unbillable hours

My Lost Horizons

The municipal, state, and federal courthouses in Newark, New Jersey, are arranged largely without any evidence of a planned arrangement. This is no mere happenstance to those that understand politics in New Jersey. This is how things work.

Just before the Ironbound section of the city, the southern sliver of Newark that is home to many Portuguese restaurants and one notoriously mobbed up diner, there are the two federal courthouses. The old courthouse, which shares space with the main post office for the city, is an art deco beauty that often surprises me with some nuance of design – a marble cutaway that I recognize to be Zeus throwing a lightning bolt in Courtroom Two, the red leather and wood honeycomb doors on the ceremonial first courtroom’s door, the one used when Judge Martini was sworn in before the bench. The new federal courthouse, with the statue depicting the body-less head of Justice, one eye peaking out from under a blindfold, is calm, modern order. I don’t feel the fear that ceremony often gives me when I enter that building. I nearly shake from it when I pass into the marble hallways of the old courthouse.

It’s a cool, sunny day, the sort that brings me pleasure greater than most other weather. I light a cigarette and walk past the federal building and the long line of immigrants waiting to interview with Citizenship and Immigration Services and the much shorter line of defense counsel waiting to fight with the US Attorney’s Office. There is a small courtyard between the federal building and the federal courthouses that runs up to Green Street and the municipal courthouse and police headquarters. The courtyard is blocked off by anti-terrorist barricades on the south and east, and by the back entrances of the shops and the Baptist Church that run the length of Broad Street. I walk down the courtyard, slightly swinging my nicked and scarred briefcase as I go. I nod and lift a hand as I pass an attorney I met at a wake. I struggle to remember his name, but can only dredge up a vague recollection that he might have been a federal public defender. That helps me little, so I continue the nod-and-slight-hand-wave. I’m wearing sunglasses. Perhaps he is also unable to remember my name.

As I pass the back edge of the Baptist Church, I notice a sign for T.M. Ward Coffee Co., proclaiming that the store sells peanuts roasted on the hour and Kona coffee every Friday. I stop short. Kona and Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans are rarities, usually costing well over $25 per pound. I suck down on the cigarette and flick it away. I have enough time, and the idea of getting coffee is not exactly one I’ll resist, so I decide to check out Ward Coffee.

Coffee is my dearest addiction. It forces the fog of my early morning mind out to sea and keeps me going when I sit at my desk well past sunset. Until very recently, I was well known at Single & Single for drinking upwards of fifteen cups of coffee a day. I had a very healthy bladder. I had a very unhealthy stomach. I forced myself to cut my consumption down to three to four cups of coffee per day.

I’ve noticed that I’m not the only attorney at Single & Single that has a devoted, albeit unhealthy, relationship to coffee. We are a close, somewhat consistent group. The drinkers, the smokers, the disheveled wiseasses. We stare blankly at the Italian-made coffee machine that turns a single pod of beans into a freshly brewed cup of Kenyan coffee. We make the walk back to our desks slowly, as though we balanced the Incan idol of Raiders of the Lost Ark in our hands.

I pass the Baptist Church and head up Broad Street, past the rhyming, slightly mad shoeshine man. Ward Coffee is a few doors down from the church, so there isn’t much time for me to study it before I’m inside the store.

It’s beautiful. It’s the past. In the front of the store are rows of oak cabinets containing loose, rare teas. The smell of bergamot is heavy like incense in the air and I am dizzy with its sweetness. I cross the wide-beamed floor and listen to the creaks and groans of the old wood. The floor dark brown, almost black, but has been worn away by the front door.

To my left are three rows of coffee urns, each labeled with a small, yellowed, typed index card. Ward’s Blend. Decaf. Hazelnut. Then the delicacies: Sulawesi. Kenya AA. Tanzanian Peaberry. Morning Glory. Judge Alito’s Blend. Judge Politan’s Blend.

I’m home.

I walk past the coffee urns and peer through an open door at the back of the nearly all-wood room. Under harsh white lights, a man in a white apron and brimless white hat holds a stick that pushes nuts running along a belt that leads to a roaster. The belt is covered in pecans. Around the walls of the back room are small plastic bags with roasted peanuts, almonds, cashews, filberts, and the like, arranged in long wooden bins. There’s something all-together different about this place from the modern Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts with which I’m familiar. This is a product of an era long before mine. I grab a small bag of toasted almonds and pour myself a large cup of Judge Alito’s Blend. What the hell, I think, he decided the Lucchese Crime Family Case.

It’s a little weak. I smirk at the irony.

I pour myself a second cup. Tanzanian Peaberry. Sweet, strong, and an aftertaste of lemon. I have to get the stout, blonde woman who works behind the nut counter to bring over Sweet & Low for the coffee. She doesn’t speak to me as she performs the task. She and I are 100 years from the days that this place came into being.

Another lawyer comes into the coffee shop. I shake my head and give him a nodded greeting. I stop gazing at the walls. The coffee and almonds are paid for, and I am outside, in barely a minute. I give the weak coffee to the shoeshine man and head back to the parking lot behind the Citizenship and Immigration Services Building.

Note: The T.M. Ward Coffee Company is a real dried goods emporium, located at 944 Broad Street in Newark, and is well worth your time and patronage. At that location for 132 years, I don't think my piece, above, or its rather efficient, corporate website does the emporium justice. It's a unique throwback to 19th Century mercantilism, much like the upscale farmer's market of Delicious Orchards, Colts Neck, New Jersey.

Oh, and Judge Alito's Blend is actually pretty decent. I still prefer Kenyan, but who am I to argue with the bench?

It Was a Private Conversation

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1515 hrs

From: “Peterson”
To: “TPB, Esq.”
Subject: Re: Best… Tron Costume… Ever.

I see Peterson has made the front page.

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1517 hrs

From: “TPB, Esq.”
To: “Peterson”
Subject: Re: Best… Tron Costume… Ever.

I couldn’t hold him back. The character’s irrepressible.

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1521 hrs

From: “Peterson”
To: “TPB, Esq.”
Subject: Re: Best… Tron Costume… Ever.

So I’ve heard.

Even overbearing at times…but all around a decent sort of chap.

Just make it clear that Peterson’s hung like a wet tube sock…I need to live vicariously through myself…yes, that’s how bad it’s gotten. Give Peterson all sorts of exploits in Tibet and Monaco and Peru.

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1538 hrs

From: “TPB, Esq.”
To: “Peterson”
Subject: Re: Best… Tron Costume… Ever.

I wouldn’t say overbearing. Just not capable of playing it molto pianissimo.

Hung like a wet tube sock. I’ll keep that in mind for when Unbillable Hours goes “blue.”

T.

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1542 hrs

From: “Peterson”
To: “TPB, Esq.”
Subject: Re: Best… Tron Costume… Ever.

Yes, hung like a wet tube sock was made up on the spot there…I’m just sick of the usual: donkey, tiger, horse, et al.

FILM NERD TRIVIA: the term “blue movie” was coined by censors who used blue pencils to strike out the objectionable content.

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1601 hrs

From: “TPB, Esq.”
To: “Peterson”
Subject: Re: Best… Tron Costume… Ever.

You made that up on the spot. Terribly shocking.

Seek help.

As for blue pencils, that seems akin to how the DOD actually used red tape to seal files.

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1608 hrs

From: “Peterson”
To: “TPB, Esq.”
Subject: Re: Best… Tron Costume… Ever.

We’re sooo smrat.

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1611 hrs

From: “TPB, Esq.”
To: “Peterson”
Subject: Re: Best… Tron Costume… Ever.

Yeah. That’s why we get all the chicks.

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1618 hrs

From: “Peterson”
To: “TPB, Esq.”
Subject: Re: Best… Tron Costume… Ever.

NO! That’s ‘cause we’re overweight, obnoxious AND smart. Not to mention our serial killer shark eyes.

Tue., 27 Apr. 2004, 1622 hrs

From: “TPB, Esq.”
To: “Peterson”
Subject: Re: Hey, American Psycho. Chill the fuck out.

Shouldn’t you be registering with a sheriff’s office or something?

Bad Season

It was the start of spring, which meant my eyes burned like those of a maced deviant. I was standing outside the grease truck on Howard Street, next to the Essex County Courthouse.

“You have pork roll?” I asked the grill man.

“Yes sir,” he said. His accent marked him as a member of Newark’s growing Portuguese community.

“Mm. Good. I’ll take a pork roll egg and cheese.”

“To drink?”

“Coffee. You have large cups?”

“Just this one, sir,” He held up a paper cup.

“I’ll take two coffees. Skim milk and Sweet & Low.”

“If that’s not a hangover cure, I don’t know what is,” a raspy voice said from behind me.

I turned around. In a cream topcoat, his bald head shining in the sun, Judge Ellis stood behind me, a smirk on his face.

“Hey, Your Honor. How’s it going?”

“Oh,” he groaned, “I’m just a few minutes from my cure, myself.”

“I laughed. “Let me guess. You went to Clydes?” Clydes was a New Brunswick piano bar – a throwback to the 1940’s – that judges were known to frequent.

“Something like that.”

“Uh huh,” I said. “More like exactly that, from what I heard from Kellaher’s clerk.”

Judge Ellis smiled and grunted. “She’s a fun one.” He pulled a cigarette from the breast pocket of his immaculate navy blue suit. I pulled a red Bic lighter, its bottom cracked from use as a bottle opener, from my dusty trench coat and lit the Judge’s cigarette.

“Of course,” Judge Ellis said after a puff, “Kellaher wasn’t much better.”

“There’s a shocker.”

“Watch it. Only I get to make the jokes.”

“Sorry,” I said, my hands up defensively, “sorry.”

“Priveleges of being a presiding judge, young counselor.”

“This is true,” I conceded.

“So are you coming or going?”

“Going. Just finished an initial appearance before Pellegrino. Case is going to be a fun one.”

“Order up,” the grill man announced.

I paid the grillman and grabbed the paper bag with my food. I stuffed the change in my pocket, next to my parking ticket, and pulled out a cigarette. I lit it as Judge Ellis ordered.

“What’s the length of marriage?” Ellis asked.

“Fourteen years. Wife makes seventy k, husband, eighty.”

“Let me guess, she wants twenty thousand in permanent alimony.”

“She wants his head on a platter. Found him with the Au pair.”

The judge laughed. “I think she wants something a little lower than his head.”

“Yeah,” I chuckled, “should be fun. I’ve gotta run, though. I’ve got a deposition up at Wenders and Passolini.”

“Hmm,” Judge Ellis grunted. “Mind your valuables.”

I smirked. Judge Ellis’ distaste for Martin Wenders was well known. “Well, I’m off to cure myself.”

“Stay out of trouble.”

“You too.”

“That’s no fun.”

He Didn't See Me Slip

Every reiteration of the idea that there is no drama in modern life, there is only dramatization, that there is no tragedy, there is only unexplained misfortune, debases us. It denies what we know to be true. In denying what we know, we are as a nation which cannot remember its dreams – like an unhappy person who cannot remember his dreams and so denies that he does dream, and denies that there are such things as dreams.

We are destroying ourselves by accepting our unhappiness.

David Mamet, A Tradition of Theater as Art, in Writing in Restaurants.

The cheap tin bell on the door to Elsie’s Subs jangled as my father and I walked in.

“So do you like it?” My father asked.

“Yeah, no. It’s nice. It’s got pep,” I answered.

On the walls of the restaurant were airbrushed cardboard signs, some detailing the history of the sub shop since the 1940’s, others advertising sandwiches named after various local celebrities.

“I haven’t had a good sub in….” I said.

“Your mother doesn’t like this for me. It’s the salt.”

At the back of the sub shop was a small Formica and chrome counter covered in cling-wrapped slices of pound cake and a metal rack that held bags of chips. Behind the counter stood a thin, gray haired man in a dirty “Elsie’s” apron and tee shirt.

“Hey,” I said to the counter man. He gave me a nod and put down his copy of the New York Post.

“Let me get a half roast beef, lettuce, onions, Swiss, salt and pepper, vinegar and oil.”

“And you?” he asked my father.

“Half Italian, everything but mayo.”

“Hot peppers?”

“That would be a part of everything, would it not?”

“Yeah, okay. Yes, sir.”

I grabbed two bottles of cream soda from a refrigerator next to the counter. “You’re going to want one, right?”

My father nodded. He placed a ten dollar bill on the counter. “I have a coupon,” he told the counter man. He went through his pockets and pulled out a rumpled quad of paper. He placed this on the counter, atop of the ten dollar bill.

Sitting at the table, we pulled our sandwiches from plastic wraps and took our first few bites in silence.

“Napkin?”

“Yes. See the game?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t get back from the gym until after 9:30.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

In front of the restaurant’s picture window were two stools and a red counter. Next to a local real estate booklet on the counter was a tin ashtray with one cigarette butt in it. I inhaled through my nose, seeking the odor of smoke.

“It was good, though?” I asked.

“They won.”

“Not bad,” I said. I went back to my sandwich. The vinegar had seeped into the bread.

“Work is good?” My father asked. He looked at the wall behind my head.

I inhaled again and shrugged. “Good enough. How’s the bench?”

My father nodded as I answered. He looked around at the cardboard signs. “There was a conference in the City this week.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Shannon Pratt was there.”

“Really,” I said. “I told you I used him in the amicus I filed, right?”

“Personally?”

“No, I mean, I used his work.”

We ate.

“I finished that gambling book, if you want it,” I said.

My father shook his head. “I’m still reading that book on the Alamo.”

I nodded. In the back, the counter man had tuned his radio to a local financial station. “Davy Crockett and whatnot?”

My father nodded. I thought about a time, when I was a young child.

“The reason that I asked you to come to dinner tonight is that I haven’t seen you in a while,” my father said.

“I know. Work’s been crazy. Ben has me working on three new trials.” My father and I were in New Hampshire. We were at a cabin by a lake. I didn’t remember the lake’s name.

“I wanted to talk to you about work.”

I took a sip of my cream soda. I looked at my father. We were by a lake, I knew, and we had decided to go fishing off of a dock.

“Okay,” I said, “shoot.” We were at the dock, and we were going to the edge to cast. We were using lures. I was walking to the edge.

“Do you think that you will do this for the long term, or is this just something fun you’ll put aside?”

“Work?” I asked. The dock was rotten. I fell through the dock and let go of my rod.

“Yes. Do you think you’ll eventually switch to something more worthwhile?”

“More worthwhile.” After I fell through, I tried to see in the gray-green water. I had slipped back beneath another part of the dock.

“Well,” I said, “what makes what I do not worthwhile?”

“You aren’t contributing. What you do is not contributing to the world. It’s destructive.”

“It’s destructive. Destructive,” I said. “It’s home-wrecking, yes. I’m a regular home-wrecker, aren’t I? I don’t choose whether these people get divorced, you know. I don’t make that choice.”

“No, you just make money off of that choice.”

“And someone should! I make it as easy as possible. I’m not making it contentious or traumatic.” I reached up, desperately needing the surface. I gulped in water and felt my chest heave in an attempt to regurgitate it.”

“It’s a sin.”

“Technically, so is charging interest rates. Are we going to have to close down the banks? Dad, I don’t choose whether they sin. I just make sure they get a fair trial. I don’t even think any of my clients are Catholic right now. Shall I convert them for you?”

My father picked up his sandwich. He took a bite and chewed slowly.

“Dad?” He didn’t respond. I clawed at the dock, tearing at my knuckles, until I found its edge. I kicked through the water towards it.

“Dad?” I said. “You know…. Come on. You know what I do is good work.”

I bumped my shoulder on the dock and gasped as my head slipped to the surface.

“It’s good work, Dad.” My father pulled me by my armpits from the water. I rested, face down, on the wooden slats. They were gray and as I coughed out the pond water, my father told me that he didn’t see me slip.

JUST BECAUSE YOU FEEL IT, DOESN'T MEAN IT'S THERE

Harry stood next to the gas pump, lit cigarette dangling from between his lips. He looked down at the brown chunk of ice that had accumulated at the back of his wheel well. He kicked at it and let out a long plume of white smoke.

"Damn it," he grumbled.

He kicked a clod of ice off of the wheel well and took another long drag on his cigarette.

"You can't smoke that here." Harry did not turn around. He checked the pump. The numbers flicked past on the digital display. An obese man - he looked Indian to Harry - came within his field of vision.

"Sir, I told you, you cannot smoke that here," the obese man repeated.

Harry opened his car door, leaned into the 1989 Honda hatchback, and stamped out the cigarette in the already-full ashtray.

"Okay?" Harry asked, testily.

"Thank you, sir."

After filling his car with gas, Harry pulled his car out of the Chesapeake House rest area and headed back onto I-95 South. Harry brushed the thinning black hair off of his forehead and adjusted his car stereo until he found a DC station that carried the Duke basketball game.

Down below Norfolk, Virginia, Harry pulled off the road again. He pulled into a TA truck stop and sat in the car, not moving one muscle, for a minute. His eyes were focused on his reflection in the rearview mirror. His cheek muscles hung loosely, covered in a thin film of black and gray stubble. His eyes seemed swollen and pushed out from their sockets with a reddened, dry gaze.

Harry opened the car door and stepped onto the macadam. When he closed his door, it echoed against the Virginia pines and the plastic, steel and glass frame of the truck stop. Harry's breath was white, even thought there was little snow this far south.

Inside the truck stop, the glass and steel door grated against its frame as it closed behind Harry. Light, in the truck stop, was cast down upon the patrons from fluorescent tubes that were covered in brown-stained plastic fixture. Harry walked over to a nearly empty diner counter and sat down. The waitress, a woman with thinning blonde hair, parted down the middle, and a tan mole on her cheek asked Harry if he needed to see a menu.

"Just a coffee, regular, and a slice of pie, um… um, Dutch apple pie, to go, Harry said.

"How do you take your coffee?" the waitress asked.

"Reg- um, cream and sugar. Say, did you guys happen to get the score of the Duke game?"

"Sorry, hon. I'll be right back with your food."

Harry sat in his car outside the truck stop. He ate his pie with his hands, scooping up sticky, caramelized apple slices with his right hand as he scanned the AM dial with his left.

"Duke by eight," he whispered when he found what he was looking for, "five hundred fucking bucks."

Harry sucked the remnants of the pie from his fingertips before wiping his hand on the passenger seat. He put the car in drive and flicked on his lights. The highway was alit before him.

~~~

"How's mom?" Harry asked. His father sat at the kitchen table of the darkened first floor of his town home.

"She's fine," his father said. He stared at a muted television set upon a counter, his shaggy gray hair and hooked nose barely illuminated in its light. Harry walked over to the table next to his father.

"That's good," Harry said. He dropped his duffel bag of clothing on the floor. He looked at his father, who regarded him, his jaw resting in his right hand.

"Your sister is fine, too, Harry," his father said.

Harry stood still for a second, and then moved over to a chair facing the television. "Okay," he said.

"And the bar, Harry?" His father sighed, "How is the bar?"

Harry shrugged. "Don't know when they're selling it. Inventory's been cut, so I know it's close, though. Still, it's a job."

His father nodded. They both looked at the television, a broadcast of Sportscenter playing without words. Harry looked over at his father, and then looked back at the television.

"How is the research winding up?" Harry asked his father.

Harry's father looked down, his face softened and he drummed the knuckles of his left hand against the table. "Oh, it's good, it's good. Still doing the final data sets on that drug, the one I told you about. The one --" He suddenly launched into a fit of coughing. Harry got up.

"Water?" He asked.

His father shook his head. "The… give me the inhaler."

Harry's father took the white plastic inhaler from his son and shook it as he coughed. He plunged down on the aerosol container and wheezed. He waited a moment, his coughing slowly subsiding, and did it again.

"Thanks," he said to Harry, handing the inhaler back to him. "The research is good. I'm wrapping up that drug I mentioned. The, uh, one that de-calcifies receptor sites."

"Nice," Harry said, "Nice." His father looked in the darkness, smiled slightly, and shook his head.

"The boys in administration introduced me to my successor last week."

Harry looked at his father. "I thought it was going to be Bendira?"

"No, no," his father ran his hand through his shaggy hair, "I got her a spot with Gardner at U Penn."

"Wow," Harry said, "quite a step up."

"Yeah," his father grumbled as he stood slowly, "The administration had been hinting about bringing someone down from Chapel Hill and I didn't want her to get lost in the shuffle, you know, when I'm gone."

"Right, when you're gone," Harry said. "That was good of you."

"Not like I need my connections anymore, eh? Anyway, she'll like it better up there. Maybe she'll finally meet someone."

"She, um, kinda needs to start talking to people first."

Harry's father laughed. "Suppose you're right, Harry. I'm going to bed." He turned and headed for the stairs, then turned back toward Harry.

"We don't have to be at the lawyers until… I think… I think it was 11. So get some sleep."

"Yeah, dad," Harry said. He smiled. His brow was furrowed.

His father looked at him, framed in the blue light of the television as he entered the hallway and then turned back. "Thank you, son."

Harry opened his moth, then closed it and nodded silently.

~~~

"Mr. Briody," the lawyer began, "I just want to make clear that I represent your parents in this matter, and that you can have your own attorney present."

Harry looked at him and waved his hand. "Oh, come on, it's fine." Harry said. He slouched in the leather chair. Next to him sat his father, mother, and his sister. Harry's white shirt was rumpled. A beer-stained black tie that Harry wore when he worked at the Dublin House hung loosely below his Adam's apple.

"Okay," the lawyer said, "let's go over the transfer of guardianship."

"Are we going to need to go to court for this?" Harry's father asked.

"Well, the court has an interest in making sure Erin is properly taken care of," the lawyer said as he pointed at Harry's sister. She did not look up at him. She looked down out of the office window at the crowds of people massing for an upcoming parade.

"In other words, yeah, we have to go to court," Harry said.

"Probably. Not anytime soon, though. We don't move as fast as y'all do up north."

"Well, time is somewhat of the essence," Harry's father said," so we would need you to prepare this… say, within four weeks."

Harry shifted in his seat and regarded his father. His hand shook.

The lawyer nodded slowly. "That should be no problem sir."

The lawyer launched into an explanation of the rights and obligations of those who acted as guardians for the mentally incompetent. He described how a court would want a hearing - a brief hearing, he assured them - as to Harry's fitness as a guardian.

