Stalker for Hire

Savannah, Georgia.

Twelve o’clock in the afternoon.

The sun beat down on the roof of my car, windows only slightly cracked to catch the rare breeze.
I sat low in the driver’s seat, throat parched to the point that my tongue felt welded to the roof of my mouth. Shirt drenched in sweat.

But not nearly this sexy.

I had hired on with an investigation agency back in April for the sole purpose of making some extra money. Troy had given me the idea after he saw me responding to a craigslist ad requesting a cleaning lady.

Investigating definitely beats filling out invoices for more lemon pledge

One online class and several bureaucratic hoops jumped through later, and I was a certified, qualified, licensed and insured private investigator. 

Suitable for all your stalking needs.

Which is how I came to be waiting, camera in hand, in the crowded parking lot of an anonymous apartment complex. Slowly dying of dehydration and boredom, all in the hopes of getting about fifteen seconds of video of a woman leaving the apartment of her current boyfriend-on-the-side.

Because it is NEVER this easy.

Since working for what shall be hereafter known as “The Agency”…

Well excuse me for trying to romanticize a job
for which the primary qualification is being able to hold your bladder.

…I’ve served subpoenas, casually tailed cars, and typed reports. But mostly, I stalk people.

Minus the psycho factor..

There are four military bases within an hour’s drive of Savannah. With so many spouses deployed, adultery cases are my norm.

I try not to concern myself with the moral quandary of who’s cheatin’ who, who’s being true, and who don’t even care anymore.

Thank you Alan Jackson for your succinct prose.

I’m just in the creepin’ business. And business is (maybe not surprisingly) good.

Consequently, I’m using the relationship woes of others to fund my own upcoming nuptials.

And that, Alanis Moirssette, is pretty damn ironic.

Lets not argue about the definition.