5:32 a.m. Damn phone. JJ went through the possibilities and disliked them all.

Wrong number.

Heavy breather.

Telemarketer.

Old boyfriend Phil, promising to change.

Old boyfriend Bill, saying he had changed.

Creditors chasing her deceased mother. Dead two years and good ole mom was still eluding creditors.

5:46. Damn phone again. One ring … two … three … four.

The apartment grew quiet, or as quiet as Manhattan allowed. The noises, like the July heat, rose to JJ’s 4th story window: a garbage pail tumbling, a man arguing, a woman pleading, their lives played out on a concrete stage; a lone yelp.

5:54 a.m. Six rings … 10 … ad infinitum.

JJ threw off her sheet and stumbled into the living room, looking for her cell. Where was it this time? She tore through the piles of laundry, newspapers and textbooks. Finally, there, right in front of her, on the coffee table. She shook her head, disgusted.

JJ looked at the phone number. Unfamiliar except for the area code: 917, which was assigned to New York City cell phones. She was in no mood for conversation.

“What do you want?”

There was a pause and then a sob, more like a mew. “Please,” the woman struggled to say, “forgive me.”

JJ hated granting forgiveness. It led nowhere. “Who is this?”

“I know it’s terribly early to call, but I — ”

“You’ve got the wrong number.”

“Are you sure?” The woman shifted into a full-throttle weep. “I’m such an idiot.”

For misdialing or being an idiot?

“Do you think I should leave a message?” she asked.

“What the hell for? You’ve got the wrong number.”

“For JJ Hyde, just in case. Could you tell her Rachel Warner called, that I’m a friend of Gary Hall?”

Gary, hairstylist extraordinaire and JJ’s favorite house-sitting client. He was also a referral machine who had saved her starving ass many a time.

JJ sighed. “This is JJ. What do you want?”

“You mean I dialed correctly?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God,” Rachel Warner said.

Hallelujah. “Why are you calling?”

“My grandmother. She’s dying and I’ve got to fly back to Indiana,” she said between ragged breaths. “Gary does my hair and he mentioned you a while back. He gave me your number. He said you house-sit for him when he goes to Cape Canaveral.”

“Cape Cod.”

“Oh.”

“Can you get to the point?”       

“Gary spoke so highly of you. He said you didn’t steal.”

“Quite the endorsement.”

“He meant that as a complement.”

Gary undoubtedly had. “No pillage-no plunder” was practically JJ’s slogan, but it served her well. Reputation was everything in the house-sitting business. Pocket as much as a paperclip and word got out and business dried up. JJ was in a drought of late, for which she blamed the economy. People were too spooked about the economy to take long vacations, Gary included. He had just forgone his annual month at Cape Cod for a couple of long weekends on the Jersey shore. It was a big hit to her pocketbook.

JJ shoved her textbooks aside and dropped onto the couch. She leaned back and closed her eyes. “When do you want me to start?”

“Well, that’s the thing ... today. Now.”

JJ sat up. “Are you crazy? It’s not even 6 a.m.”

“I know it’s short notice, but I’ve booked an 11:30 a.m. flight out of LaGuardia. I can pay your cab fare here.”

“That’s not much incentive,” JJ said.

“What if I doubled your house-sitting rate?” Now that was an incentive.

JJ grabbed a pen and the first piece of paper within reach: her latest astronomy quiz. Beneath the red “D,” she began calculating: $50 a day … 

“Have any pets?”

“Do fish count?”

God, she hated fish. “Fish count. They’re an additional $25 a day,” which bumped her daily rate to $75.

“Okay,” Rachel said.

 “Where do you live?”

“Fifth Avenue and 84th street, across from Central Park.” Rachel said.

JJ smiled. The Upper East Side was Manhattan’s most exclusive neighborhood, which meant Rachel had deep pockets. What the hell? She added a you-can-afford-it surcharge of $25, which brought the daily rate up to $100.

“How long will you be gone?”

“I’m not sure,” Rachel said. “I haven’t been home in a while. Would a week be okay? That means I would be back on — let’s see — today’s Tuesday …”

“Monday.”

“I’d be back on Monday?”

“No, today’s Monday.”

Oh,” Rachel said. “So I’d be gone Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday …”

“Wednesday.”

“I’d be back on Wednesday?”

“No! It’s Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday — look, let’s just say you’ll be back on Sunday. That’s seven days.” Seven days at $100 = $700, doubled per Rachel’s offer. Fourteen hundred dollars — holly shit! — $1,400 for doing nothing but sleeping over a stranger’s house and feeding a few fish. That was more than JJ had made the previous month.

“Does that mean you’ll house-sit for me?”

JJ sighed. “Well, you’re giving me awfully short notice, but I suppose I could rearrange my schedule, given you’re a friend of Gary’s. I’d have to charge you $1,400 for the week, however.”

Holy crap! Had she really said that? It was like having an outer body experience. She began to pace, waiting for Rachel to hang up.

“Fourteen hundred?” Rachel repeated. “So I would have to double that, right? That’s $1,400 times two is … is … $2,800. That right?”

Technically, yes; ethically, no. But JJ didn’t give a shit about ethics, not with next semester’s tuition bill looming and a zero checking account balance.

“Do you take American Express?” Rachel finally said.

JJ pumped her fist, yes! “Cash only, off the books and half up front.”

“I only have about $200 in cash right now, but I’m good for the rest. Ask Gary.”

“No need,” JJ said. How magnanimous.

“I can’t thank you enough, JJ.” Sob. Sob. Heave, heave.

“Look, if you want to make your flight, I’ve got to get off and get going,” JJ broke in. Eighty-fourth Street and 5th, you said?”

“Look for the black canopy,” Rachel said. “I’ll tell Manny you’re coming. He’s the doorman on duty.” She hung up.

JJ ran to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and slapped water on her face and beneath her armpits. For a moment, she contemplated brushing her hair, the bane of her existence. Red, thick, past her shoulders, unmanageably frizzy in the humidity. No, too much effort to force it into submission.

Back in the living room, JJ dug into the pile of laundry yet to be folded and retrieved clean underwear and socks, denim shorts, a couple of tee shirts and her running gear. She stuffed them and her astronomy textbook into her knapsack. Whatever else she needed, she’d pick up later.

Last stop, the kitchen.

JJ opened the freezer and pulled a worn yogurt container from the back. She no longer needed to hide her money from her mother, who had snorted her way to druggie heaven. Still, old habits were hard to break. JJ opened the lid: $62 and change. She crammed two $20’s into her pocket.

JJ ran down the four flights and jogged down Fifth Street to First Avenue. The sun was up, people were sleep-walking their dogs, while others were braving the day armed with nothing but cappuccinos in to-go cups. Tight as money always was, JJ was grateful she wasn’t a 9-5er. Careers were for other people. Getting by was for her.

JJ stood on the corner and no sooner did she raise her arm than a cab barreled toward her. “Going to be a hot one,” the driver said, trying to chat her up.

“Yeah,” she said, then closed her eyes. Cabs were the poor man’s limousine, an escape from rush hour subways and men who enjoyed making full-body contact. JJ wanted to savor the ride, especially as Rachel said she pay for it.

JJ smiled. Four hundred hundred bucks a day. Too good to be true? Maybe. House-sitting was like a game show. You never knew what was behind the door. Thankfully, most people fell within normal range. They almost made up for the crazies, like the 80-year-old gnome with the Nazi dish set or the ex-felon whose knife-wielding girlfriend thought JJ was shacking up with her man. Every occupation had its hazards, JJ reasoned. She hadn’t been murdered yet, so what the hell. For $400 a day, she’d tempt the fates.