Harry looked around the lawyer's office. It was cluttered with maroon file folders, photos what apparently was the lawyer's family, and golf memorabilia.

"Basically, folks," the lawyer concluded, "it's a lot like adoption."

"Yeah," Harry said, "except I'm adopting a forty-two year old woman."

"I'm forty-two!" Harry's sister announced in a slow, slurred speech, suddenly looking away from the parade crowds.

"Hush!" Harry's mother chided Erin.

Harry's father looked at her. "Denise, don't," he said softly.

She glared at him.

"Erin," Harry's father said, "would you like to go to the parade with Harry?" Erin stared at the floor and nodded her head slightly.

"Erin?" Harry asked.

"Yes, Harry," Erin slurred.

"Okay," he answered, "We'll do that."

Harry's father cleared his throat and looked at the lawyer. "Well, then. What is next?"

"You'll need to file a notice of motion," the lawyer said as he pulled out a stack of stapled documents. "We talked about that before, but you need an affidavit and a few other documents with that."

"Okay."

"Harry needs to do an affidavit as well. You can work with my paralegal on that."

"Okay," Harry said. His face lacked any evidence of emotion. He quickly tapped his left foot against the floor.

"You can just --"

"I can email her?" Harry interrupted.

"Yeah. I guess so. We can do a fax signature page."

Everyone paused. The lawyer looked at Harry's father.

"Did you want to do that other thing?" He asked.

"Yes, I suppose we should," Harry's father said. His mother looked away.

The lawyer smiled perfunctorily at Harry. "Well, that's it for you, young man. If you could just excuse us?"

Harry's father pulled a video camera from his brushed aluminum briefcase. "Harry, why don't you take Erin out to the parade. Your mother and I will meet you at the house."

Harry nodded. "Erin," he said, clapping his hands together. "Ready?"

"We're going to go to the parade?" Erin asked her brother.

"Yeah."

"You guys do funnel cake down here, right?" Harry's father asked the lawyer.

"I guess," he shrugged. "I mean, "I'm sure we must. Well, I don't really go to these things. Shall we get started, though?"

"That's fine," Harry's father said. He pulled out his wallet and passed a five dollar bill to Harry. "Harry, Erin likes funnel cake."

"No, put your money away, Dad," Harry said. He led Erin out of the room.

"Okay, Mr. Briody, I have the revised version of the codicil here for you. If you could just…." The door closed on the lawyer's words.

Harry stood a foot beyond the door, looking down. He let his hand fall from Erin's back. Erin turned and looked at Harry. She shifted from one foot to the other.

Harry looked up at Erin, her face a full moon of flesh beneath black hair, some of which had only recently turned gray. Harry released a breath he had been holding all of his life.

"Okay, let's check out the parade, kid."

Go With God

"I don't understand," my father groused, "We spent all this money on you to go to Catholic schools and you go and become an atheist."

I shook my head as I tried to rub sleep out of one of my eyes. "Look, all I said was that if you really want me to go with you to mass, I suppose I could." I shuffled across the kitchen, failing to notice the fact that the table had been moved against the wall.

"I don't care," my father said, standing by a counter with a screwdriver in his hand. "Do whatever you want to do. That's probably what you're going to do anyway."

"Oh God," I groaned. I opened the refrigerator and reached for a jug of cranberry juice. It got stuck as I tried to pull it out from the top shelf. Over the summer and fall, my mother had remodeled the kitchen - her kitchen - and replaced all of the appliances, countertops, and the sink. Now we had a refrigerator that didn't quite fit gallon containers of milk or jugs of cranberry juice. "Damn piece of shit," I hissed at the refrigerator. "Look, not that I want to get into this argument, but I became an agnostic, not an atheist. And it was precisely because of those priests that I learned enough to do so."

"Well, it's still a disappointment."

"No… it was a choice. An actualization of rational principles. The Yankees losing the World Series was a disappointment," I mused.

My mom came in from her office. "I always figured you became an agnostic because you hated getting up on Sundays," she joked.

"Well, there's that…." I drank some juice from the plastic jug, amused at my mom's frown. She still hated that I did that.

"Well, are you going to church or not?" My father asked.

"What? No, look, I told. I said if - if - you want me to go, that's, what, you know…."

"Well, if you go, are you going to just sit there?"

"I wasn't planning on officiating," I said as I passed the pantry to go upstairs and check my email. I turned around, realizing I had forgotten my coffee. I took a step and suddenly saw a flash of light.

~~~

I tried to focus my eyes as I realized I was lying on the floor. My dog stood over me, sniffing my face. A burst of pain hit me.

"Oh, fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck!" I shouted.

"You walked into the candelabra," My father stated.

I rubbed my forehead. My hand came away sticky with blood. "Get the Shit Weasel off of me please," I said of the dog.

"Oh," I said as I sat up and wavered dizzily. I wiped more blood off of my face. I looked up at the candelabra, swinging gently above me. From an arrow-shaped wrought iron fig leaf, a tuft of my hair dangled.

"Who puts a light fixture four feet off the ground?" I whined.

"It had a short," my father said.

"It is short," I said. I wiped blood out of my eyes and decided it was time to try standing up.

~~~

It was surprising to me, just how many people found their way to the hospital on a Sunday morning.

A nurse put me in a curtained bay and told me to wait for the doctor. Next to me, a drunk groaned, begging Jesus to save him in between bouts of heaving. I shifted on the cushioned examination table, feeling the dried blood between my hand and my forehead crack. Fresh blood oozed over my right eyebrow.

A man came in and explained that he was a resident, Dr. Watanabe.

"This isn't your first time doing stitches, is it?" I asked.

"Oh, no, no, no."

"Good. Me neither, actually." I thought of an old skiing accident that earned me twenty stitches between my right eyebrow and my ear.

My father, who drove me to Bayshore Hospital after a twenty minute debate on the relative merits of local hospitals, walked into the bay. "Are you okay?" he asked me.

"I've donated myself to medical science," I said, indicating the resident.

"I assure you, sir," the resident said as he prepared the local anesthetic, "I know what I'm doing."

"He's sensitive," I whispered to my father.

"Is that going to leave a scar?" My father asked.

"Nice," I groused, "I'm the freaking Man Without a Face."

"I haven't irrigated it yet," the resident said, "but I don't think so."

"I'm going to lose my natural good looks," I said. "I'm going to need plastic surgery. A head job."

"Is this your son, sir?" The resident asked my father.

"Yes."

"He's very funny," the resident said dryly.

"Ha, ha," I replied, "Watch out or I'll make you a malpractice statistic."

