When I got out of music school, I was afraid I was going to starve to death so I got a bill collector job--of all things! Most of the time I'd sit at my desk with a stack of account cards calling one client after another, asking them to pay. But if I couldn't reach them I had to drive to their houses and try to collect mano a mano.
One fine fall day I drove to this nice little house in Charlottesville Virginia and found my client--a skinny, white man of some 60 years or so--planted on his sofa while his wife--not a signatory--puttered around him. Although it was only just mid-afternoon he had already had a couple of cocktails and was feeling no pain. It was obvious pretty quickly that the guy had no means or intent of paying his bill.
'First you must know what you are dealing with, and then you can proceed,' he said as he explained that he hadn't worked in six months. He repeated it probably a half dozen times during our 15 minute conversation - 'First you must know what you are dealing with, and then you can proceed.' Damn It! I thought, We'll never get paid.
Twenty five years later I can still see him sinking into his Early American Herculon sofa with his pants at mid-thorax. Given his age and the likelihood of alcohol toxemia, he must be on a stain-resistant sofa in the sky by now.
But, to me, he resides in a little Cape Cod in my head forever reminding me - 'First you must know what you are dealing with, and then you can proceed.'
And, of course, we never did get paid.
