There's a lot to be said for the new freelance regime. Using the first few weeks as a test, and assuming I don't hit any horrific dry spells, I'm actually making more than I did working in the office. Usually I'm paid a flat fee per project and, while each individual project often pays crap, I've found that I whip through projects fast enough that, when the dust settles, I've racked up more dough than I would have in the same two-week period at the office. I'm assuming the secret to this heroic boost in productivity is the utter lack of meetings. What would have been an all-day job in the office is often polished off in an hour of two here at home.

    The downside of the gig format is having to go, hat in hand, begging for work. I've found, however, that dignity is to the freelance worker what the gag reflex is to a $10 Bangkok rent boy: once you suppress it, you'll find the commercial opportunities to exploit your talents expand greatly. For somebody with so little practice, I'm getting remarkably good at hitting up old coworkers, personal connections, tenuous business contacts, and random street people for work.
    I've started telling myself that shame is a luxury I just can't afford. Though, to be honest, this has become my excuse for almost everything I do. If I don't want to bother getting dressed before starting into work, I tell myself that getting out of my robe and jammies is a luxury I just can't afford. Want a mid-day Jack and Coke? Well, my friend, sobriety is a luxury you just can't afford.

    I had drumming up some work on my mind when I met with Dan and Rachel for lunch yesterday. We went to Peep in SoHo, a sleekly decorated Pan-Asian joint known for their clever reinterpretation of Thai staples and the fact that their heads are separated from the main dinning area by ceiling to floor one-way mirrors (the one-way being that the person in the john can see the eaters, but they only see themselves eating). If you get your kicks watching folks chow down while you pinch off a loaf, then this is the place for you.

Story

    While we were waiting for our food to arrive, Dan launched immediately into some freelance work that was to be had and we settled all that before soup arrived. We moved on to small talk – mostly random bits of data about their current/my ex-coworkers. Dan was telling a story about something wacky that somebody said during a meeting and he asked Rachel to confirm a detail. She then said, "I don't know. I didn't come in that day because of family stuff."
    "Right. I forgot. I wasn't going to ask," he said.
    "My grandmother's been kidnapped by drug dealers," she said.
    Dan and I started laughing, and Rachel did too, but uneasily.
    "What?"
    "She's been kidnapped by drug dealers."
    We stopped laughing. "Are you serious?" Dan asked.
    "Totally."
    "Have you tried contacting the A-Team?"
    "That's funny, but, dude, I'm totally serious."
    "Okay, okay. I'm sorry it's just . . . kidnapped by drug dealers is, I don't know . . ."
    "I know. It's a little weird."
    "A little."

    Rachel explained that, for several years, her grandmother lived in an apartment building in Philly, Rachel's hometown. Sharing the same floor as Granny was a young woman, a single mother with two young children, daughters both. Granny doted on these children, often offering to help watch them, take them to school, and so on. The assist was welcome as their mother held down two jobs and the father was serving time for drug related offenses.
    Rachel's family were mostly cool with how thoroughly integrated the kids were getting into the fabric of Granny's life. The mother and offspring seemed solid enough. There was some concern about the drug dealer returning, but these were dismissed off-hand by the mother. Mr. Dealer had left litters of children all over state of Pennsylvania and, the mother said, he'd shown no particular interest in these two spawn in particular. Anyway, the mother claimed that it would be a cold day in aeigh-eee-double hockey sticks before she allowed that dead beat back into her life.

    If Dante's famous walking tour of the nether-regions is anything to go off, the astute reader will notice that there are actually several circles of Hell in which the weather is predominantly frigid. The third circle of Hell, where gluttons reside, is continuously beset by cold rain and hail. The ninth circle, home to traitors of various sorts, boasts the Cocytus, a perpetually frozen lake.

    Mr. Dealer returned and immediately began the process of adjusting back to civilian life. He took great interest in his two daughters; even going so far as to help them write frequent letters to Granny.

Dear Granny,

I love you very much. I also love your pretty earrings very much. I wish I had a pair like them. Only they must be very expensive and my parents couldn't afford to give such nice things. If only I knew somebody who could give me such nice things. I guess I'll just cry in my room until a person fitting the above description comes into my life. Hint, hint.

Sincerely,
One of the two children from across the hall

    He was helpful to Granny as well. When she began to notice small, but valuable items would go missing from her house, he ingeniously suggested that the old lady make a second house key for him. That way, he reasoned, if she were gone and he heard noises in her apartment, he could bust in on the thieves and chase them off. It was almost too much to ask of the man. What if the thieves were armed with guns or knives or attack dogs or something? But Mr. Dealer was not afraid.
    Mercifully, it never came to actual conflict, Mr. Dealer thought he heard noises on several occasions, but he never did catch any thieves red handed.

