I was sitting at my desk writing a piece for work about how history moves at a tectonic pace, then suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, it turns on a dime, when a blast from the past called. It was a former client — a tech firm that once had big plans for artificial intelligence. Their CEO had hired me to ghostwrite some op-eds for him. I wrote two op-eds, got paid, then wrote a third. That was where the situation had gone tits up. My last, and is it turned out, final invoice wasn’t paid. Phone calls, emails, and even dunning smoke signals went unanswered. After months of trying to collect, a few more months of stewing, and then a couple of months working with a witch to put a hex on these deadbeat disruptors, I gave up. I was out $2,000 — my standard rate for an op-ed. That was two years ago.

“We’ve got an invoice from you, but nobody knows what it’s for, and our accounts payable software keeps flagging it. Can you tell me what this is about?”

The caller wasn’t someone I’d met before. He said he was the firm’s founder — a loosey-goosey title in tech that sounds impressive, but actually means jack shit. Nearly all the start-ups I work with have more founders than products. Also, the C-suites at these start-ups often resemble a game of musical chairs. Point is, it didn’t strike me as odd that we’d never met.

“What’s it say on the invoice?” I asked.

“Writing services: op-ed.”

He read me the title. I didn’t remember the piece, but I remembered the unpaid bill. In two decades, I’d only been stiffed three times. The first was a producer who told me, candidly, that he had paid his coke dealer instead of paying me. I told him I understood, as cocaine is a helluva drug. The second time was a humor magazine that folded its print edition after commissioning my piece. They asked if I’d been willing to let then run it on their website, without pay. I told them that was the funniest thing they’d ever come up with. The third time was my former client, Deadbeat Disruptors, LLC.

“Can you tell me who hired you?” the man asked.

I told him. Suddenly, the vibes shifted. I got the feeling that the CEO who had brought me on — a man who was now the former CEO — hadn’t left on the best terms. But their business wasn’t my business. My business was the unpaid invoice.

“Well, we owe you an apology, Michael. I don’t know how this fell through the cracks, but like I said, our accounts payable software kept flagging it, and nobody knew what to do with it, so it ended up on my desk.”

“The buck stops with you.”

He laughed, I didn’t.

“Anyway, I looked at the invoice, and I saw your number, so I figured I’d give you a call and see what this was about.”

My brain exploded — figuratively. My invoice had been kicking around inside Deadbeat Disruptors, LLC for two years. From the sound of it, the mystery invoice had landed on several desks. There must’ve been email chains about my invoice, maybe even a meeting or two, possibly a PowerPoint presentation. But the man I was speaking with was the first person at the company who had picked up the phone. Was that a throwback move to a simpler time, before Slack, automated emails, and vendor payment portals? Sure. But the old-fashioned blower, aka the telephone, had worked! And in record time, no less. Two minutes on the phone with me had solved a two-year running mystery at Deadbeat Disruptors, LLC.

“Thanks for reaching out,” I said.

“Well, I want you to know that I’m wiring the money now. It should hit your bank account in two days.”

“Great.”

“I also want you to know that we started as a small business, just like you.”

“I’m a sole proprietor. The only we in this operation is the royal we.”

I laughed, he didn’t.

“Right, well anyway, I want you to know that I know that two thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

“Not as much as three thousand.”

This time, nobody laughed.

“Anyway, it’s a big deal, and it’s unacceptable. So again, I’m sorry. You should have the money in two days.”

I told him thanks. He promised to introduce me to their new head of marketing & comms. Then he said one last time, “The money will be there in two days.”

Two days later, I checked my bank account. The money wasn’t there. It wasn’t there the next day, either, or the after that, or the following day. So I called the man back. I was all set to give him a piece of my mind, but I never got the chance.

The number had been disconnected.

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I wrote a novel called Not Safe for Work — a slacker noir murder mystery set against the backdrop of the porn industry at the dawn of Web 2.0. Like everything you read here, it’s based on my personal experience, and it’s funny as hell. If you love Situation Normal, there’s an 11 in 10 chance you’ll love Not Safe for Work.

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Where’s the money, Lebowski? Make up an excuse for Deadbeat, LLC.

Have you ever been stiffed? Tell your story!

Have you ever stiffed someone? Share your shame.

Do you think I can get a refund from the witch I hired to put a hex on Deadbeat, LLC? They’re still here, but my check isn’t.

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