. Now I feel like you’re my new best friend—well, my best friend for hire, anyway.”

  “Right,” I agreed.

  I continued my journey on foot to the PATH train, pondering every aspect of this meeting. All I kept thinking of was what Caroline and I talked about, how much fun the session had been. How many more city girls like her needed reliable advice from someone they could trust? It was like how you ask your best friend for advice or to help you pick out an outfit, or to tell you what kind of flowers to put in your wedding bouquet. This was the stuff that a best friend would do for free, except Caroline was evidence that people would be willing to pay for this service. But what happened if you didn’t have a best friend? I had just found my new calling; no longer was I Jessie De Salvo, unemployed former publishing executive. Now I was Jessie De Salvo, “Best Friend for Hire.” Hear me roar.

  It can be hard to sleep the night before the first day of the rest of your life. I tossed and turned most of the night thinking about the endless possibilities of my new company. I formulated logo design, stationery colors, and marketing strategies for my new venture, BFH, Best Friend for Hire. I thought about my business card and my new title, would I be president, CEO, Head Friend? When the sun finally came up, I was ready. I got dressed and headed to my makeshift desk on the counter that separated my kitchen and living room. This was not my ideal setting for the big business venture I was about to spearhead. Plus, I could not have clients at my house. That would be unprofessional. I needed a real office, a headquarters, and one worthy of my grand plan. This lofty thought process was derailed quickly when I compared what was left in my bank account to the fee of a rental office in town. My early market research indicated that something else would be needed to solve my first business challenge. Renting an office was out of the question.

  Instead of mulling this heavy decision alone in my apartment, I decided to join the legions of day workers already at Starbucks, where all business ideas begin. Despite the fact that my town was only one mile square, there were three Starbuck locations: uptown, downtown and midtown. After a side-by-side comparison of each location, I chose the uptown one based on its ample seating area and particular customer demographic. My inner-market research team was working overtime.

  The clientele was made up of nannies and stay-at-home moms from the nearby highrises who grabbed frappuccinos before stationing themselves at the nearby park to watch young Madison, Hudson, or Clinton play with other like-named toddlers. (All these names were adopted from the street names in town.) The downtown and midtown locations catered to worker bees who would install themselves from morning till night, hoarding the free Wi-Fi service and available electrical outlets. Finding a space there would be the very definition of insanity.

  Hoboken had gone a little crazy over coffee: there were also four Dunkin’ Donuts, two independent coffee houses, as well as a Panera for those who need of a lot of coffee and a panini on artisanal bread. There, they can buy a cup early in the day and fill up all day long if they chose. This was the skinny provided by a wise entrepreneur I had met during a business card exchange in Weehawken last month.

  The business card exchange was designed for service people to not only swap their contact information, but also exchange the name of a client in need of service. That rarely happened. The only useful exchange I made was this piece of information about the Panera, which was located, by the way, next to a Starbucks.

  Once inside the uptown location, I was lucky enough to stake claim to the best seat, the one closest to the faux gas fireplace and a handy electrical outlet. Like a lion stalking his prey, I marked my territory by spreading out an array of business magazines and sample business plans on the table. I had to let the others know that I wasn’t going anywhere, a useful survival tactic in the land of coffee. Some of the aboriginals had sensed a new person disrupting the natural order of things.

  The first order of business was the business plan. Putting the right image out there was important and I needed a solid plan in place to achieve that. A good business plan is essential; at least that is what it said on pages 89-99 in my copy of Business Plans for Dummies. “The plan should be a road map chartering the course of the business. This document is necessary to plan for the next five years of business growth and should be aligned with the company mission.”

  I wondered if there was a prequel to this book, for someone like me, at the level below “novice.” Some aspect of this heady advice did sink in; the mission statement, what was my mission or more important, what was the mission of the BHF? At this point, I wished I could hire my own fully realized company to help me out of this jam and that’s when it occurred to me. Sometimes people just need to bounce things off of someone else and that is what BFH would be, a sounding board, a supportive ear, someone to hear what you are saying and make a helpful suggestion.

  But instead of trying to change the world, BFH would help everyday people solve everyday problems. I decided to start small, in my own backyard; after all, if I was going to gain trust and be that valued friend, that girl next door, I should probably start in a place where I actually was the girl next door.

