There wasn’t much I could do from Pennsylvania. Jon would share small updates here and there about his idea for The Asylum Project. He started doing TikToks, and people were supportive and interested. He got his EIN, and we both thought that was that. Full nonprofit, right?
Wrong. But we didn’t know that yet.
He had a friend start working on a logo and a website. Everything was moving like molasses in Newfoundland in January, but that was fine. I was nearly 3,000 miles away on the other side of the country and couldn’t really help. I hadn’t planned to still be there in March. I was supposed to be putting together a show for April in honor of World Burlesque Day. I was supposed to be getting more venues, booking shows, and finally having a solvent year as a small business owner.
That didn’t happen.
With my sister starting a new job as a traveling home healthcare nurse and my brother working two hours north, I had to handle the administrative side of things. The “pesky” stuff—like transferring utilities to “The Estate of…” and figuring out what paperwork was required. It’s an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone. The bureaucratic red tape, the outrageous fees, and on top of that, a contractor who wanted to be paid a lot of money for a job he hadn’t even done. He’d only ordered parts.
I’m a honey badger when it comes to my family. I’ll stay calm until someone annoys me, disrespects me, or makes me repeat myself too many times. People don’t enjoy dealing with the honey badger.
My sister-in-law (also a redhead) is different. She prefers not to deal with people at all, but if she has to, watch out. She’s a Wolverine, polite but lethal.
So there we were: the honey badger, the wolverine, and my brother, sitting in my Harrisburg living room with the contractor. We calmly explained that he wasn’t entitled to payment since Mom’s was the only signature on the contract.
He opened his mouth to protest, and I interrupted.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Before you say anything, I want you to listen to me and what I’m about to say, then decide if it’s in your best interest to continue.”
He blinked and sat back.
“Our mother,” I began, “was on oxygen, as you know. You met with her right here in this living room in December, the week after she came home from the hospital for the second time in three months. You came back after Christmas with the contract for her to sign. When she went back into the hospital four days later, no one was thinking, ‘Hey, I need to send a letter to cancel the remodel.’ They were thinking, ‘Is this it? Is she going to die this time?’
“I’m sure that if you choose to pursue this, we could establish reasonable doubt about whether she was in her right mind when signing that contract. How would that look on your public record, that you took advantage of an ailing senior?”
He went pale, swallowed hard, and nodded. Then he left.
We later sent a letter stating that we would not be pursuing the remodel, written on my official Sunflower Entertainment Group letterhead. Signed, with a flourish: Doctor Chrissy Mackey.
After he left, my stomach did somersaults. I hate confrontation, especially when I’m not entirely sure I can prove myself right. Fortunately, my sister-in-law had already spoken to a lawyer who’d gone through something similar with her father. We were definitely in the right.
Those weeks of dealing with contracts, conflict, and red tape made me realize how vital it is to pay attention to the policies you write and follow in your business. As March turned to April and my time in Pennsylvania neared its end, I tucked that lesson away. I knew it would come in handy.
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