    I guess I should take a moment here to discuss Granny's mental state. It will deteriorate slightly over the course of the story, so we should establish a baseline now.
    Rachel suggested that, at this point, it would be too simple to just dismiss Granny's actions as a manifestation of senility. Granny's not a young lady anymore and there is certainly some aspect of your garden variety age-induced wackiness at work here. But Granny's dementia seems to come and go. When she's lucid, she seems as insightful and wise as anybody.
    Rachel's theory – and, as Rachel's both blood and the person closest to Granny among the folks reading this story, I figure her theories should be the "official" ones adopted by this diary – is that Granny had basically decided, on some emotional, pre-intellectualized level, that the two young girls were family. In her mind, this meant that she had to accept Mr. Dealer the same way a big hearted woman like herself would accept the lame-o spouse of a favorite granddaughter or something. You simply hope for the best and try not to allow the obvious fact of the man's loserness get between you and the ones you actually love. You have to tolerate family.
    And Mr. Dealer's loserness was, Rachel believes, readily apparent to Granny. She sites as evidence for this supposition the fact that Granny was, apparently, actively hiding the increasing amount of interaction betwixt her and the family across the hall from her blood relatives. She knew that all was not right and that her family, who visited her on a twice-a-week basis, would justly intervene. But intervention might sever her ties to the girls. Granny reckoned that if getting burgled on a semi-regular basis was the cost of stay close to the little ones, then she was cool with that. She was in her early 80s already and it wouldn't be long before the definitive redistribution of her worldly wealth occurred. Why bother to be stingy about it now?

    The whole thing came to a head when Granny burnt herself pretty badly attempting to make some soup. During the extended hospital stay, Granny's blood ties met the adoptive annex to Granny's clan. At first, everybody got along great. The blood thought it was wonderful that Granny's neighbors seemed so concerned about her. This initial era of good feelings quickly soured. The annex family raised all holy hell when it was revealed that, for a long time now, plans had been made to move Granny into an assisted living community. The burn incident gave the moved added impetus. But Mr. Dealer wasn't having it. He accused Granny of abandoning his kids (much like he'd done before he found they were the doorway to some ripe and easy pickings). This cut Granny to the quick, but the blood were able to hold fast and get Granny to agree to stick to the plan. Once it was clear that he was going to lose this fight, Mr. Dealer began making odd requests of the family – mostly about extended visitations, powers of attorney, that sort of think. This marked the radical break between the annex and blood family.

    It was also about this time that Granny's flashes of senility stretched in what could more rightly be called periods. And the periods expanded into states. Maybe it was just her age. The combination of physical incapacity, guilt over "abandoning" the girls, and depression over the fighting within what she (and perhaps only she) considered her extended family couldn't have helped.

    The family moved Granny into the home and kept up their normal schedule of visits. Nobody saw hide nor hair of the annex family. This quiet state of affairs lasted for nearly a year.

    Then, according to the ALC, Granny packed up her things, checked herself out of the home, and took off with Mr. Dealer. That same day, Granny cleared out one of two joint savings accounts she held with her own daughter.

    Granny would regularly call to say she was fine and that she was happy, but she wouldn't say where she was. The family called the cops. The police said that they couldn't do anything unless Granny indicated that she was being held against her will. Then the family hired a private detective who had no problem tracking the guy down. He, his wife, the girls, and Granny were living in a nice new home in a somewhat posh suburb of the city. The gumshoe figured Granny's money paid for the pile because, as far as he could figure, Mr. Dealer had no occupation, legal or otherwise. He had become a full-time strip-miner of Granny's rapidly dwindling money.

    There were several confrontations at chez Dealer, those the blood adopted a non-confrontation policy after it was clear that these were going to develop into something violent and their lawyer (who, as it turned out, had previously gone to trail against Mr. Dealer – small world) told them that any fisticuffs with the man would torpedo the case.

    For a brief time, when Granny first left, Mr. Dealer tried to play it cool. He'd claim that the whole thing was a misunderstanding. Of course the blood can come visit Granny. We'd all enjoy that. But, Granny could never come to the phone and, whenever a meet up was scheduled "Granny" would beg off 'cause she was sick (the family was told, they never spoke to Granny anymore). Eventually, secure in the inviolability of his situation, Mr. Dealer dropped all pretense of civility. In a taped conversation with the family and their lawyer, he told them to quit trying to reach Granny: "She's mine. I control her now."

Title Song: Crying for Her by The Proverbial Knee Hi's