A day in the life, part the first

So today, I'm meeting with a client--one of my regulars--when I sense someone approaching. A tech writer. You can always tell the tech writers; something about their stride (precise) and their stance (nervous) gives them away.

Keeping only half my attention on the client before me, I watch the tech writer sidle down the alley. I can feel his heartbeat quicken; I can smell his agitation; I can see him look from side to side, hoping to find my door and not to be seen by anyone who knows him.

With a flick of a finger, a motion that goes unnoticed by the small, fat man cowering on the other side of my desk, I illuminate the door for my new customer. He puts a hesitant hand on the knob, and after a last sidelong glance in either direction, he opens the door and slips in. He jumps a little when the latch clicks behind him. I smile.

"All right, all right," I interrupt my client's tedious tirade about his current subject (who is, I daresay, twice as smart as he is), "I understand what you need this time. When's it due?"

"Five weeks from tomorrow," he says, his voice nasal and snivelling.

I stand and tower over the man. "Very well," I say, and I hold out a hand. He hands me a floppy disk. A floppy disk, for god's sake! He's had a year to get this book done, he hasn't completed it, and it's small enough to fit on a floppy. I roll my eyes. "Go now. I'll contact you when the job is finished."

With a pathetic little bow, he turns away, opens the door to the outer office, and plods out. He brushes past the tech writer, not apologizing when he bumps him, and leaves. Good riddance.

I give my new client a welcoming smile and hold out my hand. "What can I do for you today, my friend?" I ask as I gesture for him to come into my office and take a seat.

He looks back at the door, which has now closed behind my departed client. "Who's that?"

"Ah. That's Humbar Procter. You haven't heard of him?" The tech writer shakes his head. "Well, no, I suppose you wouldn't have. He's a ghostwriter. Or bills himself as such. Really, though, his writing is rubbish. In the end, he brings his projects to me to finish for him." I hold up the floppy disk, then toss it onto my desk.

I return to my antique leather chair, lean back, and examine the new client before me. He's a regular-looking chap, but then, the tech writers always are. Clean-cut, clean clothes, just basically clean. I do like getting jobs from tech writers, even if they are few and far between.

I repeat my first question. "What can I do for you today?"