The resident held me by the jaw as he irrigated my forehead. Water poured back down off of my face and into my ears. The resident put down his water bottle and looked at my head for a second before picking up the anesthetic needle. "This," he smiled, "is going to sting. Quite a bit, actually."

~~~

I sat at home, an ice pack on my gauze and suture-covered hairline. My father looked at his watch.

"We can still make the 12:30 mass," he told me.

I waved him off. "Godspeed."

A Holiday in Two Acts

I.

On a rainy Wednesday afternoon, the Christmas holiday began in Red Bank. I wasn't there. I was trapped in my office all afternoon, finishing up a custody agreement, so I missed it when Hugh stepped on the 2:48 PM New Jersey Transit local bound for New York Penn Station.

Hugh's girlfriend, Ilene, had been studying social work up at NYU. She, unlike Hugh, was Jewish. Hugh was born an Irish Catholic and, for the past few weeks, has endured his mother's mockery and criticism at his choice in girlfriends. Last week, Hugh told his mother that he wanted to have Ilene over for Christmas dinner. Two hours later, over pints at the Dublin House, he was telling me, in chopped sentences, about his mother's snide question about whether she should set out dreidels in lieu of a Christmas tree.

As Hugh sat slouched in the back of the New Jersey Transit train, pulsing past the marshes of Laurence Harbor, he thought about his mother's comments. "Going to pick up our Jew-mas guest?" Hugh's mother asked as he left the house that afternoon.

Hugh spun back upon her with a fury. "I swear to God, ma," Hugh said with an extended finger thrust at his mother's nose, "if you make one comment - one! - to her, just, just one thing, I will never speak to you again. I will be dead to you!"

He let the storm door of his family's ranch house slam behind him and fumed as he walked down to his truck. He unzipped his navy blue painter's jacket and got into the truck, slamming the door and cursing to himself.

Ilene sat in the dusty quiet of NYU's law library. For the past three months she had been studying for her social work finals here, a larger, more well-lit library than the one set aside for psychology and social work students. So far, the circulation desk staff had not noticed that the graduate student ID that she flashed at them had nothing to do with law.

She thought about Hugh's veiled comment about his mother giving him trouble, and wondered if it - their relationship - was worth it. It could just be a distraction for her, she thought, and she considered telling Hugh that they needed a break, at least until she finished her clinical practicum.

On the train, Hugh tried to reconcile the liberal woman his mother once was, the woman who happily sent his brother, Cal, off to art school so that he could "experiment," by which it was widely understood that experimentation meant an overabundance of drugs, and the conservative woman who was now filled with strange anti-semitic sentiments. Hugh exhaled slowly, letting his breath hiss as it escaped his nostrils. He pulled his cell phone out and called me as he left the Woodbridge train station.

"I don't know," I said as I finished up the "Holiday Time and Grandparent Vacation Schedule (Not Applicable to Leap Year)" portion of my custody agreement. "Parents aren't supposed to make sense. Christ, I've been an avowed agnostic for years and my dad told me this week that he hopes I find Jesus in my stocking."

"What did you say to that?" Hugh asked.

"I told him I didn't think he'd fit."

"So what do I do about Ilene?" Hugh asked.

I fiddled with my new Movado desk clock, a gift from my forensic accountant. He gave me an identical clock last year, and I pondered whether I could hock the new one. "Well, you want to continue your relationship with Ilene, right?"

"Yeah," Hugh said.

"And you're not planning on abandoning your family, right?"

"Well, no, not… no, I don't think so."

I rubbed my eyes. "I don't think there's a damn thing you can do. Make sure your mom doesn't cook ham and hope for the best."

"I guess," Hugh said.

"Christ, dude," I said, "don't get too worked up. Have fun with this. Somehow."

"I don't know if this is really the sort of --"

"Hugh, it's either that or you're going to spend the entire holiday fighting with your mom."

"I guess. I guess."

I checked Microsoft Outlook. The Dublin House Christmas party, an event reserved for staff and regulars, was at eight.

"You going to the holiday party?" I asked.

"Yeah. I want to bring Ilene back. Then I have to pick up Miss Daisy," Hugh said. Cal, Hugh's brother, lost his license after years of stupendously bad driving, most of which occurred suspiciously after his visits to nightclubs in the city. Of late, Hugh and I have taken to calling him "Miss Daisy," due to the fact that Hugh has the burden of shuttling Cal all around town. "After that I'll be there. Say… 9:30."

"Sounds like a plan," I said, absentmindedly, my thoughts already directed back to my custody agreement.

"Indeed, sir. I guess I'll see you later, then," Hugh said.

"Indeed. See you then. Oh, and Hugh?" I smirked.

"Yeah?"

"Mazel Tov."

"Fuck off, dude," Hugh laughed. We finished our call.

Hugh stuffed his phone in the hip pocket of his tight jeans and settled in for the rest of the train ride. He thought about our conversation, chuckled, and then got an idea.

After getting off the train, Hugh made his way to an art store in the middle of Midtown Manhattan. He picked up a piece of neon yellow poster board, and then strolled the dusty aisles until he found a black magic marker with an inch-wide tip. He sniffed the tip, and swayed dizzily. "Whoa," he muttered. Hugh paused, giggled, sniffed the marker again, and began writing on the poster board.

Down by Washington Square Park, Hugh thought about what was going to happen when he brought Ilene home to meet his parents. He had an uneasy feeling in his stomach as he made his way past the park. A few globalization protestors, dressed in hemp ponchos and designer jeans, asked Hugh for money. He ignored them, instead checking to make sure his poster board was well covered.

At the entrance to the NYU law library, Hugh waited patiently. The circulation staff had told him that he couldn't enter without a student ID. Hugh protested that he was just "picking up," but to no avail.

Ilene packed up her texts and walked out of the study room at 4:30 PM to meet Hugh. She found him standing in the atrium to the law library, a big smile on his face, and a neon poster board reading "CHAPPY CHANUKAH CHONEY." She knew she loved him then.

II.

"Okay," Harry announced, "The name of the game is Texas No-Limit Hold 'em."

"Nice," I hissed.

We sat in the back of the Dublin House, sated on the catered food and beer provided to us by the owner's son-in-law, Benny. I swilled the remnants of a gin and tonic and nudged Julius, who wasn't paying attention.

"You in?" I asked as I handed $50 to Harry.

"Hmm?"

"You in?"

"What?"

"The game, Julius, are you in the game? Poker?"

"Oh," Julius said, "yeah, yeah, yeah." He asked Harry how much it took to join the game, threw in his share, and settled back into his daydream. Around the table from Julius and I sat Adam, Harry, Hugh, Ilene (who sat on Hugh's lap, a contented smile on her face), and Zoya. A thick cloud of smoke hung over our heads. Cal stood at the other side of the bar, talking with Linus and Andy, two of the other bartenders at the Dublin House. Linus chewed on his acrid smelling cigar and ranted about the poor performance of the Yankees. On the other side of the bar, Wormold was talking to Kendra, one of the cocktail waitresses, as he assembled the bellows on his camera.

"You going to be out for Christmas?" I asked Julius.

"Yeah. Later, though," he answered, "after we finish with my aunt and uncle."

I nodded and grunted, watching Kendra get teased by Wormold from across the room. During her first few months on staff, Kendra endured Wormold's teasing threats that he was going to take her out to the flagpole and kick her ass. This would have been more disturbing than funny if it weren't for the fact that Kendra was four inches taller than Wormold.

Kendra had long brown hair and clear, pale skin. Harry followed my eyes as I studied her, and then frowned. "Wormold!" Harry called out from the table. "Are you playing poker with us?"

"No," Wormold yelled back as he finished assembling his camera.

"Then quit fucking with my wait staff or I'll crush your head like an egg in a sock!" Harry yelled.

"Egg in a sock?" I muttered. "Where the hell did you get that?"

Harry shrugged and let out a peal of laughter. I shook my head. "Okay," Harry said, "Whoever's in, stays in. No wandering off or anything." He dealt the cards as Wormold came over to watch us play, his camera dangling from his long, tan hand.

"Playing cards…" Wormold sneered. "Better put that in the Christmas newsletter."

"I hate people that do those," Adam said.

"My father does one," I sighed. "Check," I said to Harry as the bet came around to me. I held a pair of Jacks. "You know, the fucking thing - the newsletter - is ridiculous, though."

"Why's that?" Zoya asked, "I think it would be kind of nice."

I took a sip of gin. The bet was coming back around to me again. Julius folded as soon as he came in. Zoya did the same, following Adam's suggestion (he helped her with her cards as he tried to steal glimpses at her cleavage). Adam checked, which meant he had good cards; he never bet as strongly as he could.

"God," I said. "My father's letter is a mess. It suits him. Totally passive aggressive."

"Really," Wormold sneered.

"Oh yeah," I said, watching as Hugh bet hard and Harry folded. "It's his annual 'I hate my life, now happy fucking Christmas' letter."

"No," Adam snorted.

"Swear to God. This year, he wrote 'Flounder, our youngest son, is a junior at Boston College.'" I paused. "'We hope he graduates next year.'"

The group chuckled. "Your bet, Todd," Harry said to me.

I flipped down a few chips. "So anyway --" I began, feigning ignorance of the current state of the pot.

"No, no, dude," Adam said, "We're up to 100."

"What?" I asked, a look of confusion on my face.

"100."

"Oh. Sure." I finished the check play, as intended. "So, anyway, my dad gets to me, and he's all 'Todd's now a matrimonial lawyer for Single & Single. We hope he practices something else someday.'"

Julius and Wormold cackled with laughter. "Ah, dysfunction," Wormold mused.

The bet swung back around. I stole another glimpse of Kendra. Damn, she's pretty, I thought. She was in grad school, I heard. Sociology or something.

Adam looked at me and smiled as the bet went back to him. He raised big. "Counselor," he said, "I know you. You're the jackal."

"What's the jackal?" I asked.

"You bet big even when you've got nothing," Adam said.

I looked at the flop. Six of hearts. Jack of hearts, giving me three of a kind. Two of spades. Adam thinks I'm chasing the flush. "I've got good cards," I answered in a quiet, defensive voice.

"You've got your heart set on a flush."

I took a swig of gin and tried on an air of bravado. "Maybe I do, and maybe I don't."

Adam snorted. "Whatever, dude."

Hugh followed Adam's lead and bet big. The next card came down. A five of hearts. Adam frowned. I raised another 100, hoping Adam would think I was still chasing the flush, and he folded as I expected. Hugh, surprisingly, saw my bet and raised it another 100.

"Oh, no, dude," I said, "You really don't want to do that."

"Bullshit," Hugh said, "I know you don't have a flush."

"Okay," I said. I three two hundred into the pot. "See and raise."

Hugh saw my bet and raised it again without hesitation. Okay, I thought, so you have the flush. Too bad. I threw down another 200.

"Last raise," Harry said, acting as the house, "Time for the river." He drew the last card, a nine of diamonds. I bid the pot up again, throwing down 100.

"Should have folded," Hugh said.

"Actually," Adam said, frowning, "he should have checked. Unless he has that flush." Adam looked at Hugh's cards and frowned again. He looked at me, and I raised my eyebrows as Hugh raised my river bet.

"No flush here, my friend," I said to Adam.

Adam looked at the flop again. "Maybe," he mumbled.

"Bullshit," Hugh said, "I'm all in." This surprised me, but I called and went all in as well.

We flipped our cards over. Hugh had a six of diamonds and a three of spades. My jaw dropped. Seeing this, Hugh began to rake in the chips with a cocky smile.

"You poor fool," I whispered, "Look at my cards."

"Oh man," Harry groaned. He slapped Hugh's shoulder as I began to take the chips away from him.

"What were you thinking?" Adam asked Hugh.

"I thought he had nothing," Hugh said.

"I raised you after the river," I said. I shook my head and fished out a cigarette. "What a fucking mess."

"You were the one with nothing," Adam said.

"No," Hugh retorted, "I had a pair."

I choked on my own cigarette smoke. Adam suppressed a laugh. "That you did," he said. "That you did."

I held the chips I had taken off of Hugh, and slowly began to push them back toward him. "Take this back. I didn't know you were new to the game."

"I know how to play," Hugh said.

"I didn't say you didn't," I said. "Still, take your chips back."

"No!" Hugh shoved the chips at me.

"Hugh," I groaned.

"No. Take your money."

"Come on," I said.

"You took my money fair and square."

"Oh God," I groaned, "fine."

We played a few more hands. Adam and I traded the lead position. Eventually, I used the leverage of Hugh's chips to push Harry and Zoya out of the game. Adam ended up taking Julius out of the game a few hands later.

From behind the bar, Benny, the owner's son-in-law, put in a disk of Christmas music, and I realized that I hadn't noticed the absence of music for a while. An old duet between Bing Crosby and David Bowie came on.

"Oh…" I exclaimed. "Love this song!"

"You?" Adam asked incredulously.

"Absolutely," I said, "Favorite Christmas song, actually."

"I didn't think you believed in God," Julius said as Harry dealt the next hand.

"I don't. Well, not really. I mean, I'm agnostic," I stuttered about my explanation, "I just don't believe. There could be a God. There could be no God. If I don't accept the possibility that there is one, though, I guess I'd go atheist or something, but really, when that happens, I've committed myself to a belief. I don't have the facts to do that yet."

Adam and I made our respective ante bets.

"So you're agnostic," Hugh asked, apparently sensing a logical inconsistency, "but you like Christmas music."

"Oh yeah. Great stuff. It's like an ideal." I checked my cards. "You have this sense of wonder and hope even though, you know, in a few months you have Lent and this great tragedy looming over your head."

"Yeah, well," Adam joked, "Your great tragedy is going to be a little sooner, boy."

"No shit," I sighed, "I fold."

In the end, though, I took Adam. The benefit of being well-regarded as a bluffer, as a storyteller, is that the truth - a good hand, say - can be veiled without any act of concealment. I took the $250 pot, and waited for Hugh to head up to the bathroom. I slipped $50 - his original ante - into Hugh's jacket when he left, and grabbed a pint of Bass from a platter on the bar. I was beginning to feel numb, so I wanted to move away from gin.

"Did you finish that case?" Harry asked.

"Nah. Wait. Which case? The one with the fourteen-year-old?" I asked. Sometimes I used Harry as a sounding board for hypotheticals based on my cases. It helped me get a sense of whether I sounded too aloof in oral argument.

"Yeah, the fourteen-year-old," Harry said.

"Nope. DYFS requested an adjournment for another psych eval. They're still convinced that they're going to get a judge to terminate the biological father's custody."

"What happened to the mother?" Julius asked as Hugh returned to the room and joined our small group by the beer taps.

"Nose candy," I said, flicking a nostril.

"Why not give the kid to foster parents?" Hugh asked.

"Well, the biological father is fine. The only reason DYFS got involved is that the Army put the father on active duty. Once the Army understood there was a hardship - that the father was a single parent, that, that, you know, he divorced the cokehead - it let him go on leave."

"Wouldn't two parents be better than just one? I mean, I assume the father has to work," Hugh said.

"Well, yeah, but it's more complicated than that. Let's not go too far with this discussion anyway," I said, a little concerned about revealing too much about the case.

"Damn," Harry said, "Now I'll never hear the end of this."

"No, there's no guarantee of that," I said, smiling wistfully as I fished out another cigarette.

"What do you mean?" Julius asked.

I looked at him and took a deep breath. It was the worst kept secret in Red Bank. At the turning of the New Year, the Dublin House was to be sold. Jerry, the owner, had been tired of running the place, so he intended to turn it over to a corporation from Brooklyn. There was a rumored sweetheart deal with the Guinness corporation, but it didn't seem likely that the place would be able to stay open for long after we entered 2004.

"Holy shit," Julius gasped when I told him of the news. Harry turned away, unable to look on as I told the story. And, of course, the story hung over our heads like an unwelcome winter guest. I lit my cigarette and sighed.

"Things fall apart, Harry," I said, quoting Yeats.

"The center cannot hold," Harry replied. I nodded. I had spent a decade at the Dublin House. Ten years amongst friends.

"Hey, where's Kendra?" I asked.

"Thought you liked her," Harry said.

I shrugged. "I'm curious. Tentative, for now," I said, trying to minimize my role in whatever would be left of the local gossip when the Dublin House did finally close.

"Sent her home. She has class tomorrow."

"Ah," I acknowledged Harry. I looked over at Julius, whose eyes were starting to drift. I had rightly planned to drive him home. Harry reached across the bar and began to pour my beer out.

"What, time to go?" I asked.

"No. Warm beer. There's no real closing time for you. You know that." Harry poured me a new Bass and set it in front of me.

I picked up the beer and looked into it as Harry left to wipe down the other end of the bar. I took a deep sip from it and stared off out one of the windows. Eventually, it would be time for us to leave, no matter what Harry had said.

The Waves and the Night

A few days back, I found myself driving down Route 36, from Red Bank into Eatontown. I was heading into Eatontown in order to meet with Danielle Kramer. In order to go on a date.

She told me she was an investment banker, working for Goldman Sachs. A few days after meeting Danielle at the Dublin House, I called her at the work number she gave me.

"Mr. Atwan's office," she answered.

"Excuse me?" I sputtered.

"Mr. Atwan's office," she repeated.

"Umm," I said, looking at a note card on which Danielle wrote her number. "Is there a Danielle Kramer there?"

"TPB?" The voice on the other end of the line sounded excited.

"Danielle?" I cringed.

"Oh, hey," she said, "I didn't think you'd call."

"No, of course I would," I reassured her.

"Well, how are you?" Danielle asked. As she did, my secretary came into my office with papers for me to sign. I held up one finger as a sign to wait a minute.

"Oh, fine, fine," I said, "Who is Mr. Atwan?"

"My boss. Why?"

"Oh," I said as I motioned for my secretary to sit down. She rested in one of the cushioned chairs I set out for clients and put her feet up on my desk. She was smirking. "Why did I think that you were an investment banker, then?"

Danielle laughed. "No, that's silly! I'm his assistant."

"Oh, his assistant," I said, aping her emphasis on the last word. I made an obscene gesture to my secretary to indicate that Danielle was jerking me around. My secretary snorted. I pointed to the papers she held and motioned to have her bring them to me.

"Well, assistant to the investment banker," I said, "What are you doing on Friday?"

"I'm going out to dinner with you," Danielle answered.

"Are you, now? Well I'll have to make sure I wear my good suit to work that day." And pack my lie detector, I thought. I was certain that Danielle told me that she was an investment banker.

My secretary took her feet off of my desk and brought the papers I needed to sign to me. I swiveled left and right in my desk chair, looking for a pen. My secretary handed me one, and I set down the documents.

"… and then we could go and enjoy the decorations and the lights and get cocoa."

"Indeed we could," I said, picking up on the tail end of what Danielle was saying, "so where would you like to go to dinner? Wait," I reconsidered, "You're not vegetarian, are you?"

"Well," Danielle said, "I am, but I eat fish."

She's a vegetarian. But she eats fish. I shook my head and dropped the issue. "Okay, then, well, I guess the steakhouse is out of the question. How about Windansea?" I suggested, naming an oceanfront restaurant that had seafood and beef. I didn't eat much seafood. I was allergic to shellfish, and had reactions, in the past, to lobster that were akin to the symptoms of certain tropical diseases.

"Well, that could be okay, you know," Danielle said, "It could be okay. But sushi could be orgasmic."

I raised my eyebrows. "Orgasmic, eh? Well that's always something to consider. However, I'm actually kind of allergic to seafood. I don't know if I could eat there."

"Oh, I'm sure I can find something for you to eat there."

I considered whether this was an implicitly dirty statement. "Oh, I don't know…." I said.

"No, I'm sure it will be fine. You can have dragon rolls," Danielle said.

Damn, I thought. No innuendo was meant. "Well, okay. I know there's a place in Red Bank - um, um, The Downtown - that serves sushi," I said. My secretary, well aware of my allergies - perhaps more cognizant of my habits than I - gave me a "what the hell are you doing" look.

"No," Danielle protested with a long whine, "let's go to Sawa."

Sawa was a new restaurant in Eatontown. It was known as a place where the customers sat under paper lanterns and the staff all wore kimonos or karate outfits. A goddamned theme restaurant. I wasn't going to belabor the argument any longer, though. I agreed to meet Danielle at 7:30 on Friday and ended the call.

"Fresh meat?" My secretary asked with a smirk.

"Me or her?" I said. I began to sign the documents. T.P. Squiggle. T. P. Squiggle. T.P. … I looked again at the letter I had begun to sign.

"What the hell is this?" I asked my secretary. I held up a letter I did not recall dictating.

"Oh that," my secretary said. "Benjamin gave me that for you to sign."

I looked at the letter my boss had written under my name. It was an acknowledgement to a client that I had originated that I did not intend to charge him the full fee. I shook my head and tore the letter into quarters. I stapled the quarters together and wrote "NOT A CHANCE" on the top quarter. I handed it back to my secretary. The client was too difficult a person to cut a break.

"I, my dear, am clearly the fresh meat around here. Please deliver that to Benjamin with my regards," I said.

I arrived on time at Sawa. A small Japanese woman in kabuki white face greeted me with a bow. I sighed. If this were a restaurant that served southern cuisine, it would have been "Sambo" costumes and a lawsuit by the ACLU.

I waited in the front atrium for a few minutes, watching women pad around on wooden sandals in the recessed dining area. After ten minutes, I walked over to the bar in the corner and ordered some sake.

I had finished half of the small carafe of the burning rice liquor when Danielle arrived. We made our way halfway to the dining room when I ran back to the bar and grabbed the carafe with the remains of the sake in it. I needed ammunition.

We sat down and ordered miso soup. After half an hour of waiting, I was debating lighting up a cigarette, but decided to be good.

"…Wasn't it funny, in the Dublin House," Danielle asked, "when I said that she puts the lotion in the basket, and you got it, and you knew that it was from The Silence of the Lambs."

Why is she reminding me of this? I was there. "I, um, yes. That was, indeed, funny," I said. "Silence of the Lambs is always funny. All that skinnin' and, um, well. Oh Christ, I'm going nowhere with this joke."

"Yes," she giggled, "it's funny. And remember how, um, last week, I thought you and Hugh were brothers? That was funny."

I looked at Danielle blankly. Hugh was thin; a runner, he had no bulk to him. I was built more like a boxer. Stout, to put it politely.

"So…" I said.

Danielle looked at me and shrugged her shoulders and smiled. I tried to think about how she would look in lingerie. I smiled back as innocently as possible.

"So, what are you getting?" I asked, looking down at the menu. It was in Japanese and English, with stock photos of sushi on, for some reason, a gingham pattern. Perhaps the photographer always took sushi with him or her on down home picnics.

"I'm getting two orders of Dragon Rolls - which you should get - and a side of edamame," Danielle told me.

I looked at the menu. Dragon rolls had lobster meat and peppers in it. I knew what that would do to me given my allergies. "Sounds tasty," I lied. I continued looking at the menu until I realized that I had no idea what to get. Everything seemed to have potential landmines in it. Shrimp, lobster, crab, and prawns - which I thought were shrimp - dotted the menu. I couldn't even find a vegetarian section. Oh Christ, I thought, I am going to be paying for this in so many ways. I smiled at Danielle. No, I thought, we couldn't go to someplace with something besides food that was, effectively, poisonous to me.

"What are you getting?" Danielle asked.

A protein bar that I hid in my suit jacket, I thought. "I'm not sure yet. Let's see what the specials are." A fucking steak, I hope.

The waitress hobbled to our table. Like the hostess, she was in kabuki white face, kimono, and wooden sandals. I ordered one of the specials, something involving tuna, mango, kiwi, and sesame seeds. The waitress said it was a "specialty of the house" when she suggested it to me.

Danielle and I chatted. It was like fencing. I probed. I explored openings. I parried away discussions I did not want to address. "So do you ever want to get married?" "How much money do you make?" "Are you ever going to get a fancy car, you know, like on L.A. Law?" "Is being a lawyer like it is on television?"

"Yes. Yes it is," I said, answering her last question.

The food arrived. Danielle dug in. I reconsidered my meal. It was a garish car crash, a "you got your fishmonger in my fruit stand; no, you got your fruit stand in my fishmonger" moment. God hates a coward, I thought, and tried a piece.

Tropical fruit, I learned, does not go well with raw tuna. And - dear God no! - there isn't just tuna in here! Some other aquatic life form - not tuna, I could tell - was buried underneath the mango and kiwi fruit. I hoped that it was not a crustacean of sorts, and trudged on with the meal.

The waitress came by again just before I finished my third piece of sushi. I tried to coach myself: only five more to go. I had finished the sake by then, so I ordered a Japanese beer.

"And you like the special?" The waitress asked.

"Yes," I lied. "It's very… well, it's very… yes. I like it."

"Good," the waitress said, "we have been wondering if people would like that. New on the menu."

I looked at her, a piece of sushi hanging in the air between chopsticks. "I thought you said it was a specialty," I said.

"Oh yes sir. It's very special. Go on," the waitress indicated, pointing toward the sushi I held captive in the air.

I put the sushi in my mouth and chewed, desperate to make the piece ready for swallowing as quickly as possible. I gagged for a second, my chest muscles pulling down and then jerking up suddenly, recovered, and then swallowed.

The waitress nodded, waiting for me to complement the food. "Lovely," I said with a hoarse voice, "Please bring me that beer."

I looked at Danielle who had a huge smile on her face. I was tearing up, still struggling with my gag reflex. Somewhere, in my sushi, was a damned crustacean. Danielle said nothing to me for a second, and just continued her smile for a moment, before snorting and exclaiming "You got fucking shanghaied."

"Indeed. I think I did," I said, nodding and smiling sheepishly.

"That was funny," Danielle said, laughing and snorting (again), "She told you it was a specialty, and you ordered it, and no one ever ate it before, and you hate it."

"Yes, that just about sums it up, now doesn't it?"

"Yeah, that was so funny."

Kill me. Kill me now, I thought.

