Several years ago, a girlfriend had met this wonderful man on line and began dating him: He was a lawyer with a home office. Since I freelance, she called me and asked if I was interested in picking up some typing and transcription work, which of course, I was.
First Flag: She told me that he had trouble keeping a legal secretary. Odd, Jersey has had a high unemployment rate for several years now.
Second Flag: When I spoke with the lawyer, he did not want to see my resume, nor care to discuss my skills. Really, any warm body will do?
Third Flag: The lawyer would not discuss money over the phone.
Whoa! Legal transcription is NOT minimum wage, but I planned on clearly discussing such basics when we met at his office.
Fourth Flag: He was emphatic, demanding and anal that I should be there promptly at 9 a.m., ready to work.
Fifth Flag: I Googled him, this lawyer was fined several years ago, but reinstated.
I found his house/office. A one-story bungalow, faded green siding, dirt front yard/parking lot, rimmed by overgrown trees, shrubs, weeds, and many of them brown—dead.
There were two unmarked and filthy doors, flanked by windows with crap stacked behind the glass.
Door #1: I knocked. No answer. I went in.
I was not prepared for what I saw. I walked into what had been a custom kitchen; I could see the skylights and some oak cabinets. However, the room was swarming with flies and plastic and paper grocery bags were on every flat surface and strewn across the floor. I could not even discern where the sink or stove were located.
I backed out.
Door #2: Was a louvered glass door, the glass was caked in black filth, but an “Office” sign was dimly visible. Again I knocked. Again no answer, so I went in.
Outside of a cop show, I have NEVER seen nor expected this! It was a, long, dark narrow room, rimmed with ugly metal desks, each desk, each bookcase, each gap between them was stacked with brown, legal binders. Folders were jammed chest high, and some had toppled over to the desks. The rug was worn through to the wood below.
It stank of mildew, a vile dank and musty smell.
I kept calling the man’s name as I walked around.
Finally, I was back in the kitchen, and to the right I saw a bedroom with a man’s naked legs among the twisted blankets. That room had clothes flung everywhere: dressers, chairs, floors and that bedding looked grey and dingy.
I stepped back and called his name, again.
This time he answered and slurring his words, demanded to know who I was.
Told him that I was Rose’s friend.
He asked if Michelle was here.
I replied, “No one is here.”
He began barking work instructions to me.
Oh hell no!.
I stated: “I cannot work for you.”
The Lawyer: “Why not?”
Me: “The flies, the filth, the stench.”
I bolted out the door, jumped into my car and sped around the corner.
I called Rose to warn her. She didn’t believe me.
I called another friend, I was actually crying and she calmed me down.
My girlfriend continued to date him and make excuses for him: That I came too early and that he took care of the flies. This is why Battered Women’s shelters will never close.
I spoke casually with a church friend who is in the legal field, and the odds of getting such a lawyer shut down were slim.
I would sleep in my car before taking such a job.
Friendship with this woman faded away, we’ve not even reconnected on social websites.
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