  On the chair next door to me was a copy of the Hoboken Reporter, the town’s local paper. My quick scans of the classified section showed several listings for home improve
ment, but not one on self-improvement, my target. I wanted to fix people, not their houses. Putting aside the business plan for a moment, I adopted Mohammad’s approach: If the mountain wouldn’t come to me, then I would go to the mountain. In my case, the mountain was placing a classified ad in the local paper. I wrote:

  Need an idea, stuck in a rut, need someone to lend an ear?

  Because little problems are not little to us.

  Call Best Friend for Hire today for a free consultation.

  My Venti coffee had cooled from the nuclear boiling point at which it had been served to me, but it was still too bitter to drink; it needed another hit of Sugar in the Raw. At the coffee fixings bar was a man who looked familiar. It’s hard to figure out where you know someone from when they’re out of context. The way he was dressed ruled out all the usual places: publishing, networking, outplacement, and FOE (Friend of Emily). Nothing registered.

  He was wearing faded black Diesel jeans, a Metallica shirt, and a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off. This ensemble provided a peek-a-boo look at his heavily muscled and heavily tattooed upper arms. He was in direct contrast to the Jamaican-speaking nanny who was ordering the sweet tea in line ahead of him. I poured out half of my coffee to replace it with half-and-half and I noticed that he did the same. They never leave room for milk, I thought to myself. And as if he’d heard my thoughts, he said, “You have to ask them to leave room for milk.” I nodded in agreement, giving him an even closer inspection than I had before. He studied my outfit, which was different as well.

  No longer tied to the corporate suit, my new working kit consisted of jeans and a T-shirt in cobalt blue. Hair, which was usually blown out, was free to be itself, curly. Glasses had replaced contacts. Ballet flats stood in for heels. In just two weeks, I had transformed at least my physical appearance. I felt comfortable until he reached into my personal stirring space and grabbed a napkin. He tried to get a closer look at me. This was my new form of office stress.

  “Hey, I thought that was you,” he said, as if the proximity had triggered the proverbial light bulb.

  “It’s me, hi, hi, there.” His closeness was making me uncomfortable. I moved back a step closer to my table before someone else pounced on it.

  “Things look better since the last time I saw you.”

  “Right, they are,” I agreed.

  Still unaware of who this person was or when the last time we saw each other, I decided to fake it and play along until I could place him.

  “You don’t remember me, do you? I served you a few mimosas at my bar, a while ago.” He moved even closer, if that was possible. He really had no respect for personal space.

  And then it all came screaming back to reality, the firing day, the Derek and Allison betrayal day, the last day of my old life. And most of all, the way I looked when he had seen me: disheveled, distraught, and dumped, not the greatest first impression.

  “Oh, of course, I remember you. Nice to see you again. I better get back to my table.” I inched closer to my things and farther away from this awkward reunion.

  Already a realtor and client complete with listing sheets were staging a table takeover. So preoccupied with their Old West-style claim jumping, I left the boundary-challenged man mid-sentence to return to my seat. He recovered quickly when an entire Greek chorus of well-wishers swarmed him. From a guy in jeggings who was also wearing a denim jacket with ripped-off sleeves came a, “Wassup brother, saw the paper” and a fist bump. Two giddy girls tried to manage a hug without spilling their impossibly tall parfait-like coffee concoctions. Even the Jamaican nanny pushed her double stroller of identical twins alongside to join the conversation.

  “Dave, how are you holding it down?”

  “Hey, Trana, whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”

  “You said it, Mon, don’t let it bug ya!” And off she strolled.

  Dave waded through his supporters and seated himself at a table across from mine. He was challenged by the fact that I did not recognize him and respond like everyone else in the place had. He sipped his coffee meditatively, sat back and crossed his leg. Dave was one of those people who had the rare ability to be comfortable anywhere, in any venue, at any time. He had made himself right at home, which made me more even uncomfortable, bordering on awkward. As he sat in the chair across from me, he looked like a giant sitting at a dollhouse table. Why was it that when he sat he seemed taller than when he was standing? Before I could figure out this paradox, Dave was back to the questions.

  “What are ya working on, anyway, the theory of relativity?” He peeked over at my notes and saw the words “business plan.”

  “I’m starting my own business today,” I announced triumphantly. And immediately regretted my candor.

  Thankfully, I was interrupted before I could cover up my embarrassment and politely tell him that I needed my “office” space, even though the opposite was true. The vest-wearing fist-bumper or, as he described himself, his “brother from another mother,” had returned. Our threesome was complete when Dave made the introductions.

  “This is, uh, wait, I don’t know your name.”

  “Jessie, it’s Jessie,” I fumbled.

