I Once Set Up a Google Alert for a Client’s Obituary

I once set up a Google alert for a client’s obituary.

I’m not a monster. Let me explain.

Frank

His name was Frank. He lived in one of those zip codes where the lawns are immaculate and the cars never have door dings and everyone is someone’s Paw-paw. He was an artist — a real one, in his heart — who spent his days painting and selling prints of his work through his website.

I say “real one in his heart” because I want to be honest with you: the paintings were not great. The faces were a little off. The proportions were a little off. The contrast was… also a little off. Everything was a little off in a way that added up to quite a bit off. He painted wildlife. He painted coastal scenes. He painted bears.

When Frank painted a bear, you found yourself wondering: has he ever actually seen a bear? Or did someone describe one to him once, briefly, over the phone?

But Frank loved what he did with his whole chest, and there is something genuinely wonderful about a Paw-paw who wakes up every day and makes art because it brings him joy and doesn’t particularly care what anyone thinks about it.

I respected that. I still do.

I also have one of his prints somewhere in storage, which tells you everything you need to know about how I felt about Frank as a person versus Frank as an artist.

Anyway. Frank needed a website. I built him one. He sold his prints. I handled his hosting. For years, he paid his invoices reliably and everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

The Computer

Here is the thing you need to understand about Frank’s relationship with technology: his computer was forever going tits up.

Not occasionally. Not once in a while. The man’s computer had the life expectancy of a houseplant in a dark closet. And when it died, Frank would either buy a whole new one or have someone wipe the whole thing clean and start over — which meant no saved passwords, no email history, no invoices, no record that he owed anyone anything. Just Frank, brand new computer, completely blank slate, ready to start fresh and do this all over again in no time.

So he would call me.

He always called. Never emailed. Calling was Frank’s thing. (The computer situation did not help with this, but I suspect Frank would have called regardless.)

I would see his name on my caller ID and take a long, slow breath. Sometimes I picked up right away. Sometimes I looked at that phone, thought carefully about what I knew was coming, and decided that today was simply not the day. Not today, Frank.

But eventually I always picked up. Because that’s the job.

The calls went like this: Frank would ask if he owed me money. I’d say yes. He’d ask how much. I’d tell him. He’d say he wanted to pay online. And then we’d spend the next stretch of the call with me attempting to walk him through clicking a payment button.

I should mention here: I’m a web developer and graphic designer. I genuinely love helping my clients — it’s actually one of my favorite parts of the job. But Frank was a special child, and helping Frank was a category of experience unto itself. For one thing, I’m on a Mac. Frank was on a PC. For another, Frank had a hearing problem that was only outmatched by his lack of comprehension for what I was trying to tell him.

It never worked.

Eventually I would say: Frank. Just mail me a check.

And Frank would say he wanted to pay online.

And I would say: Frank. Mail. The check.

We both desperately wanted to get off the phone. We simply had different theories on how to make that happen.

Sometimes a check arrived in the mail. Once, Frank drove twenty miles to hand-deliver it in person. I choose to believe this was a gesture of goodwill and not a complete distrust of the postal service, but honestly it was probably both.

And sometimes (often) two months would pass, and Frank would call again to ask if he owed me any money.

Did I Mention Dottie?

Dottie was Frank’s wife. Dottie was not on the phone. Dottie was in the background. But Dottie had opinions, questions, and a complete disregard of “he’s on a call right now.”

While Frank was trying to talk to me — already an exercise in patience, given the hearing situation, the PC situation, and the general situation — Dottie would be back there, chattering away. Ask her this. Ask her that. Ask her if we owe her money. Find out about the website. Frank. Frank. FRANK.

Frank did not relay her questions. What Frank did was scream.

SHUT UP, DOTTIE! I’M ON THE PHONE!

To which Dottie (fully aware he was on the phone, that was the entire reason she was talking to him) would not shut up. So, it would escalate.

GODDAMMIT, DOTTIE! SHUT UP!

And then Dottie would pick up the other phone. They still had phones you could pick up in another room. They still had phones you could slam.

Yes. This is relevant.

GET OFF THE PHONE, DOTTIE!

And I would be sitting at my desk, on a call I wasn’t getting paid for, on a platform I don’t use, wondering if Wendy’s was hiring.

I want to be fair to Dottie here. I never met her. She was probably a wonderful woman. She probably made the best potato salad you’ve ever had. Her sugar cookies were probably legendary. If you met her at a party you would love her immediately.

But on those phone calls, she made me want to divorce a woman I had never met in my life.

The calls always ended the same way. Someone slammed down the phone.

I would sit quietly for a moment, staring at nothing. And then I would get back to work.

This happened every. single. time.

The Executive Decision

Eventually, I did some math.

The invoices I was chasing were real money, but smaller than lost time, not to mention mental well-being. The phone call required to collect them always seemed unnecessary, plus the marital screaming match, unpaid cross-platform tech support for a man who couldn’t hear me, all of which ended in voicemails Frank left when he missed me.

Always the same.

Call me back ASAP.

ASAP, Frank. Absolutely. Can’t wait.

So I made an executive decision. I stopped sending invoices. I started covering his hosting and domain fees myself. Quietly. Without telling him. Not because I’m a saint — I want to be very clear about that — but because the phone calls were costing me more than the hosting was. And while I genuinely liked Frank, sometimes the math just works out that way.

Frank’s computer would go sideways again eventually. He’d get a new one. He’d have no record that he ever had a website, or owed anyone money, or that I existed at all. And that was fine. That was now between me and my credit card statement.

The Alert

Frank was not well. He’d mention a procedure here, a health issue there. And at some point I realized I had no way of knowing when the website would no longer be needed. His family didn’t know I existed. There were no invoices floating around that might prompt someone to call me. I had made sure of that.

So I set up a Google alert for his name.

I told you I wasn’t a monster. I stand by this. I was paying for a client’s website out of my own pocket because I liked him and couldn’t survive another GODDAMMIT DOTTIE situation. The alert was simple logistics.

When the obituary finally landed in my inbox, I didn’t rush. I waited three months — enough time for his family to reach out if they wanted to do something with the site, a memorial page, a legacy archive, anything at all. I did a full backup just in case.

Nobody called. (The family was probably too busy fighting over that bear.)

I took the site down quietly. Kept the backup on file. Moved on.

What I Actually Learned

Not every difficult client is a bad client. Some of them are Frank — losing their computers, losing their invoices, leaving ASAP voicemails, driving across town with a hand-delivered check because the internet cannot be trusted.

Frustrating in ways that are, if you let yourself see it, also a little bit hilarious.

I still have one of his prints somewhere in storage.

He was a good man who loved his art.

And Dottie, if you’re out there: I’m sure you’re wonderful. I really am.

But Frank was on the goddamn phone.

Lena Shore builds custom WordPress websites, does graphic design and illustration, and has — on at least one occasion — paid a client’s hosting fees for years just to avoid a phone call. If you need a website, and you promise to email, let’s talk.