The Work-at-Home Diaries

September 19

I log on to the Submission Blast Site and tumble pell-mell into a cyberspace maze. Dazedly, I thread my way through a succession of links to Web sites that solicit paid subscriptions to one work-at-home-related product after another. Nothing is free. I send an E-mail message to Rainbow Expressions asking how I can access the free site.

September 27

I've just received E-mail signed by Ilsa Morales of Rainbow Expressions. She explains that the "free" information I covet is available on the Blast site "once you sign up." In other words, the service is "free" to those who pay $35. Alas, I've reached the end of this particular rainbow and found only an empty pot. Unwilling to shell out more money, I write off my $47 investment in the envelope-stuffing business. You can't expect to score every time.

Still waiting for home-typing information from BestBizUSA, I drop a note to Judy Hardin asking if she has received my check for $8.

Ditto on my child-support-collection course. "I haven't seen any- thing yet, Joe," Rena Logan responds, when I send her an E-mail message to check on my postal money order. I walk to the post office and pay $2.75 for a trace. The clerk says it could be two weeks before I hear whether someone has cashed the money order. I've already spent $141.75 and waited two weeks to become a CSR associate. I'm not sure that I'll ever make it.

September 29, a.m.

It's a lovely Saturday, and I should be in my backyard smelling what's left of the roses. Instead I'm eyeballing the Compaq.

There's another note from Rena Logan, who must be getting tired of my constant queries. "Hi, Joe," replies Rena. "Did you send your money order from the East Coast? We haven't received it." This is so frustrating! The country is lousy with deadbeat dads, and because of some stupid mailing problem I can do nothing -- nothing -- to bring them to account! I tell Rena about the trace. Maybe that will get some action.

September 29, p.m.

Bingo! I'm in business. An E-mail message from ProCard says (fanfare, please): "Welcome to ProCard's work at home career opportunity. We're glad to have you aboard. Good luck on your new career." Included are 10 leads, none of which is in my "personal territory," as defined by the zip code that I picked when I enrolled. Instead, the leads are in eight states stretching from South Carolina to California. It's not a territory; it's an empire.

The ProCard E-mail is from Cindy. No last name. Wanting to introduce myself, I dial the company's number and punch in the first three letters of Cindy's name. "I'm sorry, a match could not be found in the directory," a recorded message says.

To get my bearings, I consult ProCard's FAQs, which say I should work "directly" with my manager. As far as I know, I don't have a manager. Or is Cindy my manager? I should know who my manager is. I still don't have a telephone number for Cindy, but I'll ask her by E-mail if she's my manager.

October 2

According to CSR, I am now a "child support processing professional." I like the ring of professional. When I download the company's manual from the Web, the image of a doe-eyed, curly-haired boy appears on my screen. Silently, I vow not to fail him.

The manual is titled A Complete Guide to Earning Money Through Recovering Uncollected Child Support Awards, which reassures me that my $139 is money well spent. The document reminds me that I'm part of the "leading edge of a major national trend," a shift toward the "privatizing" of child-support-payment collection. The opening pages instill confidence. If I follow CSR's methods closely, I will succeed.

I turn to a section about drumming up clients. The manual proposes such avenues as advertising in newspapers and on bulletin boards, issuing press releases, and buying a slot in the yellow pages. If those suggestions are too expensive for a fledgling, part-time work-at-home entrepreneur, I can buy "hot leads" from CSR for $250. After I've signed up clients, I can follow the manual's directions about how to collect money from delinquent noncustodial parents, which is child-support-collector-speak for deadbeats. Of course, I have to locate the deadbeats or their assets before I can wring any money out of them. As luck would have it, CSR also brokers certain public records -- for a fee. Credit reports are $19 apiece, driving-history profiles are $19, and a search for an active-duty soldier's address is $20.

Based on the CSR manual, I estimate that I will reap roughly $2,200 each time I execute a judgment. But all those fees make me nervous. How much profit will be left after expenses? There's no analysis of that kind in the 317 pages of the CSR manual, more than a third of which is verbatim text drawn from federal statutes, such as the Fair Credit Reporting Act and the Freedom of Information Act. Apparently, I've paid for a copy of tomes readily available in a good library. If I have to trek through that statutory thicket, I'll need old-age support before I collect any child support.

October 5

Aha! An envelope arrives from Judy Hardin of BestBizUSA Typing Resource Center. I've been waiting a month for information from her, so I open it eagerly. Inside is my letter of September 27, in which I inquired if Hardin had received my check. Stuck to the letter is a Post-it with a handwritten note saying that Hardin has forwarded the check to BestBiz. "You'll be hearing from them soon," she assures me. I wonder if the coming BestBiz information will be typed.

Come to think of it, what do I know about BestBiz? Not much -- not even where the company is located. I ask that question, among others, in a second letter to Hardin.

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