My life as a private eye

I wanted to be a private eye when I was younger; I dreamed of a life in black and white and people coming to me to solve their problems.

I would befriend sobbing dames, who wandered into my office out of the rain with newspapers over their head. I’d establish a friendly rivalry with the local police chief, who would always be a few steps behind me. My name would be stenciled on the door to my office and I would spend the day staring at the mirror image of it.

He walked into my office out of the rain and shook his umbrella, dripping water everywhere. I followed the wet Converse footprints he left on the floor with my eyes as he plopped down in a chair, tossed his jacket over the back and cocked his head.

I practiced solving crimes in my head. I read detective stories, stopping right before the end, to try to solve them on my own. Then I’d go back, read the eloquent way the hero explained how he figured it all out to his partner, and I was always wrong.

I was good at math and solving puzzles. I liked that there was always a clear-cut right answer, and it could always be proven.

Usually it’s a dame that wanders in out of the rain; usually they wear a red dress. On the good days, they’re pretty. The young man sitting across from me had a couple days’ worth of stubble on his chin, his eyes were puffy and red; he looked distraught.

I guess the moment I decided not to pursue being a private eye came when I found out what kind of cases they really solve. It wasn’t as glamorous as in the movies or books. It was paranoid husbands having their wives followed. It was politicians digging up dirt on each other. It wasn’t helping people and it wasn’t for me.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said slowly. “Do you have a cigarette?”

But what did I want to do? Perhaps I could be the local police chief or perhaps a lawyer.

“Why?” I asked him bluntly, and tossed him a cigarette from the emergency pack I keep hidden in the bottom desk drawer. He took a lighter from his damp pocket and after a couple of false sparks lit the end of the cigarette. The glow illuminated his face.

When I was growing up I never imagined that life would be so complicated. I never thought I would have to work to stay happy. Never thought I wouldn’t know what I wanted to do.

Perhaps it’s time to try my hand at solving mysteries. It’s time to lay out all the facts, interview everyone involved, take the magnifying glass out of the desk drawer and hold it up to the mirror.

“I’ll take your case,” I said finally. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was no dame, but I saw myself in him and it seemed like he could use my expertise.