  “Jess, right Jess. This is Bertram, he helps me at my bar from time to time, at least while I still have the bar.”

  The word “still” hung in the air over the three of us. Bertram noticeably sighed in sad disbelief.

  “What’s happening to your bar?” I asked, revealing that I was the only person in the room, or even the town, so preoccupied had I been with my own situation, who was unaware of what had happened.

  “It’s all here in the Reporter. My bar is closing.”

  I had not seen the news; I had looked through the classifieds and slipped past the front page entirely. The headline, which appeared just below the handyman listing and police blotter read, “Landmark Hoboken Bar to Close.”

  This was surprising news on all fronts. Not only was Dave the owner of the famed bar The Garage, and not just the bartender, as I thought, but his bar was best known for being the location for a famous Bruce Springsteen video from the mid-’80s. The article cited financial difficulties that even The Boss himself couldn’t fix. That last part was cheap journalistic license, I thought.

  Not many bars in town had live music. All the downtown bars that were owned by hotels or larger restaurant companies played indecipherable electronic music or had a DJ, which was cheaper than paying bands. With all the competition for bars in town, it was a survival of the fittest mentality to keep costs down and the doors open. The Garage was an expensive place to run because the big-name acts it hosted were paid top dollar.

  Part of the reason that big-name acts wanted to play there was the intimate back room setting. This proved to be a two-edged sword. The bar could only hold a limited number of people, so profits were small. With rising operating costs, Dave’s business model was no longer feasible.

  Looked like I was not the only one grappling with a business plan that day. Dave had given up on his business challenge, but his comrade, Bertram, was not ready to throw in the towel on their plans that quickly. As manager of the club, he had a vested interest in its success and was willing to do just about anything to save it.

  “Listen, I’m on my way back to the club now to work on the fundraiser lineup.”

  His current business plan was to gather the regulars, many of whom had moved out of town, to the event and ask them for a donation to keep the place going. This was a nice idea for a casual party when you circulate a hat around to pay the band. But this was not going to work to save this club from impending financial ruin. They would need media and a lot of it. I covertly listened to his plans while I stenciled BFH logos on the inside of my business journal over and over again, like a lovesick teenager writing the name of her beloved inside her trapper-keeper.

  I couldn’t help but interje
ct, “If you want this to work, you’ll need a celebrity guest list—they love a good cause—a big headliner, maybe even The Boss himself. I’d probably get some rock bloggers out there, call the mayor, and maybe even call Rolling Stone. Could be a good story for them,” I said casually, without looking up.

  “If your publicist does all that, you might just have a chance,” I added.

  Suddenly, they were both staring at me. I looked up and took off my glasses.

  “What?” I asked.

  Dave smiled.

  Bertram smiled.

  Dave looked at Bertram with that “are you thinking what I’m thinking look.” Bertram nodded in full conspiracy mode, repeating his agreement with phrases like, “brilliant,” “this could work,” and “Dave, this could work….”

  Dave, buoyed by Bertram’s enthusiasm, moved in for the kill. He uncrossed his long legs and leaned in closer to me. It had been so long since I had any man that close to me; I was a bit overwhelmed. I fumbled for my glasses. His super-white teeth gleamed, and I detected his smell, fresh and soapy, like he had just gotten out of the shower. While staring into my eyes, he said, “My only problem is that I don’t have someone smart like you to help me….”

  Cue the finale music, the fat woman was singing somewhere. A crafty little twist of his pouty lips might have sealed the deal for me, but it was more than that, it was what he said, more than how he said it or the way he looked saying it, for that matter. The emphasis was squarely on “smart like you” that simultaneously charmed me like a schoolgirl and flattered my business acumen like he was addressing a captain of industry.

  “Or do I?” he probed.

  “You do still owe me…for all those free mimosas, and all…”

  I giggled. I could see why those other girls had almost dropped their coffees.

  When first starting a business, there is so much that is unknown. The art of business negotiation and all of its nuances were foreign to me. Up until that point, I was unaware of the many assets I had that could be useful to another businessperson. But Dave, a skilled negotiator, introduced me to an entrepreneurial staple, the barter. Sure, it would have been better to be paid money for my work that I could then apply to my mounting bills. That’s how work and life balance off each other in the real business world. But I was in a new work life structure entirely. Getting something to build the business would be just as good as money. If The Electric Company and Verizon honored the barter, we might have been really on to something. Since the balance on my checking account was decreasing to warning levels, I needed to launch this business—and quickly. I was prepared to make a deal.