After dinner, I took Danielle to Moonstruck, an upscale café and bar of sorts. We had port wine, and Danielle reminisced again - fondly, I noted with rue - about my bad dinner.

I was tempted to state, "Yes, yes, I know it was bad. I was there goddamn it. Stop bringing it up," but instead asked "so where do you see yourself in ten years?"

It was a bad sign. I was asking questions I normally used on summer intern candidates.

"Well, I want a house," she said, "A big house, somewhere, you know, like, in the country. And I want a motorcycle."

"A motorcycle?" I asked with a smile.

"A Harley."

"Very nice," I said.

"Yeah, and I also want a dojo. For my kung fu."

I almost choked on my port. "I'm sorry. What?"

"Kung fu. I want to become a Shaolin priestess."

"A Shaolin priestess." My God, I was becoming a parrot.

"Yeah. I want to, you know, fight with swords and be able to stand on tree branches and stuff. Oh, and cure people with herbs, too." She said this in one breath, a veritable broadside of words.

"Wow. Well, that's, well, um, that's, um, I don't know. I guess I don't know where I see myself in ten years. Well, probably doing the same thing I'm doing now, I guess," I said.

We didn't say anything for a long minute.

"Unless, of course," I continued, "I get disbarred, or, you teach me how to be a ninja or something."

"Right," Danielle said.

"So do you really want to fight people with swords?" I asked, hoping this was all a joke.

"Yep," Danielle said eagerly. "I read all about it in The Utne Reader."

"Hmm," I nodded, "that's cool." Inwardly, I groaned.

"Yeah, it was a big thing on Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon."

"Well, of course it was," I said. I had reconciled myself to acknowledging the utter absurdity of anything that came out of Danielle's mouth.

"So, do you want to be, like, a New York attorney?" Danielle asked.

"You mean for the big firms?"

"Yeah."

"Not really," I answered. "It's not worth it. The pay is good - really good - but you have no life. I think I'd like to be a judge, though, someday."

"Yeah, but how could it not be worth it? Don't the lawyers in the city make all sorts of money? I mean, with that you could, like, do whatever you want," Danielle objected.

"Nah. Not really. You spend all of your time in the office, working on shit you don't really like. After a while, you're so busy that your friends forget you. Eventually, your wife - if you ever have time to find a wife - begins to think you're cheating on her. Not worth it," I said before finishing off my glass of port. I looked around for a waitress (they were hard to find in Moonstruck, as they weren't dressed in ethnically-themed costumes).

Danielle smiled slyly. "It's funny you said that. About the wife thing. I used to think my ex-boyfriend was cheating on me."

"Why?" I asked, suddenly interested. "Was he disappearing all the time? Were you getting strange phone calls in the middle of the night or was he hiding the phone bill?"

"Well, no. No, no, but, after we broke up," Danielle said, smirking and squirming in her seat as she told me the story, "I used to call him. I was all 'so, who's the whore? Who are you fucking now?'"

"Wait," I said, puzzled, "You did this after you two stopped dating?"

"Well, yeah," Danielle said, "but it was so funny. I'd come home from the bars and call him up. He used to beg me to stop." Danielle giggled. "He was such an asshole."

"What?" I was horrified.

"I said he was an asshole."

I wanted to escape any way I could. I couldn't even think of any distracting conversation.

"Excuse me one second," I said, getting up from my seat. "I need to use the facilities."

I walked back through Moonstruck, past the stone fireplace and the jazz trio setting up. I swung the men's room door open, walked to the sink, and leaned my head against the mirror.

"Never. Never, never, never, never, ever, again," I whispered.

I pulled the protein bar from my suit jacket pocket and ate it quietly in the bathroom to make up for my three-piece sushi combo. In the other room, the jazz trio was warming up. Eventually, as I finished the protein bar, the band launched into Dear Prudence. I slipped a smoke out of the pack in my shirt pocket. I paused, looked at myself in the mirror, and unbuttoned my shirt's top button. I ratcheted down my tie to a sufficiently jaunty angle, and lit the cigarette.

I walked out of the bathroom and paused by the jazz band.

"Fuck the Beatles," I hissed at the saxophone player. He lost track of his music and stared at me. I smiled, waggled my eyebrows, and moved on.

Back at the table, Danielle was going through the pockets of my topcoat.

"What are you looking for?" I smiled.

"Oh," she said, startled. "I was just looking for a cigarette."

I fished one out of my pocket and handed it to Danielle. "Here you go," I said. I was trying, with all my will, to sound pleasant. Not unnerved. Not on the verge of a fight or flight response. I lit Danielle's cigarette and sat down.

"I didn't know you smoked," I said.

"Only around boys," she said.

"Ah, well, I suppose we boys should come with warning labels," I said. God, how fucking cliché can this conversation get?

"So, are you up for anything else?" Danielle asked.

"Tonight?"

"Yes. You know. If you want."

"Oh, sure, sure. That would be great. What did you have in mind?" Guilt had interfered again, and I was reluctant to hurt Danielle's feelings.

"Well, I live over on the other side of the lake," Danielle said. Asbury Park had a small lake just inland from the ocean. Moonstruck was on one side of it, stable in its three-story Victorian home. "We could walk over. Maybe check out my place."

Terribly subtle, I thought. "Sure. Sounds good," I said.

We walked around the lake in near silence. Danielle leaned against me, the rough wool of her pea coat rubbing against the cashmere of my topcoat. I furrowed my brow, despite trying not to do so. I knew I could walk Danielle back to her apartment and work my way into her bedroom. Into her bed. I knew I could have whatever I wanted.

It was my base nature thinking this, though. It was my root, greedy for pleasure. I felt split in two. As much as I knew what I could obtain, I was becoming asphyxiated with doubt. I knew I didn't feel any emotional connection to Danielle. The way she took pleasure in her ex-boyfriend's plea that she stop calling him, about the way she snickered and exclaimed "You got shanghaied!" as I gagged on food she sought out in spite of my allergies. What was I doing here? Was it right to want more, or should I just commit to my base hungers? Should I say "fuck all" to this notion of love and relationships that I once had?

We made our way to a small stone bridge built at the turn of the Twentieth Century. It arched up gracefully and looked out upon the rough winter ocean and the empty Convention Hall. When I was a kid, my father and I used to park on this side of the lake - the safe side, before Asbury Park began to clean up its act - and walk over to the Convention Hall for the boat show.

Danielle rested her head on my shoulder as we walked. She was so small. A petite yet buxom Italian girl - she told me about her family as we walked - Danielle was the sort of girl to whom I always felt a physical attraction.

When my father and I would go to the boat show, he would tell me, each time, about the Victory Ship. The merchant marines refitted freighters and turned them into ersatz battleships so that they could protect convoys during World War II. They called them Victory Ships. When my father was a child, one of the Victory Ships was being towed up to the Brooklyn shipyards for decommissioning.

Danielle and I circled around to the other side of the lake. "That's my apartment," she said, pointing to a tall Spanish-style building.

"That looks nice," I whispered.

Danielle leaned back against me and continued talking about her family. For some reason, I felt guilt when she explained that her parents were divorced. She pulled close to me when I told her I was sorry about that, and she buried her hand next to mine in my coat pocket. I gave it a reassuring squeeze, even though I was still thinking of the Victory Ship.

During the night of a particularly bad nor'easter, my father told me, the Victory Ship broke free of the tow line and drifted away from its tugboat. The wind and the waves caught the side of the Victory Ship, which was pointed north to the shipyards. In the morning, when the people of Asbury Park awoke, they found the ship leaning against the beach like a drunk asleep on a bench.

Danielle walked me up to her apartment. It was on the third floor, and its bay window looked back out upon the lake and the ocean.

"Wow," I said. "Hell of a view."

The kitchen and the living room were in shambles. Cups and plates rested all over the kitchen counter and table. "When I finish paying my student loans," I said, laughing a bit inside, "I'd love to live in a place like this."

"Thanks," Danielle said. "Want the grand tour?"

"Absolutely," I said, bearing my teeth. "That would be lovely."

"Well," Danielle said with nervous anticipation, "this is the kitchen. It's a bit of a mess."

"Oh, don't worry about it," I said. I enjoyed the sort of flirtatious way that I was making her nervous.

"And this is the living room," she pointed at a couch facing the television. It had a white knit blanket draped half over it, half on the floor. An icon depicting the Virgin Mary sat incongruously in the corner next to the television stand. "I spend most of my time in here."

I nodded, looking at the icon.

"Do you like Friends" Danielle asked as she flipped on the television set.

"Sure. It's cool. I mean, I don't get a chance to watch much television," I said.

Danielle dropped down onto the couch. "Oh, and that's the bedroom," she said, pointing to a closed door in between the television and the kitchen. "I'll have to show you that later. It's a mess."

I envisioned a room where the walls were covered with dog pictures and the floor had dirty laundry strewn upon it. "No worries," I said and sat down on the couch.

We watched Friends quietly. Danielle laughed along with the studio audience. I sat there, staring at the icon next to the television. I couldn't remember the name of the Victory Ship that beached itself by the Convention Hall and I felt that I needed its name before I could make a decision. Before I could tell right from wrong.

I checked my watch. It was nearly midnight. From behind me, I could hear the wind rattle against the bay window. It was coming off of the ocean again. Danielle leaned in against me and inhaled deeply. "You smell nice."

"Um, thank you," I said.

Danielle leaned further in and took several deep sniffs by my neck. "What cologne is that?"

Definitely has walls full of dog pictures, I thought. "It's um, uh, it's… Ralph Lauren." I stared straight ahead, my eyes fixed on the portrait of the Virgin Mary.

When the sitcom ended, I stood up slowly. "I better get going," I said.

"You sure?" Danielle asked. She had a hopeful look on her face.

"Yeah, I have to. I have an early morning tomorrow."

I threw my topcoat back on and flipped the collar up against the coming wind. "I had a wonderful time," I said. "Thank you."

Danielle stood up and embraced me. "Thank you," she said. I smiled awkwardly as we hugged.

"My pleasure, my pleasure."

I made my way down the apartment steps and onto the sidewalk. I walked around the lake again, back up to the small stone bridge. I stopped there and pulled a cigarette out. The wind was strong, and I cupped my hands to light up. With wind like that, I could picture the Victory ship sliding until it hit the shoreline and rolled onto its side. I could picture that, drifting in until the nearest point of land arrested my motion. I could also picture drifting out, out into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with nothing to stop me, adrift in the waves and the night.

a certain sort of numbness

I.

I stomped my feet to get the snow off of my boots. Just last week, it was Thanksgiving, and it was a tepid fifty degrees out. I had Julius, my oldest and dearest friend, with me. We sat in the long, narrow, mirror-lined barroom of the Dublin House. It was smoky that night, the night after the college kids left for their various schools and frat parties.

"I drink 'cause it's there," Julius told me, "I chase women 'cause they're there."

It was only Julius, myself, and a skeleton crew of Dublin House regulars: the usual drunks, ne'er-do-wells and deviants. Along the mirrored walls were posters of William Butler Yeats, the 1995 Irish Rugby Union Champions, a harp seal Guinness advertisement (proclaiming "My Goodness, My Guinness!"), Eamon DeValera's portrait, a British-issued wanted poster for Michael Collins, and a sign, quoting Jonathan Swift, confessing "We have religion enough to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another."

Julius and I sat against the blond wood of the bar, just beneath the brass taps for Harp, Franziskaner, Pilsner Urquell, Amstel Light, Bass Ale, and Guinness Stout. "So, it's not the drink," I said, gesturing with my pint of Bass, "and it's not the women." I took a sip. "Well, Julius, what is it?"

"I don't know, man," Julius said as he tried to comb back his long, messy hair. He and I are both children of Polish families, his a more established, more Americanized family. "I don't know man," he repeated, "It's just the cigarette and the beer and I'm empty."

I looked down and shook my head. I pulled a cigarette from my half empty pack and tapped it against my lighter, packing down the tobacco. I lit it with the lighter and slipped the lighter into my jeans pocket. "Well, why are you empty?" I frowned. I sounded like my old psychology professors. Still, I know that if I antagonized Julius, if I pushed his buttons, he would tell me what I wanted to know.

"It's just, I don't know. It's just…. I've got nothing. I went out there and now I've got nothing."

Julius left home - left Red Bank and New Jersey and all of our shared past - for a tech sector job as a physicist in Silicon Valley. I left for Washington, DC, for three years of grad school and the politics game. I came back.

"So what is it?" I asked. "Weltschmerz? The job? The place?"

"Well, I went out there for the job, so ---"

"No," I said, "you went out there for greed."

"Yeah," Julius said, "Yeah, I did. But still… I can do it. I can do it if I throw myself into the job."

"Yeah, that worked real well for me."

"I know, I know. But the fucking place. I swear to Christ. It's a strip mall. One hundred miles of strip mall."

We were on our fifth straight night of drinking and reminiscing. On Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, Julius arrived. I was working on a story, but I set it aside so we could begin. On Thursday, after our turkey dinners, we went out with Flounder, my brother. It was, as hoped, a mess, with Julius and I carrying Flounder out of the bar at closing time. Friday was spent at Red, the most upscale nightclub in town. Owned by two New York restaurateurs, Red was known as the place to be seen, if there is such a thing in the suburbs. It was the only bar in town with a dress code and a line to get in. The line didn't apply to locals, though, and we passed it by and made our way up to the second floor, where we wandered amidst Dolce & Gabbana, Diesel and DKNY clad crowd. It was a good crowd, despite the clothing, despite what could seem like a vacant image. These were the rich kids, back from their preppy schools and basically good, but desperately seeking the approval or the love that they couldn't find at school or under the dim, tasteful lighting of home.

By Sunday, we were done with Red, done with my wisecracks about the crowd and my eye-popping smit toward a far-too-beautiful Korean cocktail waitress who enjoyed tormenting me. It was back to the memories, the stories, and the self-doubt.

"Dude, if you hate it," I said to Julius, "Why don't you just leave?"

"Well," Julius began, "I'm just not sure---"

"No, dude, seriously, why not walk?" I interrupted. "Just fucking walk."

Julius looked down, picked at his thumb, and thought for a moment. Andy, a waiter at the Dublin House that I've grown to be friendly toward, passed by our table and then turned back to us.

"Hey T," Andy said, "I have your book. Finished it last night."

"Oh good," I said, "You liked it?"

"Fucking amazing. I didn't realize Ellroy used the Dudley Smith character before L.A. Confidential."

"Oh yeah. I think he's in another one of his books too… might have been in a short story, though."

"Amazing shit, though," Andy said.

"What book is this?" Julius asked.

"Clandestine," Andy and I said in unison.

"Nice. You guys practice that?" Julius said.

"Piss off," I said.

"Well, anyway, I'll bring the book by when I get a chance," Andy said.

"No problem. Don't worry about it," I said, waving him away.

I sighed.

"Want another?" Julius asked, indicating my pint of Bass.

"Eh." I thought about it. "Let's switch to Bombay and tonic."

"Sounds good."

Julius got up and went to the bar to order us drinks. I lit a cigarette and watched him, smiling as I flicked the cigarette between thumb and forefinger. At the other end of the bar, I watched as Andy flirted with a few of the women that frequented the Dublin House. He was an inveterate flirt, gifted with a sensitive demeanor and haunted eyes.

"Did I tell you about my last court appearance?" I asked Julius as he returned with our drinks.

"I don't think so," he said, his brow furrowed. He handed me my gin.

"Well, I was in Freehold, before the Superior Court - thanks, by the way - and I was working on an ESP, um, an early settlement panel."

"What's that?"

I grimaced. "Well, all matrimonial matters have to go before this panel of three well-respected attorneys - there are different ones for each county - before they are scheduled for trial. It's not important - the details of it, I mean - really," I said.

"Okay."

"Anyway, I finish up my appearance before the panel. No settlement possible. Husband's a pain in the ass. Of course, he's my fucking client. Wife's attorney is a pain in the ass. Has an axe to grind with Single & Single. So I know, walking out of there, it's going to be a royal goddamned mess."

"Wouldn't be one of your cases if it weren't."

"Ha ha, asshole. Don't call me when you need a divorce."

"Who says I'm going to get divorced?" Julius asked.

"I know you," I said, "And anyway, I run outside for a smoke before the lunch recess ends and I have to take my client in for a conference before the judge and explain why we can't settle the case."

I took a sip of gin. It was strong, but it cleared my palate of a night's worth of beer.

"In any event," I said, "there's this guy standing out there, smoking along with me. On his cell phone, scheduling appointments and shit. Tall guy, well dressed. Talking doctor-ese. I figure, when he gets off the phone, I can press him, do some networking. So I ask him about the smoking."

II.

"No less stupid than a lawyer smoking," the doctor tells me. He wears a gray overcoat that matches his slicked back hair. I smile.

"Actually," I say, "I was chuckling about the fact that doctors, lawyers, and the military seem like the last of the diehard smokers."

He smiles at me. "Is that so?"

"So I hear," I tell him.

"Pleasure to meet you, counselor," he says, holding out his hand. He wears black gloves. "Nick Campbell."

I shake his hand. "TPB," I tell him. "Pleasure to meet you as well, doctor."

We both take drags on our cigarettes. "Here for a case?"

"Jury duty," he tells me.

"Don't tell me anything about it," I say, backing up. "I can't know."

"Don't worry," he says, "I never get picked."

I nod. "Wouldn't pick you myself."

"Too much knowledge."

I smile and mumble "something like that." I don't tell him it's because I would never allow someone with his self-confidence to dominate a jury.

The doctor nods, probably aware that there was more to the answer I gave than what I said. "So what type of law do you practice?"

"Family. What type of medicine?"

"Trauma."

"Nice. You at Jersey Shore Medical, then?"

"Monmouth Medical Center, actually."

I'm impressed. "You teach?"

"Supposedly," he chuckles.

"Allegedly, I litigate," I say.

The doctor smiles and shakes his head. "You couldn't pay me to do what you do."

"I get that a lot," I say. I pull out my cell phone to check for voice messages. "Still," I say, "I'd give my right arm to do this shit for the rest of my life."

"Funny you should mention that."

"Mm-hmm?" I grunt. I begin typing a text message to my secretary. I look up, when I notice the silence, at the doctor. His face is clouded and he looks at a point beyond the horizon.

"Just how is it funny?" I ask him.

"The other day," he tells me after a minute, "the other day, I'm in the ER. This little guy comes in. Mexican."

I nod.

"He's shivering. This was the first real cold night of the year," the doctor tells me. I notice that, for all of the finery, he stumbles over words, as though he's uncomfortable talking, as thought he didn't trust his own diction. "The guy was crabbing," the doctor continues, "Apparently he did that every night after working at Juanito's, the local Mexican place. He's a mariachi player - you know, a guitarist - and the little guy has done it since his childhood in Mexico."

"Right," I say, giving him a generic encouragement to continue his story.

"Anyway, the dumb little shit had been out there all night. It's nearly four in the morning. He smells like he had been bathing in tequila."

I nod and place my hand over my stomach. It turns whenever I hear the word "tequila."

"Anyway, the guy left his crabbing trap's line wrapped around his hand, which now looks like overcooked roast beef. I mean, it's gray."

"Frostbite," I say.

"That's right. Now, most of it's minor. His fingers had enough blood in them to not lose more than a surface layer or two. His thumb, though, is done. He needs to lose at least the first knuckle."

"Damn," I say, fishing out another cigarette, "that sucks."

"Yeah," the doctor says, "but that's a minor thing. If he does not lose the thumb, the guy's going to get gangrene and the infection could potentially kill him. So, as the guy's sobering up, I tell him we need to amputate. We need to take his thumb."

I think about that. I've always been afraid of getting frostbite again. When I was skiing up in Canada, I got it on my face. Thin lines of scar tissue run along my cheeks where my goggles and my face mask didn't quite meet.

"So," the doctor says, "the guy tells me he can't lose his thumb because he won't be able to play guitar. I tell him 'You either lose the thumb or you might get gangrene. Then you'll either lose the hand or get an infection and die.' The guy doesn't care, though. He won't lose the ability to play guitar. He's dead set about that."

"Nice pun," I say. "So what happens next?"

The doctor takes a breath. "Well, I tell him to give it five minutes. Think about it before he decides. I go and make a cup of tea. When I come back, he's gone."

I nod. "I guess he made his choice," I say.

"I guess so," the doctor agrees.

I check my watch. I need to get back inside. I tell the doctor I need to go, and flick my cigarette over the ledge. As I walk toward the metal detectors, I shut off my cell phone and take one last look at the doctor. He's just standing there, looking at his thumb.

III.

"Anyway," I said to Julius, "as I turn around and head towards the door, the doctor calls out to me. 'So what would you give up?' he asks me."

"'What?' I called out to him," I said. "He asked me again. What would I give up for my job. For the thing that I loved."

"What did you say?" asked Julius.

"What did I say?" I ask with a smile.

"Yeah, to the doctor."

"I said 'Who's to say I haven't given it up already."

I finished my gin with one long swig. It was good. Quenching. Julius sat there, quiet, for a minute. "So what would you say, my friend?" I asked him.

He thought about it for a while and I began to put my coat on. He fidgeted in his seat and picked at his thumb again. I watched as Andy made his way through the bar, serving drinks and picking up empties. He stopped at our table and took away four empty pint glasses and two empty gin glasses.

"I have your book," Andy told me. He placed the glasses on the bar and wiped his hand on his black apron before taking my book from a pocket on the front of the apron.

"Ah, you didn't need to ---" I began.

"Nah. Had to. Either that or I'd lose it," Andy said.

"Well, I appreciate that." I took the book from Andy and slipped it into my farmers jacket's canvas pocket.

Julius and I settled our tab. I was too drunk to drive him home, so we started walking down Monmouth Street to the Broadway Diner.

"Oh God," I groaned, "I am so fucking tired."

"No shit," Julius said.

"Gonna be around tomorrow?" I ask.

"Yeah, I don't leave until Tuesday."

"That's good," I said as we walked up the steps to the diner. I yanked open the metal and glass door.

"After you, sir," I said to Julius.

"Thank you, sir," he answered.

"So, did you ever come up with an answer?" I asked Julius.

"Hmm?"

"To the doctor. What would you say to the doctor?"

Julius smiled and shook his head as we walked to the counter. "I'd tell him it was a good story."

"You would?"

"Yep," Julius said, still smiling.

"Damn. What gave it away?" I asked as we sat down on the round plastic and chrome stools.

"There's no mariachi player at Juanito's."

"Well, yeah," I said, "Poor bastard's got gangrene."

"Shut up," Julius said.

"It could have happened," I said.

The waitress came over and we ordered coffees and pork roll sandwiches. Outside, a police cruiser passed, and the lights were turned off at the Dublin House. The past, with all of its decisions, faded with the night.

Loafing Oafs and All Night Chemists

Maybe it was because I had three aspirin before I went to bed. Perhaps it was because I switched my ADD medication this week. Whatever caused it, I dreamt last night for the first time in years. Even stranger, I recalled each dream vividly. There were three.

In my first dream, I was defending what I had written on my website. I was trying to explain to a Senate Committee Hearing that I really believed in what I wrote on the website.

"But isn’t it true, counselor, if I should bother to call you that," Sen. Leahy asked from behind thick glasses that made him look like my grandfather, "Isn’t it true that you write fiction? That you deny that anything on your site is factually accurate?"

A murmur that was nearly a cliché escaped the Senate gallery.

"Yes, Senator,” I said, "but I write it as fiction to--"

"So you admit it's all a lie?" Sen. Leahy asked again. I didn't like Sen. Leahy.

I was wearing my brown suit, I Remembered, and I thought it was too informal for the Senate. I should have put on my black suit, the one that was woven with light wool that felt almost like silk. I looked around the Senate Chamber. I saw my old boss, the portly senator that I worked for before he lost reelection. He laughed as he walked out of the chamber by a side door.

"Should have stuck to golf, kid," he sneered.

I turned back to Sen. Leahy. "Senator, I use fiction or lies - whatever you want to call it - to tell stories about the truth. It's a titration, a concentration of truth that filters out--"

The Senate Chamber erupted with derisive laughter. Sen. Leahy stood up and smiled. It was a decidedly victorious smile.

"Even that’s a lie, counselor," he said.

I awoke to see the outline of my bedroom window in the dark. I rolled over. My CD changer, a fifty-disk carousel, changed disks. Erik Satie's piano music began playing. I closed my eyes. Before falling back to sleep, or perhaps in that stage of consciousness that is not quite sleep, I thought I heard someone working my door handle left and right. I squeezed my eyes shut and sunk in to sleep.

In my second dream, I was at a bar. It was a large two story structure, not like any bar I have ever patronized. I was walking around, looking for people I knew in this gray room. I ran into a group of women I had known from just before I passed the bar exam. One of them was an ex-girlfriend of mine, a girl I had dumped when I found out she was using cocaine. I grimaced and walked over to them.

"How are you?" I asked with false warmth.

"Great," she said. She wobbled - almost oscillated - on her high heels. She wore a gray cocktail dress and I thought about sex.

"Where is this place?" I asked.

She ignored my question, and I followed the women around. The bar was crowded, but cold. It was troubling me, the dark atmosphere, the flashes of light that seemed to appear from behind me, and the fact that I didn't seem to know anything about the place or who I was with.

