Disclaimer: The following is a TRUE story, and not the work of fiction. Names and Places have been more or less changed in order to protect the more or less innocent.
The smell of catfish burning on a grill somewhere woke me up too early that morning. Coughing and wheezing as I rose to greet another bright Boston day, a bottle of my best friend, Jack Daniels, lay spilled over my desk and hair. My name is James Blackstone. I’m a private note-taker for hire.
She came in around 10 or 11 a.m. – I can’t remember exactly when because I was finishing my fourth shot and my mind was reeling, trying to come up with a four-letter word for “Tallow material” in The Daily Free Press crossword. I still don’t know what a tallow is, but I should’ve guessed when I saw her that I’d be thinking of another four-letter word before this case was through.
“Are you Mr. Blackstone?” she said, trying to come off as coy but instead sounding like a dazed pawnbroker. I’d seen her type before; They were sprinkled through the school like a bad case of the Mondays. She proudly wore a BU sweater and carried the most impractically classifying binder this side of the Charles. I knew right away that she was about as good at balancing party time with school time as she was at balancing her daddy’s check book.
“The one and only. Take a seat,” I groaned at her, motioning to the only other chair, littered with Dominos pizza boxes and science textbooks previous clients had hocked. I leaned back in my chair and oh-so-coolly put my feet up on the desk, simultaneously striking a manly pose with my cigarette.
“Uh, can you not smoke in here? It’s, like, bad for my health.” She wrinkled her nostrils because of the smoke, or maybe because my feet on the desk were two inches from her face. I leaned forward so she could get a good whiff of the tobacco just in case.
“Listen here little lady, I know your type. You look down on us smokers from your high horse of nutrition 90 percent of the time, but that other 10 percent comes at three o’clock in the morning like a bullet, after a drunken night on Lansdowne Street. Who do you come to for a quick free fix of nicotine to go with your tequila sunrise? You’re looking at the chump, kiddo.” I don’t know if she got my angle, but she shut her trap and opened her pocketbook, revealing an assignment sheet in pristine condition. I didn’t need the “Certified Note-takers Of America” diploma hanging from my wall to know she hadn’t glanced at it for any longer than it takes to get a weak cup of coffee from the dining hall.
“Well, I’m in CGS, and I have this exam coming up on Nietzsche for professor Weaselblatt-”
“Let me guess. The discussion’s too early, you sleep through the lectures; now it’s midterm time and you know about Nietzsche about as much as know about the 11th light infantry brigade.” She stared at me as if I batted her in the face with a wet pillow. “I’ve heard the whole song and dance before, sweetheart. Let me tell you how it is. Ten bucks in advance plus expenses, then 20 when this thing’s all through. You think you can handle the math? Or would you like me to get a calculator out?” I purred at her sweetly. She threw the cash on the desk and huffed out of the room in disgust.
Now I had my first note-taking assignment in little over a month. The first order of business was to check out this Weaselblatt character and see what was on the exam. I arrived at his office about 2 p.m.
Suddenly I heard something behind me. I whirled around, fast-like.
She looked like my fourth grade Geography teacher, Miss Crabtree, except she was a he, weighing in at 250 pounds and carrying a .35 revolver.
“Dean Shmobanian sends his regards” was all he said as he aimed the gat.
Fortunately, he was about as fast as Lent. I picked up volume A of “The Encyclopedia Britannica” off the good professor’s desk and threw it at him. He was stunned but still kicking, so I threw B and C. I was up to volume H before he hit the ground as heavy as the freshman 15. I relieved him of his pistol and convenience points and made a beeline toward the door.
As I quietly left the room, I realized I would never see her again or find out what any of this was all about, whether it was blackmail, extortion or just another 900-words-or-less deadline. I shrugged and whistled the Mandarin alphabet backwards on my way back to my good pal Jack. It had all been just another day in the life of James Blackstone, note-taker for hire.
Patrick May, a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.
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