I made my way downstairs and found a bartender. I couldn't find anyone upstairs who could make a gin and tonic for me. This bartender, a motherly woman who worked at the local public library (in real life), began filling a tall glass with ice, gin and tonic without being asked.

"Renee," I asked her, "where are we?"

She handed me my drink and waived away my proffer of money. "I don't know kiddo," she joked, "where are we?"

"No really, I need to know," I said.

She smiled and walked away. I sighed, shook my head, and looked for my ex-girlfriend. I saw her with her group of friends. I walked back to them across the dark, now blue tinted room.

"It's closing time," my ex-girlfriend explained. "We all must leave now."

All of the patrons of the dark, strange bar stopped writhing and dancing and began to jostle and shuffle toward the enormous open double doors that appeared at the front of the bar. The doors opened up to a stadium-sized parking lot and the starry night sky.

At my car, which was, amazingly, right at the front of the parking lot, I found a crowd of rowdy kids. They looked to be of college age or younger, and when I deactivated my car alarm, one opened up the back door of my car and took away a giant CB radio console.

"I needed that," I said.

"Someone's in your car," my ex-girlfriend said.

I looked at my car again and a smirking, blond-haired kid was sitting in the back seat, his legs sticking out of the open doorway.

"Get out," I said.

"No," he laughed.

My ex-girlfriend tapped me on my shoulder. "T., she said, "I have to go. My friends are waiting."

"Fine, fine," I waived her away dismissively (why am I so rude? I thought) before turning back to the kid, "but you're getting the fuck out of this car."

The kid smiled at me again.

"Get the fuck out of this car," I said, "or I will beat you and have you arrested."

He just smiled at me, a big toothy television news anchor grin.

"Out, now!" I yelled, hoarsely.

I grabbed him by the elbows when he didn't respond to me and pulled him out of the car. I punched him in the head, wildly connecting with his left ear. The kid dropped to the ground at once and clutched his ear. I bent down and helped him back to his feet.

"That's it," I said, "You're going to jail."

I turned around and walked the kid back toward where the bar had once been. The front doors to the bar were now the doors to a police station. They were open, and, in the warm light of the station, I could see people moving about and friendly, fake oak paneling on the walls. I walked the kid into the police station and turned him over to the desk clerk.

"I caught him and his friend in my car. The friend stole my communication equipment," I said.

The desk clerk told me that he would take care of it, and brought the kid around the wooden barrier that separated the public from the cops. He sat the kid down in a chair next to a government-style, olive drab metal desk. I sat down on the public side of the wooden barrier and picked up an old copy of Field and Stream. It was just like my old barber shop.

A uniformed officer with a stocky build, freckles, and red, Irish hair walked up to me. I recognized him as one of the sergeants that ran the night shift in Red Bank. A good guy.

"You the one with the kid?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Okay," he said, putting his hands together as he spoke, "We have two options. We can send him to jail or we can let him go."

I frowned. "I just wanted to send him a message," I said.

"I'll be right back," the cop said before walking off impatiently. He went back around the wooden barrier and began talking to the kid. The kid stood up and began protesting my accusations. The officer shook his head. He walked back to me with a bemused smile on his face.

"I told him you were sending him to jail," the officer said to me.

"I just wanted to send him a message," I repeated.

"Look," the cop sighed, "jail or let him go. That's it."

"Fine," I said. "Let him go. I'm not going through with this."

I woke up. I was lying on my back, and couldn't see the ceiling. I brought my right arm up. The luminous dial on my Swiss Army watch read 1:40 AM. Too early to get up, I decided, and rolled over. I grabbed the pillow I had been sleeping next to - it had slipped from beneath my head - and embraced it. I thought of all of my old girlfriends and squeezed it tightly before falling back to sleep.

I dreamt I was back at Boston College, back on my old college campus. There was a mass going on in the grassy bowl by the library. One of the Jesuits was giving a homily. I walked through the congregation, almost fighting to get through all of the people.

A man in the back yelled out. "Can you speak up?"

The priest was using a microphone and could be heard clearly. The crowd shushed the man in the back. I walked past him. He was a fat, balding man with gray hair.

"I said, can you speak up?" he yelled again. I shook my head, annoyed, and moved on. I made my way out of the crowd and up a small hill, one that I didn't remember from my actual college campus. At the top of the hill was a dirt path. The dirt path led to a building where freshman cafeterias were located.

I walked inside the building and made my way to a long, curving staircase. It descended down from where I stood. I made my way down the white marble steps of the staircase. At the second-to-last step, I realized that there was a ten foot drop to the floor after the staircase ended.

"I can't get down from here," I said to myself.

I stood there for a minute. I needed to get to the cafeteria. I didn't know why, but I knew that I needed to be there.

"Well," I said, backing up, "fuck it."

I took a running leap. I landed on my knees and skidded on the floor. When I stood up in this strange, octagonal room that led to the cafeteria, I was wearing a dark blue overall that was covered in dust. In front of me were hospital-style swinging doors. I dusted myself off, or at least tried to, and walked toward the door.

A tan, blonde woman in a cafeteria uniform opened the door. She smiled at me as I walked toward her.

"Come in, come in," she said, "I only have a few minutes before the game."

"Don't worry," I told her, "I won't be a bother if you are serving."

"Nonsense," she said, "I'll make you a roast beef sandwich."

I sat down at a steel serving table, not unlike the one I used to make pizza when I worked for the campus dining service. The room was a warm yellow color. I looked around at the pots and ladles and colanders on hooks around the room as the woman set down the deli sandwich before me.

"I tell you, boy," she said, "things have changed around here.

"What do you mean?" I asked before taking a bite of the sandwich. It was delicious.

"I don't have much time," she said, "but there are so many gavrons here." She was using an insulting Italian slang word I didn't quite understand, but I nodded.

"I don't understand. What happened?"

"Oh son," she said, "And please, eat up, but the kids…." She pushed the roast beef sandwich toward me. "It's changed. The kids are no good."

"Well, how do you fix it?"

"I don't have time," she said. "The game is starting."

"No," I said, "I need to know." I was pleading with her.

"I'm sorry, T, you know. We all have to be ready for the game." She got up and took away my sandwich. I was still hungry.

"Well, no, that's not right. This needs to be fixed."

"You need to be ready for the game," she told me. "Are you?"

"No," I stammered. "I want to work on this. I don't have time for the game."

"That's too bad," she said before casting an evil glare upon my face.

"No!" I yelled.

I awoke, panting.

"Jesus Christ," I said to the darkened room as I rubbed my face. I waited for my breathing to slow down and then checked my wristwatch. 4:35 AM.

"Fuck this," I said, rolling over. I was done with dreaming. I scratched at my beard and sat up. I decided it was time for breakfast.

I was wearing the same smoke-riddled clothing from the night before. I slipped out of my house and walked to my car. I quietly pulled out of my driveway and drove to the Middletown Diner. I crossed over the many hills of my hometown, scanning for deer in the mists of the fields and orchards. A few years back, I hit a deer while speeding past a local reservoir. I didn't want to repeat the incident.

I passed the Middletown Township Police Station and thought about how, in high school, I had an anthropology professor that made his classes record their dreams. I turned onto Highway 35 North and wondered what became of him. The professor's idea was futile; he merely got twenty different versions of horniness and resentment of parents. Sure, there were the occasional aberrations. The Goth kids told of dreams filled with blood and devils. It was the silly sort of made-up shit that made even us too embarrassed for them to crack jokes about it.

I pulled into the Middletown Diner parking lot next to a cop's Chevy Suburban SUV. I passed the short Mexican man who was sweeping dust off of the plastic floor mats by the Ms. Pac Man arcade game in the atrium before the main diner entrance. The Middletown Diner was one of the 1970's era New Jersey diners. Marbleized yellow tile on yellow Formica, mirrors everywhere, and peeling imitation chrome tape bordering it all. I sat down at the counter at the back. In the corner, watching one of the ceiling-mounted televisions, was the swarthy, chain-smoking night manager.

Normally, the televisions were set to Headline News, but the night manager was watching Greek soft-core pornography on this set. Satellite signals beamed across the Adriatic, Mediterranean, and Atlantic, all so he could get his jollies in between furtive glances for eavesdropping customers. To my left was the cop next to which I had parked. When the cop noticed me watching him watching the soft-core pornography, he grunted and left.

I ordered decaffeinated coffee, an egg white omelet, and rye toast. I started reading my book on the Middle East. I felt like a ghost, though, and I let the pages slip away from me. Eventually, I closed the book, its spine crackling as the cover was shut, lit a cigarette, and rubbed my eyes.

I ate my breakfast in silence. On the way home, the local classical music station was playing chant music. It was by Josquin Du Prez, I think, and it made the drive home past the mist-covered fields a hollow, empty moment.

I drove west, and before me, the sky was dark, dark blue. Behind me, the sky was brown and white with the coming sunrise. A bland November sunrise to hint at the gray and black of December. I made it home by 6:05 AM. I slipped in by the back door and up the side stairs, so to avoid rousing my parents.

I stood in my bathroom, shivering in the early morning silence. I rearranged my cologne, my soap dish, and change dish. I looked in the mirror. I rubbed my pallid cheek and lip.

I shaved my beard for the first time in seven years.

Interlude, Part II: My Confessions 2003

Some say it's destiny

Whether triumph or tragedy

But I believe we cast our nets out on the sea

And nothing we gather

Comes for free

Emmylou Harris, Tragedy, from Red Dirt Girl.

I am the sort of man that hates his birthday. I don’t like being the focus of attention (despite this, I make a spectacle of myself in court for a living; go figure). Nonetheless, today is my birthday, and despite my best attempts to hide this, a few friends (and, of course, my family) have taken note. Twenty-eight years on the planet. One third of my life, according to the actuaries.

Sigh. I hate my damn birthday.

I like to think about each birthday as a moment of pause. A personal version of a corporate 10-K statement, to use legal terms. I’m not sure I’d buy stock in me after this year’s statement. Nonetheless, it is a time, to borrow from St. Augustine, to confess.

LEAD a life centered around the principles of excellence, integrity, trustworthiness, and the courage to enter the fight.

REMEMBER that learning, truth, justice, adventure, and honor are those values that I strive to embody in my life.

REVERE admirable characteristics in others, such as the ability to inspire others to achieve and strive for greatness, calmness in the face of stress, the ability to make calculated, not impulsive, decisions, wisdom, a constant interest in learning and seeking out knowledge, and warmth in engaging others, no matter who they are. I will attempt to implement similar characteristics in my own life.

RECOGNIZE my strengths and develop talents so that I am a person who is hard-working, intelligent, philosophical, focused on the writing life, entertaining, and committed to goods greater than the material and physical.

HUMBLE myself by acknowledging that I can be procrastinator, introverted, and disorganized. Constantly strive to transform my weaknesses into strengths.

ENVISION myself becoming a person who: the person who I love thinks I am kind, loving, and inspiring; my friends think I am witty, able to deliver a good story, and loyal; my colleagues think I am ambitious, uncorruptable, and fearless; and my family thinks I am loving, grateful, and moral.

I keep this statement tacked to my bulletin board in the office. I take these words as my values. I’m aware of my hopes, my weaknesses, and my strengths. And yet….

This year, I let work tear me apart and spit me out. I allowed my weaker tendencies to work to distance me from others. I let my curiosity for that which is cold and inhumane to guide me in place of my respect for honor and fairness. I debated the use of subjective, contingent versions of truth in my arguments. I gave credence to those who did so.

I flirted with the line. My line.

I walked away from it. It still stings, though. The benefits and burdens of life’s choices seem to be weighed more after my decisions are irreversible than before.

Hugh and I met at the bar last night. He was working on his play (he and I are the writing duo of the Dublin House). I was working on my Kim Du Toit essay. We talked about music and films. The Searchers, Unforgiven, and Die Hard figured heavily in to the discussion. We talked about what it meant to be a man. It was the subject of my essay.

As a realist, I recognize that the good things did balance, somewhat, the darker elements of this year. I had the pleasure of befriending new people. I visited a tropical island. I had my fair share of ale and gin. Ah, and

then there are those other things, which for several reasons we won’t mention; everything about them is a little bit stranger, a little bit harder, a little bit deadly.

Rufus Wainwright, Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk, from Poses.

Heh, heh. Ah, there was some fun, indeed, this year. I guess, the honest way to account for this is to state that it was my friends – Hugh, Zoya, Julius, Jaydub, Adam, Sugar, Wormold, and Flounder, my dear brother – that kept this year in the black, to continue the thinly-stretched corporate metaphor. In the high moments, they were the impetus for much joy. In the low moments, they were the source of much balance. Even when I dealt with a good man dying, with work, or with the travails of my alleged social life, I could turn around and see them there.

I guess that’s the thing. I turn, and I see good friends. I look to the future, and I see a not-so-good future. It’s a Dylan future: “It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there.” Still, I’ve got some friends standing here with me. So, I think I’ll keep standing a while more.

Vernon Hardapple

“Okay, how about that one.”
“She’s an energetic one, isn’t she?”
“Indeed.”
I sipped Guinness, my left ear stuffed up from a cold I had been suffering from, as I watched a wired-looking brunette make her way to one of the outdoor tables at the Dublin House. It was one of the last few autumn nights warm enough to sit at the outdoor bar. Hugh stood to my right, drinking a black and tan.
“Well,” he asked, “shall we?”
I thought about it for a second. “Okay. Sure.”
I watched the brunette sit at the green plastic table. To her left sat a fellow with short, clipped brown hair. He had a large nose, similar to the brunette’s. He sat at the same side of the table as she did, and their friends sat on the other side of the table. However, the man with the clipped brown hair sat further than arm’s length away from her.
“Okay,” I said, “first of all, the guy to her right, with the short brown hair.”
“Yeah,” Hugh said.
“He came in with her, but he didn’t sit close to her.” I paused to take a drag on my cigarette. “He’s her brother. No way he’s her boyfriend.”
Hugh nodded. We watched the brunette as she talked. She was animated. Hands flew wildly as she spoke to friends.

“And what does she do?” Hugh asked.
I watched the brunette. She wore a tasteful brown cashmere sweater set. A gold cross hung from her neck.
“Went to Wharton,” I said without looking away from her. “Got her MBA. Before that… she went to Wellesley or Smith.”
I looked at Hugh. I had the story – her story – now. “Her name is Danielle,” I said.

“She’s an investment banker. Works for Goldman Sachs up in Weehawken. In Project Finance.”
“What’s that?” Hugh asked.
“It’s, uh, it’s kind of like… well, they go abroad and figure out how some country will pay for and complete big utility deals. Dams and oil rigs and whatnot.”
“Gotcha.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking back at Danielle. “She just got back from Koala Lumpur. Big offshore natural gas deal. Just finished the first flight of bond work.”
“She got in on Friday,” Hugh said, picking up on the story. “Her brother picked her up at the airport.”
“Oh, that’s good,” I said.
“Yeah,” Hugh said. “Drop out. Went to NYU Film School.”
“Mmm, I don’t see it.” I looked at Danielle’s brother from across the bar. He was wearing dirty blue jeans and a gray tee shirt. A bland look on his face and a blank stare.
“No, no, he did.”
“No,” I said, “I really don’t see it. I see him at some place like Villanova. Marketing major. Big pothead. Phish Concerts and Playstation were his life in college.”
“No,” Hugh insisted, “NYU Film School.” Hugh’s current girlfriend was a grad student at NYU.
“Well, whatever. I don’t see it. Definitely a pothead, though,” I said.
“Definitely.”

We were playing a game of “Vernon Hardapple.” I had borrowed the idea for the game from the film Wonder Boys. The premise of the game was that Hugh and I would pick a random person at the bar and give them a story. It was a good distraction for when we had run out of normal conversation.

“Well,” Hugh said, “Either way, they are both children of privilege.”
“Oh yes. House on the river in Rumson,” I said, naming a wealthy town nearby.
“Summers on Saint Maartens?”
“No. Privilege, not Bret Easton Ellis characters.”
“Fitzgerald?”
“John Cheever. At best. Updike after a revamp.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“So’s your momma.”
“Touché.”

“Okay,” Hugh said, “so her brother picked her up at the airport.”
“Yep.”
“No relationship whatsoever. They barely talk on the ride home.”
“She hates the fact that he smokes up,” I said.
“Ooh, I’ve got it,” Hugh said, “He did it in the car as he was waiting for her at the terminal.”
I could picture that. I could see the guy – we still hadn’t given him a name – sitting in an old car, perhaps a rusty blue sedan or station wagon.
“He smoked up in the car while waiting for her.”
“She bitched at him all the way from Newark International to Rumson.”
“Thinks he’s worthless. Mindless.”

I ordered a pint of Bass. A quick nod of the head and Linus had a tap down, a pint of ale in preparation for me. I considered whether the fact that I had established a sort of sign language with the bartenders meant that I spent too much time at the Dublin House. “So, what brings her home. What’s the motive, now that we’ve established means and opportunity?”
“Well,” Hugh said, “I think our motive is genesis. Origin. The parents.”
“The parental units.”
“Indeed.”
“Father’s birthday?” I asked.
“Yes, the old lion is sixty-two.”
“What do you think?” I asked, “Think the he’s a respectable man?”
“Oh yes, a doctor or a lawyer.”
“Lawyer? Thought we said respectable. I don’t know, I see Danielle following in his footsteps. He’s an investment banker. You know, from, like, the old days. Still remembers the S and L scandals. Still thinks cautiously. Still remembers Carter and the embargo. House of Morgan, not Gordon Gekko.”
“And he spends his days reminiscing,” Hugh said.
“Indeed. With the boys at the Rumson Country Club.”

We paused. There was a steady murmur of conversation at the bar that covered up for the tone deaf musician piped in over the speakers. To our right, an older woman entered the Dublin House. I watched her with a frown as she stomped her feet. She screamed a greeting to one of her friends. A few weeks back, a prosecutor I had worked against in a domestic violence case met with me at the bar. Over gin, I chuckled when he explained that the older woman was coming up on her second DUI charge before him. Watching her tonight, annoying and out of control, it wasn’t as funny.

“So, they are having dinner,” I said, trying to ignore the woman.
“At Sogno, perhaps?” Hugh said, naming one of the local restaurants recently written up by the New York Times. It was a dark, luxurious restaurant, known for rich Northern Italian cuisine and occasional wild game nights, when bison and ostrich would be served.
“It was a quiet dinner,” I said as I imagined the meal. My eyes were closed, and I could tell that my voice was soft as I pictured the scene.
“They barely spoke,” I continued, “and you could only hear the sound of their silverware scraping against the china. Danielle didn’t know what she was doing there.”
“Her mother talked incessantly,” Hugh said.
“Yeah, she did. She said she was so excited for the upcoming Riverview Hospital fundraiser. She said she also had a big afternoon tea meeting for the Red Bank Arts Council. I can picture her having frosted hair. Pearls. Woolen skirt suit by that store… oh damn, what’s the one?” I looked at Hugh.
“Which store?”
“The one, you know, the one with the red door and the conservative clothes and-“
“Talbot’s?”
“Yeah. That’s the one. She is wearing a plum skirt suit from Talbot’s.”
“Next week,” Hugh said, “she’ll have a meeting for the Daughters of the American Revolution.”
I snorted. “All noise and activities. Driving here and there in her Range Rover Discovery.”

The older, drunken woman startled me by clapping – for no apparent reason – behind my head. I turned and watched as she edged her way to the bar. She wiggled in between Hugh and me. Apparently, the drunk was clapping her hands to get the bartender’s attention, as she did this twice more when he passed.
“Harry! Harry!” she called out.
“Actually,” Hugh said from the other side of her, “That’s Linus. Harry works inside.”
“Harry… Linus… whatever. I just want my rum and coke,” the drunk responded.
I gave a raised-eyebrow-look to Hugh from beyond the drunk’s field of vision. She disgusted me. It was as though her every action was designed to get attention. After ordering her drink, the drunk pulled a cigarette from her black woolen vest. It was broken. The drunk threw it down on the bar, and the broken cigarette rolled off and onto the beer cooler behind the bar as the drunk pulled out another cigarette. Linus came back with the drunk’s rum and coke, and I watched as she thanked him without looking up. She then nonchalantly reached over and stole my lighter.

Hugh looked over at me expectantly, as though he thought I would immediately snap at the woman. I looked, instead, at Linus, doing a slow Steve Allen-style double take. I then leaned over to say something to the drunk, when she suddenly pulled a cell phone from a vest pocket.
“Hello?” she yelled into the phone.
I grimaced, and returned to my normal sitting position.
“Jimmy, you fuck!” The drunk announced to the cell phone and the rest of the bar. “You fuck! You fuck! You should have called me for breakfast!”
The drunk began to lean against my shoulder as she yelled into her cell phone. I sighed. She absently flicked my lighter on and off, playing with the hinge on the silver Zippo.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly.
“… My heart was fucking pounding like this,” the drunk said, thumping her hand against her chest as she talked into the cell phone.
“Excuse me.”
“Oh, I know,” she continued. “I know.”
“Excuse me,” I said a third time. She was either ignoring me or oblivious to the fact that she was leaning on me.

I shifted suddenly to the left, and the drunk lurched. She looked back at me with a glare.
“Oh, sorry about that,” I said. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but…”
“Excuse me,” she said, “I’m in the middle of a conversation.”
I looked at her, blankly, for a few seconds. I then leaned in, as close as I cared to, toward the drunk’s face.
“I hate to be a bear,” I said in a whisper, “but you have my lighter, and I’m going to have to take it back now.”
I reached over and took the lighter from her hand.
“Why don’t you walk over there,” I suggested, pointing to the doorway, “so you can continue your conversation in peace.”
Linus, watching from behind the bar, walked over to where we were sitting, probably to ensure that nothing got broken.
The drunk stared back at me until she realized she still had someone on the phone. She walked off.
“Oh my fucking god!” she shouted into the phone as she left, “I told him that if he didn’t get off of that fucking computer and come to dinner in ten seconds, I was going to throw a plate at him. So I was like, ten, nine, eight….”

Hugh shook his head as the drunk walked away and Linus looked at me, as if to ask “were you about to hit her?” I raised my hands, palms facing Linus and Hugh, shook my head. “I’m a strict pacifist,” I lied.

“Okay,” I said, “Back to Danielle.”
“Yeah.”
“So, they’re at dinner…”
“Right.”
I closed my eyes, trying to remember the scene. I could picture the family sitting there. The father was balding, I could see as I looked down on the scene from my god’s-eye-view. His hair – his remaining hair – was salt-and-pepper, with shiny, rich black strands.
“So… her mother’s talking about the tea she’s hosting. She’s describing how much she paid for catering. How much the petit fours cost. How much for the candied almonds,” I said.
Hugh nodded.
“The daughter – Danielle – watches her mother as she talks. She watches how her mother uses her hands as she talks.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. See, she thinks about how, when she was a kid, you know, her family moved down from Staten Island. You know, from, like, the Italian neighborhoods. Her mother worked on her so that she didn’t retain any of the … of the mannerisms, I suppose, of those neighborhoods.”
“But she did?” Hugh asked.
“The daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“No. No, not really,” I said, “but she’s watching her mom, and she’s thinking about chance. It’s really coming down, this idea of chance, in her head. She sees that she could have gotten stuck on the Island, in those neighborhoods, but her father got them out. All of those deals he made…. Stock trading hands, money shifting, growing, and yet here she is, in a restaurant with, you know, forty dollar entrees and Pellegrino water bottles and, you know, here’s her mom,” I said, extending my hand as though the mother was standing behind the bar as we spoke, “and she still talks with her hands. She’s still tied, in a sense, to the past.”
I take a deep gulp of my ale, letting the brew coat my throat before I continued. It was raw from cigarettes.
“And you know what? She wonders,” I said. “Wonders if it’s right. If there’s a sense to it or, or, you know, an order to it all.”
“Is there?” Hugh asked.
“I don’t know. I’m just saying what she sees.”
“Oh.”
“Could be, I guess. Could be that there’s a meaning. A theme. Could be all chance, too, just as easily.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Don’t know if it matters, really.”
Hugh looked at me and didn’t say anything. His thin, Irish face was pinched and his brow was furrowed, a look he often got when he didn’t believe something or didn’t like something.
“Look,” I said, “let’s say it’s fate that Danielle’s family was to move from the lower middle class life – the life you and I grew up in, you know – and moves down to this mansion in Rumson and wealth and prestige and all that, and there’s no element of earning it whatsoever.”
“Okay, so, then what?”
“So, then nothing. So what!” I said. “Who the fuck cares?”
“Well, what about the ethics of it? I mean,” Hugh said, “You can’t just ignore that they didn’t deserve it. I mean, what if Danielle’s Dad – John or Ritchie or whatever his name will be… did we give him a name?”
“I don’t think so. Wait… I don’t know. Did we?”
“Okay, well,” Hugh said, waving his hand to dismiss the issue, “Fine. Whatever his name is. Let’s say he didn’t earn this opulent lifestyle. Let’s say… let’s say he was an insider trader.”
“Okay, Hugh. Look. What then? The family – if there is fate, and so long as he didn’t like, you know, interfere with the daughter’s mindset by telling her about the insider trading – starts out at point A,” I said, holding out my left hand, “and ends up at Point B.” I held out my right hand.
“Right.”
“Now, if Daddy earns his wealth, honestly earns it, I mean deserves it, Danielle’s family goes from…?” I held out my left hand as I spoke.
Hugh just looked at me.
“They go from Point A to Point B. It doesn’t matter, so long as the story is about what’s going on at Point B, the meaning’s the same. Ethics,” I said, looking for another cigarette, “doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it.”
“Well, no,” Hugh said, “you’re missing the point.”
“Why? Not every story needs every element of every action judged as moral or immoral. I mean, God….”
“Well, without that,” Hugh said, “I don’t like the story.”
“Why not?”
“It has no movement. If you don’t give a shit about how or why – or don’t even know how or why – they get from Point A to Point B, what’s the point of the story?”

The fight seemed circular to me. I found the cigarette I was looking for, and lit it. The smoke burned my lungs, but in a good way. It kept me from getting irritated.
“Okay,” I said, “Y’ever read that Hemingway story, The, um, The Short Happy Life of… of…’”
“Pippen something?”
“No, I think that’s a Steinbeck story. No this is the Short Happy Life of, um, shit, what the hell was his name? Albert Macomber or something. Damn. I don’t know.”
“I don’t know,” Hugh said, shaking his head.
“Well, it’s a short story. There’s a hunter, and he gets killed during a safari. I think it’s implied that his wife has something to do with it, but—“
“White Elephants?”
“No, I think that’s the abortion one. Anyway, we get this character that goes from Point A, and then he is moved from Point A – his safe, secure, boring, empty life, to his Point B. His final Point B. And, you know, yeah, so what, his wife killed him. He’s happy. He’s resolved. Then he dies.”
“Okay.”
“Well, that’s the same thing. It doesn’t matter whether fate or choice brings the hunter to the resolution. It’s that he’s there. That he is resolved, in that moment. That… that matters.”
“But—“
“Not every story needs to be about ethics. Otherwise, they’d all be goddamn parables or something. No, you know, it can be about the moment.”
“So, but here, you’ve got this set up, and…”
“What, with Danielle?”
“Yeah.”

I looked over at her table. I hadn’t looked at “Danielle” in a while. She seemed content, albeit still very wired, as she chatted with friends. A few of them had similar stoner looks as the one we had imposed upon her “brother.”
“What are you looking at?” Hugh asked.
I smiled and chuckled silently.
“What?” He asked again, smiling.
I turned to him. “I was just thinking that it would be funny if, like, in real life, she turned out to be a school teacher, um, a Catholic school teacher, no less, and was very proper and very demure and just didn’t have any of the aggressive attributes of an investment banker.”
“No,” Hugh said, “Funny would be if you met her and she had any of the qualities we’ve assigned to her. If she actually turned out to be a broker or an investment banker or whatever and had all this money….”
We both smiled at the thought.
“That would be funny,” I said quietly.

I turned back to my beer.
“See, I think that’s the thing,” I said, “there’s still worth to a story, even though it’s just a moment or just the non-ethical elements of Point A to Point B.”
“Yeah,” Hugh said, “but it doesn’t really get anywhere.”
“Well, no, not really. I mean not really, in the sense that there is a lot of going from Point A to Point B, but it’s in that internal moment for, you know, Danielle. She starts out waiting for her brother at the airport and its all chaos and noise and she ends at this restaurant with her mother waiving her hands and the silverware scraping against the china and she has the realization that she is going to spend eternity with this. Just all of this. It’s just the scraping of the forks and knives against plates.”
“Well, that gets back to my point, that there’s no movement.”
I thought for a second and then smiled.
“Well, what about this? Here’s movement in the story. You see,” I said, “Danielle is sitting there, trapped in her own ideas, and we’re sitting here, trapped in our own ideas, and so there’s this layering… this building up that is going on.”
“You want to put us into the story?”
“Why not. We’re already there. We’re telling it. The story is as much ours, at this point, as it is Danielle’s.” AndI thought, the person I will be while typing this will be as much a character as the one sitting here in the bar.
“Okay,” Hugh nodded. “That’s clever, I guess.”
I took a swig and nodded. I was out of energy. Hugh was amused, but still non-committal. I looked at my watch.
“Shit. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Hugh and I lurched out of the normal slow pace people use in a bar when they are not set on hooking up. We settled our tabs – the unreasonably low sum of five dollars a piece for our combined six beers (it’s good to be a regular) – and made our way out of the Dublin House back porch and to the municipal parking lot.
“Gonna be around tomorrow?” Hugh asked.
“Wouldn’t be a weekend otherwise.”
“We could try somewhere else.”
“Where’d you have in mind?”
“Asbury?” Hugh suggested.
“We could do that. Check out the Roadhouse. Harass a few new locals….”
“Sounds good,” Hugh said.
“Hey, um… I think there’s some sort of soul food place nearby. We could check – Sonny’s I think it’s called – anyway, we could check that out too. Get some dinner.”
“Soul food?”
“I like it,” I said defensively, “Got hooked on it in DC.”
“All right. We can give that a shot.”

We shook hands and Hugh headed off to his old, maroon Ford Bronco. Someone had broken the passenger-side window on his truck in an attempt to steal Hugh’s compact disk player. Hugh taped over the window with clear packing tape. It glistened under the streetlights. I walked over to my Sable. I checked the tires. I had been getting a lot of flat tires lately (I suspected an angry former client). Satisfied with my tires, I got into my car and drove off.

I passed the hobby store where I used to buy model fighter jets as a kid. A train sign had been affixed to the side of the hobby store. Red lights flashed on it as though the New Jersey Coast Local was bound to charge through the front of the hobby shop.

I turned past the Seven-Eleven and the Cluck-U Chicken fast food place (popular with drunks because it was open until 3:00 AM on Fridays and Saturdays).

I thought about the story. I thought about how Hugh and I had considered so much of a person based on no interaction with her as I passed the antiques shops and the Italian restaurants that lined Front Street all the way down to the river at the western edge of Red Bank. What if I did write the story? How many more layers does that create?

I pulled up to the light. Bruce Cockburn’s Last Night of the World was on my CD changer. I sang along quietly and stared out the window at the WaWa Convenience Store across the street. The light changed to green, and I headed down under the railroad bridge, and away from Red Bank.

take the hit

The one thing to be proud of, according to the playwright, the only true foundation of self-respect, was not to be taken in by illusions and sentiments. The only items in the book of rules were dead items. If you didn’t close the book, if you still harked back to the rules, you deserved to die.

How deep can the life of a modern man be? Very deep, if he is hard enough to see innocence as a fault, if, as Brecht held, he wipes out the oughts which the gullible still buy and expels pity from politics.

- Saul Bellow, By the St. Lawrence, from Collected Stories, at 8.

I sat in the Jacuzzi my father and I had built. The lights were out in my bathroom, and I had turned off the radio. The only sounds in the dark room were ice cubes clinking against the sides of the two pots of ice water I brought up from the kitchen. I rested my hands in the pots, hoping that my swollen knuckles would heal.

I had lost a few fights before, both in and out of the gym. Tonight was worse than most. In the past, I had lost because I had given up, because I realized it was a fight I could not win. That didn’t happen often. Other fights, I lost by decision. I lost because I was out-boxed. I landed fewer punches than the other guy. So be it, I had vowed on those occasions, I’ll take him in the next fight.

I lost by the count tonight. That stung. I lost because I stopped functioning. At least I made it to the third round, I tried to convince myself. In my last match, the referee had TKO’ed my opponent a minute and a half into the first round. I had knocked him down three times before the judges could even really begin to keep score. I walked out of the ring that night with a look of disgust that couldn’t even be hidden behind my mouthpiece and red foam head guard. Tonight, I blankly walked out of the ring, no expression on my face, my ears ringing incessantly. God, I could do without the ringing, I thought.

The first round was defensive. We probed each other. My opponent, a beefy guy from Belford, a blue collar town full of oil refinery workers and fishermen, took one penalty point. I dodged a roundhouse and he withdrew his hand only enough to take a second shot as I twisted away. It connected with the back of my head, at the point where my neck met my skull. It was excruciating, a combination of a dead, and numbing sense with sharp spikes of pain traveling down my spine. I stumbled as the referee called us to corners.

The second round was angry violence. Once my brain ingested the notion that my opponent had taken a cheap, illegal shot, I wanted to make him hurt. I waited for him to advance on me, then leaned into him, digging my bristly chin into his collarbone as I landed punches into his stomach. Once we were broken up, I danced back for a second before coming back in and repeating the process, digging my chin more into his neck this time. The referee waited less time before pulling me off my opponent. I took the referee’s warning with a nod, and faked toward my opponent. He brought his hands up on guard. I faked again, jerking my head forward as I flicked my shoulders back as though I was going to throw a hook. This time, my opponent dropped his hands down and came in to swing a wild hook at my head. I lunged left and fired two quick jabs with my right hand, hoping to cause my opponent to lean back, to bring his acne scarred face away from mine and open himself up to more shots at the chest.

He swung away instead, catching me at the joint where my right arm met my shoulder. My bad arm. I spent a year in physical therapy, having ultrasonic waves bombarded into that arm, all because some drunk in a Nissan Sentra decided to slam into my stopped Mercury Sable. I could feel a raw, cartilage-free grind as my arm compressed against my collarbone. I yelped and leapt away from my opponent. I danced away, loosely hopping on the balls of my feet until I had time to rotate my arm, gingerly feeling if the socket joint in my shoulder would again need looking after. The opponent paused as well, visibly sucking wind. He then lumbered his way toward me, his frame tight and well-guarded.

Looking up at the ceiling above the Jacuzzi, I thought about the way my opponent came for me. Should I have swung left around him, taking glancing shots? The darkness didn’t answer. I sighed. I could have drawn him in and then focused on the head. I wasn’t sure. I thought of a number of alternative solutions, replaying the round like chess, convinced that I lost then, not in the later round. Not when I actually fell.

When I saw the opponent shoot in, his head guarded from the front, I feigned moving to the left again, causing him to twist left slightly. I came up in under his arms at that point, and went back to work on his stomach and ribs. I threw a sinking uppercut, one designed to hurt, to bend a man’s ribs up in his chest, not to win a fight. At the time, I didn’t really care. It was the opening that I saw, and I was not willing to wait for multiple solutions. Nor was my opponent. He was swinging wildly. Shots landed on my biceps, my elbows, and, even though the referee never called it, off my hip, well below the belt.

After the second round ended, my trainer told me he yelled at me to get out. “You get in, hurt him, and get out. You don’t take punches,” he shook his head.
I tried to say that my opponent was hitting below the belt, but my exhaustion and my mouthpiece barred me. I had to either quit or go back in there.

I should have quit, I thought as I sat in the Jacuzzi. It was a dirty fight, and I stayed in way too long. the water was heading toward tepid. The muscles under my ribs, the ones that hurt when I took a breath, were less sore, and my lungs felt less raw, but it was taking too long. These wounds would show. It would show at work. I didn’t want that.

The first shot of the third round hit me long before the last. With the bell, we came out fast, me to his gut, hoping he would lose his wind, that I would wear him down. He went for the face, a wild hook that spun me around. I landed on my knees, my eyes focused down on the texture of the mat. The referee made it to four before I pushed off my right knee and stood. I could taste the iron tang of blood in my mouth. I stood, though. This was something I could take.

And why not? I thought as I sat in the Jacuzzi, reliving the fight. Taking a punch isn’t nearly as hard as winning a fight. Particularly one that had dirtiness to it. I grimaced. I should have gone on until I lost sight. Until I faded into unconsciousness.

Standing again, I slowly paced back and blocked a few jabs. They were textbook blocks, nothing more. A swing of the forearm to meet the red glove, a slap or dull thud of impact, and a momentary ache in my muscles. I fired off a jab, tagging my opponent on the cheek. I couldn’t help smiling at that. We circled each other, trading a few ineffective punches.
“Throw him! Throw him!” My trainer, Freddy, the raspy voiced Puerto Rican, called to me.
I followed his direction, lunging left, then jerking my shoulders back to the right. It was a trick I used to confuse my dog when I would tease him, faking a feint to the left before actually moving to the left. I lurched forward and to the left, and whipped a hook at his jaw, right where his head guard stopped and his face started. My opponent – I never got his name, so he remained an archetypal opponent, a mere “he” – swung with the punch, throwing a wild, illegal roundhouse. Under the rules of our amateur circuit, intentionally presenting one’s back to another was illegal. It forced the opponent – me, in this case – to refrain from follow-up shots, since only the off-limits back was an available target. I stood back and brought my hands away to show the referee I wasn’t aiming for my opponent’s back before realizing that my opponent was still traveling around.

He connected with my eye, and I saw flashes of light as I stumbled back. I gestured to the referee, a non-verbal “what the hell,” but the referee just stepped out of the way. I turned back to my opponent and blocked a few head shots before throwing a curt jab.

My opponent landed another wild hook against my left ear, and I lunged in with a right cross – as hard I could, given how dead my arms felt – against my opponent’s nose. He stepped back, rather than attempting to block the punch, and swung under my slowly retreating arm. He caught me at the solar plexus. I mounted a weak defense with my left, but he forced his way in, knocking the wind out of me.

I stepped back, my arms dropping, and the opponent connected again, clocking me in the forehead. I fell down, an undignified thud as my ass landed on the mat. I struggled to get air in past my mouth guard, my arms at my sides as the referee began the count. Eventually, I let myself sag, and stopped struggling to get back up for the fight.

I took my hands out of the ice water and flexed them. My right wrist was sore from the few punches that had strained the tape that was intended to protect nerves and tendons. My knuckles were swollen, less so than before, and red. I leaned forward and raised the steel lever at the side of the Jacuzzi. I let the water slowly drain out of the fiberglass and epoxy basin in which I sat.

After the ten-count, my trainer ran into the ring. He peeled the mouth piece from my jaws as I leaned over, still struggling for breath. I gasped, sucking in air while feeling my stomach muscles ripple, undecided as to whether they would send up whatever remained of the protein bar I had eaten in lieu of lunch.
“Shit,” I wheezed.
“Come on,” Freddy said as he rubbed my back. “Breathe.”
I rolled over onto my knees, sucked in a breath, and stood, leaning back against the corner post. The referee walked over to me and grabbed my arm. I nodded and silently walked to the middle of the ring. The referee held my wrist down – I wondered if this tradition existed so that losing boxers couldn’t take a closing shot at the winning boxers – as he raised the wrist of my opponent. I nodded to my opponent and walked back to my corner.
“You could have – no, should have – won by decision,” Freddy said to me. “He shouldn’t have been allowed to get away with that.”
I shook my head. “But he did,” I said holding out my gloves to Freddy. “Just cut the laces.”
Freddy pulled out his surgical scissors from a nylon holster at his waist. He sawed away at the tangled laces on my right glove. Once they were cut, I pulled my arms away and slipped the glove under my left armpit. I lurched my hand free of the glove, let it drop to the mat, and rubbed the back of my taped hand against my face. Its rough surface chafed my sweaty skin. I undid the Velcro strap of my head guard and pulled it off me with my right hand.
“Doesn’t matter, you know,” I said. “Doesn’t matter whether he fought dirty or that I could have won. I didn’t.”
I was still wheezing. Freddy just nodded and motioned for me to raise my left hand. I did so, and he cut away the laces on that glove.
“So you going to quit?”
I looked at him as he worked my glove off me. I shook my head.
“No,” I sighed. “It’ll be a while before I go back in, though.”
“No kidding,” Freddy said. “We need more training. More ab work.”
I grunted in acknowledgement. Freddy began to cut the tape from my right hand, working from my thumb back to my wrist. Once he had that strip free, Freddy pulled the tape off my hand, taking a swath of arm hair with it. I winced.
“Nice,” he said, looking at the hair left on the tape.
I nodded and grabbed my water bottle.
“Let’s just get this shit off of me,” I said.
I always felt claustrophobic wearing gloves, particularly at the end of a match. I hated not being able to fully grasp things.

After getting out of the Jacuzzi, I slathered heat rub on my right side, still wincing at the knot under my armpit. I slipped a bit of it on my wrists before capping off the squat cylinder of white cream. I threw on a terry cloth robe and looked at myself in the mirror. I could see a welt over my eye, and a few of my bruises were already darkening. I walked from my bathroom to the couch in my office. I flipped on the television and crashed on the couch with an exaggerated release of air.

CNN was making noise about recent casualties in Iraq. I laid back and closed my eyes. I could get back into the ring, but I’ll sick at if there’s another cheap loss. Still, if I don’t get back into the ring, I’ll go soft. I looked at my gut. Well, softer, to be exact.
“Why do I do this to myself?” I whispered. “I don’t know what it is that makes me think this is fun.”

The television droned on without an answer. I considered getting up for some cranberry juice. Instead, I settled more deeply into the couch. I was wallowing in my aches. Whatever I end up doing, whether I stick with this or move on to another game, I need to decide. I felt a sense of being smothered for a second, as though my life was being pressed out of me, and I shuddered. I need to decide, and with good haste. Time didn’t seem to be in inexhaustible supply.

the rules and goals of the game

Aaron Boone. Aaron freaking Boone. Of course he should bring my Yankees to the World Series. I have no idea who he is – a pinch runner that New York picked up from Cincinatti – but that’s why it makes sense that he should end the American League Championship Series. Why have a baseball game make sense? It’s already farcical, when you consider the rules and goals of the game.

The Dublin House is a zoo at the moment of victory. A riotous cheer, which I am surprised to find myself a part of, goes up, beer is spilled out of raised glasses, and the locals break out into contented, exhausted smiles after eleven innings of tense staring at the television.

Hugh and I stand in a corner of the bar next to the waitress stand. I spend the evening chatting with Kim, a graduate student who waits tables at the Dub to pay for her urban planning classes at Hunter University. Urban planning is our common ground; my doctoral dissertation was on urban renewal in Jersey City and Red Bank. Hugh chats with a girl who mistook him for someone else. She tells us she wants to move to San Francisco and study holistic medicine. “Of course you do,” is all I can manage as a response and I move on. I know I should play the good wingman, should help Hugh out with his game with her, but he’s already dating someone else and I never found gamesmanship terribly interesting.

“I just want to make sure I still have it,” Hugh explains when I give him a look. I don’t debate him on the point. We all take the risks we want to take, regardless of what counsel is given to us. That should be the first lesson of law school. It’s a lesson I re-learn with each client.

I stop over at the Broadway Diner for coffee – I need to sober up before driving home – after picking up cigarettes at the twenty-four hour store. I had chain-smoked the last pack over the course of the game, nervous about the outcome. Hugh and the girl are sitting in the first booth at the diner. Hugh’s brother, Cal, is sitting at the second booth with a friend of ours. Behind Cal’s booth is Andy, a waiter at the Dublin House, and another mutual friend. It’s the burden of a small town, I think, smiling, and I could never escape the eyes of my friends if I tried.

I sit down with Hugh and the holistic medicine girl, harassing the two of them in between bites of rye toast, sips of acidic, boiling hot coffee, and eggs. From behind Hugh’s head, I can see his brother, Cal, smirking at my display. I raise my eyebrows and shake my head in a bemused fashion.

After the diner, we all tumble out into the dark. Hugh and Cal – Miss Daisy, we call him, as Hugh has been forced to drive Cal everywhere until he gets a new driver’s license – head off to Hugh’s beaten old Ford Bronco. I slump into the driver’s seat of the Sable. I drive off, content to do it again the next night. Content to keep going.

puccini before noon

Why is it that Puccini before noon is a pleasant, refreshing way to force a morning to come into focus, yet Puccini after seven p.m. is irritating and overbearing, like a hand forcing your head to look down upon a desk?

I had a quiet morning today. I was meeting with a judge for a bar association-related project on which I was doing research. I had the pleasure of sitting at home and drinking coffee for an extra hour, going over the Mapquest-based directions to the judge's chambers in Northwest New Jersey while vaguely watching a CNN story about a football player that attacked a student who rushed the field at a college game. My dog, a delinquent, was curled up on the couch, something he knew he wasn't supposed to do. Still, he probably thought we had all left for work. I let him stay on the couch. I'll harass the damn thing later.

Puccini's La Boheme played from my PC's speakers, playfully unfolding from my office. Fragile Mimi struggled for the love of Rodolfo, a brash artist. I thought better of it after a while and switched from Puccini to Handel. The Royal Fireworks Music. Always good to shave to something with rhythm.

Last night I sat in the Dublin Houses, going over cases on liens for my bar association project. It was dry work, so I broke it up with the American League Playoff game, hoping that the Yankees would continue their lead. At least the Bass Ale kept me motivated.

It was a surprisingly quiet night at the Dublin House, given that the Yankees were playing. Generally, during playoffs, the World Series, or during the football season, the bar is packed with sports fans. It's good natured sportsmanship. The locals rib each other for following the Giants or for rooting for the Mets, a sure sign that a man is hopelessly devoted to the underdog. I teased Janacek, a fellow Pole, for rooting for the Yankees.
"Stop cheering for them. Every time you do it, they strike out. You're no good. You jinx them."
"So that's why your sex life is so bad," Janacek replied. "I keep hoping for you to get some."
"Eh, fuck off, you wanker."

The local crowd laughed. I shook my head, smiling at being bested, and went back to reading cases. Eventually, the Yankees blew the game, and Harry, the bartender, switched the television over to FX. It was showing Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, and we watched the film without turning the sound on. Strangely, it still conveyed much of its emotion. Wormold, my photographer friend, came in as we watched the film and he settled in next to me. He relayed how he had been asked to photograph a charity golf outing that day, and had barely made it to the outing on time, hung over from a long night of drinking beforehand. I listened as he told how he scammed food and drink off of the charity golf outing before nearly crashing his golf cart in a sand trap. I loved how it seemed like most of the regulars at the Dublin House were adept at working angles, never so much that they became rich off their fellow man, but enough so that they never had to work terribly hard for their beers.

At closing time, Harry kicked most of the non-regulars out. Wormold and I were still transfixed by Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, so Harry pushed a few pints in our direction and continued clearing out the bar.

Two other locals, pretty girls that worked at a Broadway-themed restaurant up the street and that frequently came into the Dublin House wearing the restaurant uniforms, black shirts marked "Cast" or "Crew," sat down at the end of the bar. One, Hillary, was a pretty, red-headed Irish girl. The other, Nicole, had dark hair. She and I had enjoyed a long night of storytelling a few weeks back about her time in Europe after college. Nicole was a theatre major. She was pretty enough to act or model, but knew she didn’t want to make a life out of it.

Some older guy sat with Nicole and Hillary, and he swayed and bobbed on his barstool in the fashion that messy drunks often do. Harry made his way down to the three of them and listened in to the older guy hit on the two women. I had watched the older guy settle in between the two waitresses, smiling sympathetically at Hillary when she gave me a look of annoyance.

Harry told the guy to hit the road the second he rested his hand on Nicole’s arm, causing her to squirm and try to pull her arm away. Sitting down, she didn’t have enough leverage to get away, though, and so it was up to Harry to force the guy to behave.
“All right, bud,” Harry said to the guy in hushed tones, “it’s nothing personal but you’re going to have to leave.”
“What did I do?” The drunk asked, belligerent as he leaned forward on his elbows.
“You didn’t do anything,” Harry said, “it’s just time to go.”
Harry and the guy argued for a few minutes before Harry, fed up, came out from behind the bar. He walked to the back of the barroom, and booted open the fire exit.
“Out,” he said, simply yet dangerously full out of anger.
Wormold and I, just a few seats away from the guy, quietly got up and walked towards him. I had gone to my boxing trainer earlier that evening, and was still limber from it.

The guy stood up from his seat, wobbly and upset. “What did I do?” he repeated, “Just tell me what I did.”
Harry didn’t bother to explain, and eventually he and I just gave up and pushed the guy out the back door, closing the heavy fire door behind us. After making sure Hillary and Nicole were all right, we laughed and joked about nearly getting into a scuffle with the guy, but Harry and I were wired with nervous energy.
“You might as well have put caffeine in the last pint,” I said to him, still feeling my heart throb in my chest. I didn’t shy away from fights, but I didn’t like the nervous energy they gave me.
“Want another one to still the nerves?”
“No, no. I need to get home anyway.”
“All right. Going to be around tomorrow?” Harry asked.
I gave him a look that said am I ever not around this place?
“Point taken. Well, I’ll see you then,” Harry said.

Sitting on the couch, drinking coffee as I reviewed the lien cases from the night before, I tapped my hand on the cushion in time to Handel’s Fireworks Music. The dog watched, confused in his way, as I tapped along to the jaunty rhythm. It was all I seemed to need, that rhythm. I needed that fit, that which kept me in my orbit. Last night, as I walked out of the Dublin House, watching my breath come away like smoke in the cool fall air, I thought about how I seemed to be slipping into a new rhythm, a dance where I was uncertain of the steps.

From behind me as I walked, I heard Wormold call out to me. “Godspeed, counselor. Try to stay out of trouble.”
I smiled and nodded wordlessly, turning around to waive goodnight to him. Not enough to get rich, but enough to get my ale. The only rhythm I need.

that ain't no way to have fun

Will you have whiskey with your water
Or sugar with your tea?
What are these crazy questions
That they're asking of me?
This is the wildest party that there ever could be
Oh, don't turn on the light 'cause I don't want to see
Mama told me not to come
Mama told me not to come
Mama said, "That ain't no way to have fun"

- Randy Newman, Mama Told Me Not to Come, from 12 Songs (1970).

“Are we there yet?”
“You know you’re not allowed to ask that.”
“It had to be asked,” Zoya said.
“Oh no it did not,” I answered, “besides, we’re only in Nyack. We’ve got another four hours. Minimum. It all depends on Connecticut. That place is always a clusterfuck.”
“I used to date someone from there.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Very funny.”
“What? You have a boyfriend in, like, every state. A home in every port, you little bugger.”
“Hey. Play nice.”
“Oh,” I said, waiving my hand defensively, “Sorry. Sorry.”
Up ahead of us, a sign indicated that we were approaching the Tappan Zee Bridge.
“Well, anyway, we’re safely out of New Jersey, at least.”
“No thanks to your driving,” Zoya deadpanned.
“I’m a spectacular driver. I am Evil-Goddamn-Knievel, thank you very much.”
“I had nightmares about your driving last night. I couldn’t sleep at all.”
“Well,” I replied, “that’s patently false.”
“How so?”
“Well,” I sighed, “You couldn’t have had nightmares unless you were sleeping. It’s a logical inconsistency. Therefore, you probably slept quite well last night, thanks to my driving. And, for proof, I can turn to your claim that you had many nightmares.”
“You are such a lawyer,” Zoya said, looking through her purse.
“And you could barely survive cross-examination,” I answered before pulling a cigarette from my jacket’s breast pocket. “Besides, I’m barely a lawyer. There’s such a tenuous grasp here it isn’t even funny.”

We drove through West Nyack in silence. As we made our way to the bridge, Zoya fiddled with the CD changer until Fountains of Wayne’s Valley Winter Song came on. We sang along, unashamed. Zoya had a wonderful voice, and I never minded singing with others. After the song ended, we returned to silence.
An hour later, Zoya broke the silence. “I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Put yourself down. You always do that to yourself. Even my mother noticed.”
I shrugged. “It’s humor. That’s all.”
“But why?” Zoya asked, exasperated. “Why does it always have to be always at your expense?”
I paused and thought. “I don’t know, you know… it’s just….”
It was something I used to diffuse situations. People seemed more relaxed when I put myself down.
“It’s just my way, I guess,” I said slowly, “I use self-deprecating humor so that people don’t, you know….”
“Don’t what?” Zoya encouraged.
“Well…. I think people think I’m arrogant. If I mock myself, they calm down about that.”
“What do you care what people think about you?” Zoya asked.
“Well…” I said, looking for another cigarette. I repeated myself. “Well.”
“Hmm?” Zoya threw up her hands.
I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. That was what I thought. I just didn’t want to sound weak and admit it. I smiled slyly. “Well,” I quipped as I wedged a cigarette between my lips, “I need to think of my jury.”

I lit the cigarette. I don’t know if Zoya was annoyed with my answer, if my cocky defense backfired on me, or if she saw through it. I didn’t know if she would have found the more accurate answer – for, as I rationalized, what I had said to here was not completely inaccurate; it was just misleading – weak or cloying. The defensive answer seemed like a stronger position than the more forthright one. I decided to stick with it.

We continued to crack jokes all the way to Boston. As we made our way up the Mass Pike, I decided to detour off the highway and headed into Newton, rather than making a direct line to our hotel.

We were at Boston College by 8:30 PM on Friday. On the way there, Zoya asked what my campus was like, what going to college was like. She never went to college. While she claimed that going to college would have been a waste of money for her, I wondered if she regretted her decision.
“Ever see pics of Notre Dame? The one in Paris, that is.”
“Sure. I’ve taken some myself,” Zoya answered.
“Well,” I said as I turned onto Commonwealth Avenue, “That is my campus.” I steered the car past the main gate and smiled as Zoya gasped.
“Oh my God. It is.”

To our left was St. Mary’s Hall, the Jesuit residence. At our right were the Burns Rare Book Library and the Bapst Art Library. Ahead of us was Gasson Hall, where the Honors Program met. Where I spent four years of my life. All of the buildings were granite, with thin, blade-like Gothic spires rising up from them. Gasson Hall was the most impressive, an H-shaped building that had a five story tall clock tower rising up from its center like a hand seeking God.

“It’s like coming home. For me, I mean, you know, going here is more like coming home than returning to Jersey,” I whispered before negotiating a parking space.

We grabbed our camera bags and quietly walked toward Gasson Hall.
“I used to spend hours upon hours in here,” I said, “I didn’t have to take regular classes… it was a sort of great books program, you know, and, uh, well, I took classes here, instead. Western Culture and Tradition seminars, they were called.”
Zoya nodded and smiled a quiet, weird sort of smile. I suppose she understood why I wanted to be there, that I really needed to see the campus, and that I wasn’t merely showing her around. It was my anchor, my reminder that there was a time when I did things that seemed to be of value to me. Things that weren’t destructive.

Zoya and I crossed one of the hallways into the small library where most of my Honors seminars took place. I pulled out my camera and fired off a few shots. Here was where I fought with my professor over Nietzsche, over whether such coldness and cruelty was just. Ironically, I tended to agree with Nietzsche’s cold view of humanity, at least lately, rather than my old view that melded Augustine’s and Montaigne’s sense of sorrow and tolerance. Human kindness. It didn’t seem terribly sensible lately.

Zoya looked up at the stained glass windows, each a replica of a Jesuit school’s crest. I wandered over to the couches where I spent many an afternoon talking of Don Quixote and the Brothers Karamazov. Of heroic fools and embittered skeptics. I rested my hand on the baby grand piano that sat behind the couch I used to use for naps. Once, in college, a girlfriend took me in here late at night. She played Chopin and Rachmaninoff, intensely, until I pulled her from the piano stool and kissed her. I smiled.
“Yeah, Zoya,” I said, “This was home for me.”

We walked out to the central atrium where there were marble statutes of the Archangel Michael defeating the Devil, of St. Ignatius Loyola, and of Seneca, the Roman Philosopher. Above them were frescos of religious phrases and other important figures of Jesuit history.
“Who is that?” Zoya asked, “And why is he with Indians?”
I looked up at the fresco she was identifying, over Seneca’s head.
“That’s Marquette. He converted the Chippewa. They named a school out west for him.”

The priest in the fresco stood solemnly at the bow of a dugout canoe. At the other end of the hall a fresco asked the question Quis Ut Deus? “Who is like unto God?” Ah, how I loved the Jesuits sense of goals. It wasn’t enough to merely be good. They had to be theological mirrors to the divine. And, in striving for that, the excellence of God, they became some of the most insidious skeptics the Roman Catholic Church had known. Their motto, Ad Majorum Dei Gloriam (“For the Greater Glory of God”), which was inscribed everywhere on campus (and sometimes, where it would not fit, a simple “AMDG” was stamped on an archway’s keystone or on a stairwell). Thus came their glory: critical thought. Inspiration. The great questions.
“Let’s go,” I said, “I have the bladder of an infant.”

We met up with Adam, my old friend from high school, and Jaydub, my friend from California. It was nearly 10:00 PM, and yet I felt wide awake. We went to Big City, a pool hall and bar in Brookline, a few miles east of Boston College. Over appetizers of fried food, we reconnected.

“So what the hell are you doing up here? You didn’t really want to see BC whip Ball State’s asses, did you?” Adam asked. He scratched his beard as he spoke.
“Well, first of all, you also shall see this ass-whipping. We have tickets for everyone,” I said, “But really, though, I’m here for my brother’s birthday. Flounder turned twenty-one this week.”
“Oh God,” Jaydub deadpanned, “the bars will be ruined.”
“No shit.,” I smiled, “this is going to be fun.” I chortled, then regained my composure. “Ah, college. It’s like oblivion, but with booze.”

“I always feared,” Adam said as he motioned to the stairway. He wanted me to join him for a cigarette break. “I feared that someday he would call me, asking me to buy him beer, and I’d have to figure out whether you’d go apeshit on me for buying it for him or for not buying it for him.”
“Well, did you buy beer for him?” I asked as I put on my synthetic fleece anorak. I hated that Boston had outlawed smoking in the bars.
“No.”
“Then I won’t go apeshit.”

Adam and I made our way downstairs for our cigarettes. I watched, as we walked down the curved staircase, how Zoya interacted with Jaydub and his new girlfriend. The couple huddled together. He smiled, somewhat innocently. A smile of simple pleasure, not a calculated smile. Jaydub had met her during the weekend of my five-year college reunion. I had gotten bored with the school festivities and had gone with him to the Harpoon Brewery’s beer unveiling. Betty, a pretty Irish redhead, ran into us there. She was a friend of Linda, who I had taken to Aruba. Linda was alone now, a med student in Philadelphia. I was alone. A lawyer somehow in Boston. Jaydub and Betty were happy. I didn’t see any of the traps I had learned of in family law when I looked at their relationship. That was a rare thing. A small good thing.

Saturday was game day. After finding our way to sobriety and consciousness, Zoya and I showered and made our way to Boston College. There, on campus, people were everywhere. We found my family under a tent next to the parking deck for the stadium. My mother chatted with some parents at one side of the tent while my father, in his old federal agent stance, interrogated a few of my brother’s classmates from behind aviator sunglasses.
“Agent Foster Grant,” I said as I gave him a hug.
“I was wondering if you two were going to make it,” my father said.
“We were tired from the drive,” I explained. I didn’t mention that we were also tired from four hours of drinking.
“He snores like a banshee,” Zoya said.
“She whines like a Stradivarius.”
“Asshole.”
“Jezebel.”

My father watched this with no expression on his face. He sucked in a breath and released it slowly.
“I think P. has the grill going over there,” he said after a pause. “Perhaps you could get some sausage. Antipasto. Zoya, is there anything I could get you?”
“And the beer?” I asked.
“Cooler by the grill.”
“Cool. Thanks dad.”

When you’re older, I was learning, there was little need for pretense. I didn’t need to feign a lack of interest in the beer. My father knew I was a child of the drink. He just claimed to not know from where on the family tree this came.

I walked over to the grill where my brother was cooking. He was telling my mother of his birthday celebration. I kissed her on the top of her head.
“Maternal unit,” I said by way of greeting.
“Glad you made it,” my mother said before kissing me on my cheek. “Beer’s in the cooler.” She knew how the family tree worked. My mother greeted Zoya warmly, and gave her a hug and a kiss.
“How was his driving?” She asked.
“Frightening. He hit 105 miles per hour in Connecticut.”
I shrugged, blasé, and turned to my brother.
“Flounder,” I said as I rubbed the stubble on his shaved head.
He sighed. “I am broken. I am so goddamned hung over.”
“That is the first lesson,” I said, “of legal drinking.”
My mother turned to me. “Don’t tell your father.”
I looked at my father. He was wagging his finger at someone, apparently for smoking. He still didn’t know I smoked.
“He’d have a stroke,” I said.
“That doesn’t give you any reason to tell him,” my mother said, dryly.
“Oh no, I don’t want to give him a stroke. I told you guys. The first chance I get, you’re both going into a state-run, Medicaid-funded home.”
“You’re not funny,” my mother said. Zoya gasped.
“You know I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Nonetheless,” I said, “Once I get power of attorney, it’s only soft foods for the likes of you.”
“You know, Zoya,” my mother said, “we once had a tailgate for T. His friends were there. They said to him, afterwards, ‘Your parents are so nice. What happened to you?’”
Zoya laughed. I smiled. I remembered when my friends asked that question.
“We wonder the same thing everyday,” My mother continued.
We all laughed. I was good at playing the asshole.

The game was a blowout. BC beat Ball State by over twenty points. We – Adam, Zoya, Jaydub, Betty, and I – snuck into the reserved student section with my brother. There, I promptly whipped out my telephoto lens and fired off some end zone shots of the game. My brother and I leaned against each other as the game wore on. Eventually, Zoya, still hungover, rested against my other shoulder. We all earned mild sunburns for the afternoon of shouting and applauding. It was Elysium for me. I was there, enjoying myself with those near and dear to me. It was far too fleeting.

I stood in the corner of my brother’s kitchen that evening, eating chicken and pasta that my parents had ordered from a caterer for my brother’s birthday. I didn’t celebrate my birthday. I had no such events in my past. Flounder was in the other room, singing to his guests – mostly his classmates and their parents – with bizarre, comic versions of show tunes. I sipped on my beer and watched him. My father walked into the kitchen, smoothed his hand over his salt-and-pepper hair, and looked back at my brother.
“Fat, drunk, and stupid, you once said,” he said to me.
“Yep,” I nodded.
“It’s not nice,” he said, “but it’s funny.”

After a few hours of genteel entertaining, we sent the parents home. I turned to my brother, who had challenged Adam and me to a drinking game.
“So what is this game?”
Beirut, it’s called,” he said.
Beirut?”
Yep.”
Like the city?”
Yeah. You try to sink ping pong balls into the other team’s cups. When you do, they have to drink.”
Oh,” I said, “I think I’ve heard of this.” Behind me, Adam snorted. Actually, I thought, I remembered playing this game for money. Founder led us down to his basement where he had set up his Beirut table. Flounder picked a cute blonde girl for his partner. Brianna was her name. She claimed to have never played the game before. I figured her for a ringer. We set up two sets of six cups in pyramid formation on both sides of the table. We filled each cup up with beer, and then filled two additional cups – the so-called social cups – that we placed to the side of the pyramids.
Okay,” Flounder said, “You each get one shot at the cups per round. No leaning on the table, no blowing on the ball, and no swatting the ball.”
All I have to do is get it in the cup?” I asked.
Yep. And,” Flounder continued, “To the right of your pyramid is a social cup. A shot goes in there, and you need to drink that and then chug a beer.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Oh,” Adam said, as though a light had dawned within his mind “You know, I think I might have played this once.”

We began. Brianna, Flounder’s ringer, sank the first shot, as expected. Adam sank the next one. She sank the next two. Flounder missed wide of the pyramid on each of his turns. I feigned stupidity and missed my first two shots, but then sank the next one. We were tied.
I noticed that my mother had slipped back into Flounder’s house.
“What’s going on?” She asked.
“Flounder and T. are having a grudge match of Beirut,” Zoya explained as I chugged one of beers sunk by Brianna.
“It’s a drinking game,” I said, turning to my mother. I might as well be brazenly honest.
As Zoya and I talked to my mother, I saw Flounder sink our next-to-last cup. Adam and I were one shot from losing. Flounder and Brianna had two cups left, along with their social cup.

“Okay,” Flounder explained, “when one side has one cup left, they shoot until they miss.”
Adam handed me the ping pong balls and I smiled.
“Until we miss?” I asked.
“Yep.”
Without another word, I sank the first ball into one of the pyramid cups. I sank the second ball into Flounder’s social cup.
“Spare another ball, Ace?” I asked my brother.
He rolled a ball across the table. I picked it up and sank it into the last cup in his pyramid.
“You know,” I said, “Adam, I think you’re right. I think we might have played this game before.”
“What a surprise,” my mother said. “Just make sure my youngest survives the night.”
“Will do.”

Flounder came over to my side of the table, and Adam went off to find music for the stereo. Eventually, he gravitated toward a group of coeds and my brother took up the game on the same side. We played a few rounds against some of Flounder’s classmates. By the last one, I was drunk and sloppy. We lost to a couple of the girls that lived in Flounder’s house. They kissed both of us, prompting Flounder and I to blush, and to cause Zoya to mutter something, with a smirk, about college girls.

We went to Citysides after that. It was a local bar and café on Cleveland Circle. After a few rounds of gin, I sat back and watched my brother joking with and teasing a few of the locals. It was good to see him as an adult finally. I had someone to take along with me when I went out. A compatriot. A fellow idiot. It only took seven years for me to find that man.

A few rounds into Citysides, I asked my brother where he wanted to go next.
“Mary Ann’s.”
“Oh no. Absolutely not,” I answered. Adam groaned. Mary Ann’s was a dive bar. A shithole. It was the sort of bar where, once I turned twenty-one, I stopped going there. Flounder wanted to go there now that he didn’t need to suffer so. I looked at him again. He hadn’t changed his answer.
“Well,” I said, “It’s your night.”

Mary Ann’s had rubberized walls and floors so that the staff could hose the bar down at the end of the night. Walking into the dingy bar, I could feel the soles of my shoes sticking to the floor. I grimaced. Behind me, Zoya took a whiff of the stale bar air, a mixture of scents that gravitated strongly toward vomit, and gagged.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered.
“I don’t blame you.”
“No, really. I can’t do this. I’m going to be sick,” she said.
I turned to Zoya. “You don’t need to. Go back to the hotel. Rest. This is going to get ugly.” I handed her the room key and walked out with her. After hailing a cab for her, which Betty and Jaydub ended up sharing (they also didn’t want to be there), I had a cigarette. As with the other bars, there was no smoking in Mary Ann’s. I think it would have improved the smell of the bar.

I walked back in. Flounder was playing a video golf game – Golden Tee – in a corner. Adam was at the bar. The bartenders were fixated with the televisions mounted above the racks of cheap booze. On the televisions, an interviewer was discussing the chances of the Red Sox going to the World Series.

I sidled up to the bar next to Adam and some beefy guy in a flannel shirt and greasy tee shirt.
“What’s safe here,” I asked.
“The exit, I think,” Adam replied. “This place is such a shithole.”
“No kidding. Underage bars tend to be.”
Adam motion to the bartender, trying to get a beer. The bartender, without looking away from the television, waived him away dismissively. I snorted.
“Ah… the Red Sox. The fans do understand the whole ‘Curse of the Bambino’ thing, yes?” I asked.
“They hope against hope,” Adam said.
“Nice. Christians before the lions.”
“Hey… hey, bartender,” Adam called out.
The bartender waived him away again.
“Nice. You made a friend,” I said.
Adam scowled. The bar was full of ignored patrons seeking something – booze, women, drugs (perhaps) – to distract themselves. I walked over to Flounder and looked in on his game. He spun a trackball, firing off a shot.

“Fun time?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. I love Golden Tee.”
“We came here so you could play video golf?”
“Would you have rather I asked to go to a strip club?”
“Not particularly,” I answered.
“Well,” Flounder said, “I didn’t really want to go to one either.”
“Okay.”
We paused. I looked over at Adam. He was still trying to flag down the bartender. I could see him wave his arm again at the bartender. The bartender wasn’t even looking back at him anymore. I could see the back of Adam’s head shake in irritation.
“Granted, you picked what is quite possibly the next worst thing to a strip club,” I said.

Adam was turning to say something to the patron next to him. The patron looked at him, shook his head, and slid his barstool a few inches away from him.

“We can go somewhere after this round,” Flounder said.
Adam said something to the bartender again. This time the bartender whirled around. I put my hand on my brother’s shoulder.
“Let’s see if we actually get through this round,” I said to Flounder. “Come on, he’s going to hurt someone.”
In high school, Adam had wrestled constantly. He was in decent shape. Still, the fights in Mary Ann’s could get rough. During junior year, a student in my dorm put his thumb into a patron’s eye, tearing his retina. By graduation, the legend had spread so that an eye ended up in someone’s beer.

The bartender had his hands on Adam’s sweater by the time we got to them. Adam grabbed onto the bartender’s forearms and slowly began to drag him from behind the bar. The guy next to Adam, who had originally backed away from him, was coming in to grab him. I stepped in between.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I said to the guy, grabbing his arms, “it’s cool, you don’t need to. We’ll get him.” He moved his arms back from me, and I turned to tell Adam to cool it. As I turned, it felt as though a bat had hit me in the eye.
“What the fuck?” I said, stumbling. I shook my head. Flounder was pushing the beefy guy back, who had obviously taken a swing at me. “Piece of shit,” I said, and then swung at the guy’s face, just above my brother’s arm. I connected with his mouth, and could feel his lip split. I pointed my finger at him and was about to chastise him for hitting me when my back was to him when someone tackled me from the side. I slammed against the bar, the lip of it sliding under my armpit as my legs gave way. I gasped. The bar had hit me in the ribs, knocking the wind out of me. I tried to reach around and grab whoever it was that tackled me, but I couldn’t keep myself above the horizontal plane of the bar unless I kept my left arm wrapped securely around the counter. I can hear bottles – probably bottles that I knocked over – breaking as they rolled off the counter and onto the floor by where the bartender used to stand. Currently, the bartender didn’t stand anywhere. Adam had him upside down and was kidney punching him. On the other side of me, I could see that Flounder had stopped grappling with the guy that had sucker-punched me and had simply landed on top of the fellow, restraining in him in the process. Meanwhile, the guy that had tackled me wasn’t doing much of anything. He was just trying to hold me to the spot.

I shifted my weight onto my left leg and braced against the brass rail that ran around the bar. With my right leg, I kicked out at the tackler’s feet. I caught his legs, knocking them out from under him. It broke the tackle, and I spun around. My mouth crashed against the bar, dazing me, but I knew enough to keep moving. I lunged forward, pushing into the barstool ahead of me. The guy that tackled me was getting up on his hands and knees by the time I spun around to face him. There was no debate about what to do. I swung my leg back and kicked him as hard as I could in his gut. I reached over and grabbed Adam’s shoulder.
“Come on!”
I turned to go to the door. My head was throbbing. Adam yelled to me that we needed to get out before the cops showed up. Flounder was still pounding on the guy he had pinned to the floor.
“Flounder, let’s go!”
Flounder ignored me. Adam and I ended up picking him up by his arms and dragging him off the guy. We circled around the bar, pushing people out of our way as we headed to the door.

We sat quietly in O’Leary’s. It was an Irish pub that I used to frequent with one of my philosophy professors, Father Jack. I sipped on a small gin and tonic, letting the citrus juices sting my lip. Flounder sat between Adam and me, hunched over a pint of Guinness.
“I don’t understand how you like this,” he said to me.
“It’s Guinness, P.”
“Yeah, but it tastes like soy sauce.”
“That’s only because your mouth is bleeding.”
“Oh.”
“Just drink the beer.”
I looked over at Adam. “I don’t understand. What happened?”
“I got into a little fight with the bartender,” he said.
“Yeah, but why? Because he wouldn’t get you a beer?”
“No, not because he wouldn’t get me a beer.”
“Well, what then?”
Adam didn’t answer. I shrugged. I reached into my shirt pocket and found a pack of cigarettes. I pulled one out and was about to light it when the bartender reminded me that it was illegal to smoke in bars in Boston.
“Fine, fine,” I grumbled, I’ll go outside.

I smoked the cigarette, alone, in the cool late evening air. It was nearly closing time. Flounder’s birthday had come and gone, and so, it seemed, had the summer. While Boston’s summer ended slightly earlier than mine in New Jersey, I knew I could count on it as a harbinger of the weather to come for me. I took a long drag on the cigarette, coughed slightly, and then flicked the last of the butt into the street. I turned and walked back into the bar.

“So honestly,” I asked Adam again as I sat down, “What caused all that?”
He grimaced. “Well, you know how the bartenders were all watching the highlights on the Red Sox on the television?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I asked him for a beer, and he waived me away.”
“Um, yeah.”
“And then I asked him again, and he waived me away,” Adam continued.
“Yeah. Yeah, I was there for that part.”
“Yeah, so I ask him for a beer again, and he’s like ‘hold on there Skippy.’”
“’Skippy,’” I snorted.
“Yeah. So I was like, ‘I’m sorry, what’s that? I couldn’t hear you with the Red Sox’s dicks in your mouth.’”
I nearly choked on my drink. Flounder, who seemed the most annoyed by the fight, finally broke out laughing.
“Oh shit. That’s good,” Flounder said.

Storms

We’ve got a big storm coming up, they say. At various hours through the day, I check the Weather Channel and grimace. They say it’s going to hit Virginia and the Delmarva Peninsula. I’ve seen enough hurricanes to think that Isobel, the current one, is aimed directly at my ass.

Ten miles east of me, in Sea Bright, just south of Earle Naval Weapons Station and the Coast Guard base at Sandy Hook, stand twenty foot tall protective dikes. The dikes, made of concrete and boulders by the Army Corps of Engineers, did little to stop Hurricane Andrew. My theology professor’s home was washed out to sea, along with a number of other houses. At the time, we thought it was funny. We called the theology professor “Job” for the remainder of our high school years. At night, though, I would think “My god! Nature ate a house.

~~~

A year before high school, I had my most personal encounter with a hurricane. My family had decided to take a cruise. It was our first. Actually, it was our only cruise. My father had just finished a large, multi-national case involving illegal tax shelters in Bermuda. One of the consular officials involved in the case offered us use of his villa in Saint George. We agreed – since the British official and my father were on the same side of the case, it was friendship, not privilege – and booked a berth on one of the last rounded-keel cruise ships in the Atlantic. The MS Victory Rose. It was once a British hospital ship during World War Two. A Greek company bought it and refitted it for tourists, laying down a swimming pool, casino, and movie theatre inside the large ship.

We took a chance on cheap tickets in August – peak hurricane season – and sailed out of New York on a beautiful summer afternoon. Near us at the seaport was the venerable lady of the sea, the USS Intrepid, the unstoppable force of World War Two. Eight hundred miles south of us was the ugly bastard that would find us 300 nautical miles off of Cape Hatteras. Hurricane Hugo.

When the hurricane approached, we pretended not to notice. The captain posted an announcement throughout the ship. We would steam south until sunrise of the next day, and then race east to avoid the storm. We went on as we pleased. I went skeet shooting with my father. I harassed the ship’s radio operator and snuck down to the maintenance passages full of merchant sailors from Greece and Georgia, swarthy, foul-mouthed Europeans hidden from the passengers at the casino above. We gorged on Baked Alaskan and the shortbread of high British tea.

By sundown on the second day, the waves had increased to forty-foot swells. We hadn’t outraced the storm. We had sailed into its arms. We continued on, in our own way. I sat in the movie theatre when the rains came, watching back to back showings of “Dances with Wolves” and “FX.” Dinner was a mess. Waiters spilled soup and salad dressing on diners. Some were developing seasickness in dramatic, vulgar fashion. My father himself was ill at ease. We pretended not to notice the vomit bags lined up like Christmastime lumenaria along the deck.

The hurricane hit us with its full force on the third day. We were nearly upon Bermuda, but the swells, merely forty feet tall the day before, were twice as big. The wind had whipped itself up to a constant, 100 mile per hour gale, occasionally peaking at 120 miles per hour. Windows on some decks were blown in. My father was bedridden. My mother spent her day in the ship’s first aid center with Flounder, my baby brother, who was dehydrated from sea sickness.

For most of the morning, I wandered the interior of the ship. I wasn’t the sort that got seasick for some reason. I raided the ship’s kitchen for more shortbread. It was empty. The crew had hurried off to care for the sick passengers. In fact, some of the crew had hurried off to care for sick members of the crew. I was unnoticed.

After lunch, I got the idea to go outside. I had been tempted all morning. Watching the Plexiglas windows rattle and flex in the wind, I wanted to feel it on my face. I wandered the decks, looking for an unlocked hatchway. I slipped of one on one of the top two decks, by a small room the used for the disco.

The wind slammed me against the body of the ship. In my sneakers, I skidded across to the port side of the hatchway until I was stopped by a steel bulwark. My face stung from the rain. I stood there, pressed against the ship, watching the waves. They would roll up and crest yards above my head before slamming down on the lower decks. Half of the swimming pool’s water, a few decks below, had washed out to sea. The wind, for the first time in my life, hurt. It burned and pushed and snared me. It wanted me. I was its claim.

A force more powerful grabbed me by the wrist, though.

“What the hell are you doing?” my mother snapped, yelling over the wind. She pulled me inside.

“I just wanted to see the wind,” I mumbled. It didn’t seem like a good justification, even to me.

“Never. Never go out there again! Not with out your father or I,” she answered.

She smacked me on my cheek. I was surprised, as she never hit me.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

She hugged me close, so close I could barely breathe.

“Oh, T, I was so worried about you. So worried. So worried.” My mother had a hard time having children. My adventurous urges were torture for her.

“I’m sorry, mommy.”

She held me close a minute more, and then released me.

The eye of the storm hit us just after dawn the next day. My mother woke me up soon after.

“T. T, get up,” she said, shaking me.

“What…” I was groggy.

“Come on, honey. Come and see.”

I padded down the hallways, barefoot and in shorts and a tee shirt, following my mother.

“Come on, honey, she urged again. We left my father, reclined, his arms over his eyes, in his misery. We went outside to the aft deck of the ship. It was silent. My ears kept popping from the barometric pressure change. The wake churned by the ship’s twin screws was turquoise. The big diesel engines vibrated beneath us.

“Look,” my mother said, smiling as she pointed aft of the deck.

Dolphins flipped out of the water, chasing the ship. Their graceful forms arced and popped behind us. I was ecstatic. I had never seen dolphins before. I couldn’t believe – couldn’t speak of – that which was before us. My mother ran her slim, delicate, piano-playing hands through my messy hair.

We stood in silence, joined by a few other passengers, watching the dolphins leap and swim behind us. After a while, my mother took me in for breakfast. Eggs Benedict, she explained as we ate, was a treat her family only enjoyed on Easter Sunday. On the day of rebirth.

The ship passed out of the eye of the storm, and we plunged back into rain and darkness. A hatchway slipped loose and took off a crewman’s hand. He was airlifted, in the high seas, in a Bermudan helicopter. It was a French-made helicopter, an Aerospatiale Gazelle, with its distinctive in-tail rear rotor. My mother abided my intrigue, and let me watch the injured man be lifted to the helicopter that floated above from one of the upper decks.

“I don’t know why you find such morbid things so interesting, dear,” she mused, shaking her head. I just smiled.

We docked in Bermuda at the tail end of the day. In the dark, my family shakily made its way down the gangplank and wandered out to the taxi stand. My father and brother were desperately weak from seasickness. My mother was exhausted from taking care of us.

~~~

So we’ve got another storm coming up. My family’s older now. My brother’s off to college. He doesn’t need anyone to care for him, at least with regard to storms. My father and I get along better. We spent last night buying plywood and batteries for the home, trading questions in clipped tones.

“Gonna bring up the propane lamps from the basement?” I asked.

He nodded. “Stoves too, I think. You able to help me bring down the deck furniture.”

I nodded. “Stoves will be good.”

“Yep.”

My mother made a special dinner of salmon and steak. I’m allergic to most seafood, so I stuck to the steak. My father and I chatted about a book I bought for him about Captain Cook. My mother reminisced about the cruise.

“Remember the Dolphins?” I asked her.

“Oh yes,” she smiled.

“Dolphins?” my father asked.

I shrugged and my mother smiled.

“You missed it, dear,” she said to him.

I tried to suppress a smile and looked down at the dog.

“Oh,” my father said. “Well, anyway, in the book, they’re now in the Aleutians.”

“Oh wow,” I said, envisioning it.

“Yeah.” My father replied, enthusiastically.

“I wouldn’t want to be there,” my mother replied.

“In a heartbeat,” I said.

“Really?”

“Hell yeah,” I said before swallowing her garden-grown green beans. “The undiscovered country.”

“You would?” my mother asked again.

I nodded. She started to reply, and then stopped. She shook her head, bemused.

“Yes,” she said, “I think you would.”

Her Name Was Oona

I was still sitting at the bar, chatting with Harry, when she walked in. Her hair was still dyed cherry red, was still shocking. Her tall, strangely elegant frame weaved past the other regular drunks. I sucked in a gasp.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

Her name was Oona, but she made us call her Sophie.

She had dated Stephen, my now dead friend, for the better part of two years. Just before her visa ran out, she and Stephen debated marriage. They never resolved the debate. She returned to her home in Germany.

I remembered, sitting there at the bar, the first time I met Oona. We – Julius, my best friend in high school, and I – had just trudged through late-December snow to a party at Stephen’s apartment in Red Bank. Stephen brought us into his grey kitchen and introduced us to his friends. And to Oona.

“Her name is Sophie,” Stephen said with a smirk, “but please call her Oona.”

“Oona,” I said as I held out my hand.

“Call me Sophie,” she growled.

I smirked and shrugged. “Oona. Sophie. Whatever. I’m T. Nice to meet you.”

Her face curled up into a hideous snarl and she reached behind her, to the countertop, for a ten-inch chef’s knife.

“Call me Sophie!” she yelled before charging at me.

“Christ!” I exclaimed. I lunged across the hallway for the relative safety of Stephen’s bathroom. I slammed the door and heard Sophie swing the knife at it. The heavy chef’s knife caused a dull thud when she slammed it into the door the first time. The second time, the tip poked through the door by just a centimeter.

“She’s trying to fucking kill me!” I shrieked.

I heard Stephen trying to calm down Sophie. I slid down the door somewhat, hoping to keep my head away from where Sophie intended to next attack the door. The commotion on the other side of the doorway died down. I feared that I would do the same.

“Come out, T,” I heard Sophie say in her throaty Bavarian voice as she pulled the knife from the door. “I’ll play nice.”

I snorted in disbelief, but slowly opened the door. I peered from behind the small opening I had made. Sophie leaned in and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Come and get beer,” she said as an invitation.

Over the next two years, it was revealed that Sophie was a wildly, insanely funny presence. A not-so-small group of Dublin House regulars admitted a bit of jealousy toward Stephen because of Sophie. Slowly, I joined that group.

~~~

Sophie had made her way through the bar as I finished ruminating. She wore oversized, 1970’s era sunglasses and carried a purse that had Cookie Monster’s face in plush blue fur on the side.

“T?” she asked.

“Sophie,” I said quietly. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said before greeting me with a kiss on both cheeks.

“I, uh, didn’t realize that you were coming back,” I said. Truth was, I could not explain why she would want to come back. What was left for her here, now that Stephen was gone?

“I wanted to say my final goodbyes,” she explained, “and besides, I love this place.”

She had a guilty smile on her face as she told the last part.

“You love the bar?” I asked incredulously. I had sucked down far too many pints of ale before Sophie had arrived.

“No,” she laughed, playfully slapping me, “this town.”

“So how long are you going to be in town?” I asked.

“Two weeks.”

“That’s good. That’s good,” I said, before realizing that Sophie had been standing for a bit. “Here, come on,” I said as I picked up a barstool and swung it over for her, “sit down.”

We had a few more pints and a good deal of wisecracks before the questions came. I was wondering when she would get the nerve to ask me.

“So,” she said, taking a deep breath, “when was the last time you saw Stephen?”

I nodded silently and tapped my lighter against the bar for a second. I fished in my shirt pocket for a cigarette, and began talking as I lit it.

“Well, he died on Saturday,” I said, “and I had last seen Stephen… I guess, well, Friday night immediately before that. We chatted for a bit. Then, that Wednesday before that, I had run into him. He and I talked longer then.”

“How was he when you saw him on Friday?”

I didn’t want to tell her the truth. My final memory of Stephen was him standing at the bar, drunk off of his ass, rocking back and forth on his heels. “He was … fine. Pretty mellow, I guess.”

She didn’t pick up on the veiled reference to Stephen being inebriated, and continued on with her line of thought.

“He had called me before then. He wanted me to come to visit him for his birthday,” she said.

I nodded. I had just recently taken Stephen’s birthday out of my handheld computer. It didn’t seem necessary to be in there, to keep reminding me.

“I didn’t think I was going to go,” she continued, “the airfare was too high, and I didn’t think I was going to be able to get a cheap rate in time for his birthday.”

She didn’t. Stephen died the day after his birthday. “I never understood why he needed to do that stuff,” she said. “He was always so extreme. When he did the diet thing, he had to do it to the point where….”

“Yeah,” I said, “the raw diet.” Stephen had lost a lot of weight after high school by first becoming a vegan, then by refusing to eat anything that was cooked.

“And then this,” she said. “I never needed this. With the pills. The other stuff. I mean, I did pot, but even that….”

I nodded without looking up at her. I hated revisiting this issue, and it seemed like someone felt compelled to do so every few weeks with me. I fished out another cigarette. The first one had smoked itself, I mused. The cigarettes were smoking themselves. Who was that? Tom Waits? That’s right. “The piano is drinking, not me.”

“Who gave it to him?” Sophie asked.

Ah yes, the mystery question. The one no one has the balls to ask in the open.

“I’m not sure, yet,” I answered her, thinking of someone, “but I have a pretty good fucking idea.”

I finished the last half of my ale in a single swig and looked over at Sophie. She was drinking water, using both hands to hold the pint glass.

“What are you up to today?” I asked.

~~~

We walked down Broad Street, past the upscale trinket shop and the two hipster clothing stores – Funk & Standard and Nirvana, both with windows full of mesh trucker caps and camouflage tank tops – and ended up at Zebu, an Italian bakery and café. Sophie grabbed a cup of coffee. I got an espresso. My eyes fell dry and swollen from my afternoon at the bar. I sank into the wrought iron chair outside the café. Sophie made her way past a few obese, middle-aged women and slid into her chair. I smiled as a few pedestrians stopped to take second glances at Sophie’s bright red hair.

“Oona,” I smiled, drawing out the vowels in her given name.

“You should know better than that,” she said, waggling her finger at me.

“They’ve only got plastic knives here.”

She laughed. It was pleasant, her Teutonic accent.

“So what was he like?” she asked, “You know, towards the end.”

“Hmm,” I grunted, composing my thoughts. In the distance, Red Bank’s fire companies began the traditional, evening call-and-answer of fire klaxons. It was how each fire company along the river let the others know that they were all staffed. It had gone on for as long as I could remember. It distracted me.

“So how are you getting around?” I asked.

“Wormold is picking me up at the Dublin House at seven.”

“Good. Good. If you need a lift or anything while you’re here, let me know. In fact, let me get your email address,” I said, taking out my PDA.

She gave me her email address and the number for the house at which she was staying next week.

“I have,” I said slowly, “pictures I should send to you.”

“Okay.”

“There’s one – I think Wormold took it – I think you’ll really like it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s this washed out pic of Stephen. He has this look… it’s like a blank slate-“

“With his eyebrow raised?” Sophie asked, bringing her right thumb and forefinger above her eyebrow.

“Yeah, like that.”

“Stephen hated that picture!” Sophie was laughing.

I felt my jaw drop. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope.”

“That was one of his best pictures!”

“He hated it.”

I snorted. Wormold and I had spent hours going through pictures of Stephen for the wake and the fundraiser for Stephen’s family. Wormold was another photo junkie, nearly a pro, and his shots of Stephen reminded me of Annie Liebowitz’s work.

“Well, we liked it,” I said. “We used it for the memorial.”

“How did that go?”

“Good, good. We, uh… well, we paid for the costs of his burial.”

“His mom didn’t pay for it,” Sophie said flatly. She seemed suspicious.

“I don’t think so,” I said, although I didn’t really know. Truthfully, someone could have just lined their pockets with the money. I didn’t care. I made it tax free. I did my part. Beyond that, it was all details.

“You know, he told me,” I began, “that you came back last New Years for him.”

“Yeah,” she said. “It was good.”

“Good.” I wasn’t there. I was up in Boston, chasing, hopelessly, after a girl I realized that I didn’t even want. “It meant something to him.”

“Oh,” she said dismissively.

“Sophie, it must have. He wouldn’t have mentioned it to me otherwise. I’m ancillary. You know. I’m, uh, ancillary to this crowd.”

I am no Prince Hamlet. A mere attendant lord…. I shot back the espresso in a single gulp. I looked forward to the caffeine coursing through me. It was ten before seven. We needed to make our way back to the Dublin House.

Sophie was tearing up. She slipped on her oversized sunglasses, even though it was too dark for them. I reached out for the sunglasses.

“Ever see ‘Broadway Danny Rose’?”

She shook her head to say no and handed me the sunglasses.

“You look like Mia Farrow in those. Reminded me of that,” I said.

I put on the sunglasses and aped like Bono did during his “Achtung Baby” years. Sophie laughed and began to rummage through her purse. I started to take off the sunglasses.

“No,” she said, “You wear them.”

Sophie took out a camera and snapped a shot of me. Another shot of TPB, playing the fool. I gave back the sunglasses to her and we got up.

Sophie and I walked down Broad Street. At Funk and Standard, we ran into Kara and Kimberly, two locals from the Dublin House. Barflies, really. They were straddling two 1950’s era “Beachcomber” bicycles.

They chatted a bit with us. Kara and Kimberly knew Sophie from the days when she dated Stephen. Kara mentioned one of Stephen’s girlfriends, one he had dated after Sophie returned to Germany. Sophie snarled at her, but with a joking tone. I darted out of arm’s reach, just to be safe.

Sophie convinced Kimberly to lend her the beachcomber Kimberly was straddling. She took off and we watched Sophie dart between the cars making their way down Broad Street. I turned back to Kimberly and Kara and talked to them for a bit.

“That was nice,” I said, “bringing up Amber like that.”

“I didn’t think she would remember,’ Kara replied.

I shot her a disbelieving look.

“Well, whatever, T.” Kara replied. She thought I was boring. A stiff. I didn’t care.

Sophie came charging back, riding against traffic. She stomped on the footbrake of the bicycle and skidded to a stop. She had a big smile on her face and her hair was wild from the wind.

We continued walking back to the Dublin House. Sophie explained that it was terribly common for people to ride bicycles in Germany and the Netherlands. They had only recently passed helmet laws, she explained. I shrugged.

I brought Sophie back to Wormold, reasonably close to on time.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked me.

“What?” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”

“No, dipshit,” he replied. “Out. What are you doing out?” He grabbed the neck of my tee shirt in his fingers. “In this, no less….”

“I needed an afternoon off,” I explained.

Wormold shrugged. “Whatever, dude. You gonna be out later?”

“Yeah. You know. The usual.” I replied. I aimlessly pointed at the walls of the Dublin House.

Later that night, after I made it home from too much drinking at the Dublin House, I went to bed. At around four in the morning, I woke with a start.

My stereo, which normally played Bach and Chopin while I slept, was off. I looked over to my alarm clocks. I had two beside my bed. Both were dark. I rolled onto my back and tried to stare into the dark of the ceiling. I tried to see if my watch’s second hand was moving, but it wasn’t covered in radium, like the minute and hour hands. I tried to recall what awoke me. I didn’t see lightning from my windows. All I heard was the sound of crickets outside. No rain. Lying there, I suddenly had the vision of an electromagnetic pulse weapon going off, something I had read about in a magazine somewhere. The pulse weapon would kill all electronics. For good. All my typed-out memories would be gone. All music I loved would be inaccessible.

I began to feel like I was suffocating. I puffed and wheezed, trying to calm down. I couldn’t breathe. I gave up. I rolled over and reached down, down past the birch wood of my bed frame. I had left my jeans beside my bed. I fumbled in my pocket until I found my lighter. I flicked over the Zippo’s silver cover and lit it.

I got up from my bed and walked into my bathroom, still holding the lit lighter. I set it down on the counter and poured a glass of water. I looked up. Even in the Zippo’s dim light, my reflection looked like shit. I peered closely at my wristwatch, and could barely make out the second hand of my watch, ticking past as it should.

I walked from my bathroom up into the office I had made in the attic. I put the Zippo down on my desk, and rummaged through the drawers until I found my old camping lamp. I twisted the base of the lamp, and room was illuminated. Good. Batteries are still good. I leaned over and blew out the Zippo.

The air was still and I felt a slight shake. I had stopped hyperventilating. I rummaged through the drawers again, and turned up an old battery powered radio, and switched it on. An AM radio broadcaster spoke of a coming storm, a hurricane just days away. I sighed and picked up a legal pad. It was left on my desk, next to my keyboard and a loose pile of photographs. As the batteries in my lamp waned, I scribbled away, racing dawn.

Time Travel

Wish you'd known me when I was alive, I was a funny feller
The crowd would hoot and holler for more
I wore a drunk's red nose for applause
Oh yes I was a comical priest
"with a joke for the flock and a hand up your fleece"
Drooling the drink and the lipstick and greasepaint
Down the cardboard front of my dirty dog-collar

- Elvis Costello, "God's Comic," from Spike (1989)

If you stare long enough into a pint of ale, you can travel through time. It works only in one direction, though, and you are forever traveling back, back, back. I thought of this last night, sitting in the Dublin House. I had washed back the last bit of dinner with the dregs of my Bass when Harry, one of the bartenders, came over with another. I hadn’t even asked for it. I smiled all the same, though because Harry knew I would have asked for it.

We were trading stories of old girlfriends – Harry’s had been giving him grief, lately – when we got on the topic of high school. Harry and I went to the same high school, although he graduated a few years before me. Christian Brothers Academy, where we attended high school, was run by monks of the De La Salle Order of Christian Brothers. Back then, the main thing we fixated on about Christian Brothers Academy was that it was an all boys school. We never noticed the fact that the way we were taught, and the way we were encouraged to build a community, changed us, dramatically.

“’You damn CBA guys,’” Harry said in a falsetto imitation of his girlfriend, “’you’re all fuckin’ alike.’”

I laughed. I had heard the complaint myself. More than one ex-girlfriend, and many of the women I know now, have uttered the same or similar complaint. Sasha, one of my dear friends, once pulled me aside while frustrated with her experiences of dating a classmate of mine and asked “what the hell is it about you guys? You seem to be drawn to each other. Put two CBA guys at a Giants game, and I guarantee they’ll be standing next to each other by the end of the first half, heckling the coach.”

I asked Harry what his girlfriend meant by us being all alike after relating Sasha’s complaint. He went back into his screechy falsetto.

“Know it alls. That’s all you guys are.”

We laughed.

“So I asked her,” he continued, this time in his normal voice, “So you’re saying I know it all, or do you mean I am a know-it-all.” He paused for a second for his punch line. “She thought for a minute and then went, ‘God damn it, there you fucking go. You see what I mean?!’”

We laughed again. High school had provided us with a certain linguistic flexibility that led to the warping of our senses of humor – or reality. One of the two.

Harry went off to serve drinks at the other end of the bar. I went back to staring at my drink, thinking on high school. Thinking about my life now. The one seemed to have no connection to the other.

“The thing is,” Harry said after returning from the other end of the bar, “we do tend to stick together. You notice that?”

“Hmm?” I asked. I had been daydreaming.

“We stick together. You get two guys at this bar that have gone to CBA, and they will tend to gravitate toward one another. Fifteen minutes from that point and they’ll be joking and teasing each other like they’ve been friends for life.”

“Well, what do you expect. Look at what they, you know, what they—“

“What they taught us?”

“Yes!” I slapped my hand on the bar for emphasis. I was on my fourth Bass. “Brotherhood and all that craziness.”

“Sad thing is, I can still remember the school prayer. It’s like Pavlov or something,” Harry replied.

"It became part of us - school, that is," I thought out loud. "That's why we gravitated to each other."

“I remember,” I explained, “I remember. Junior year. I was in Mr. C’s physics class.”

“I remember him. Real fat.”

“Yeah… smelt horrible. Body odor like no one’s business.”

Harry laughed in mock horror.

“Yeah, anyway,” I continued, “he was trying to teach us wave motion.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know,” I said, trying to explain, “Oscillations of a medium… at a certain rate. Another wave can cancel the effects of a wave, sometimes can, you know, magnify it. And, anyway, he wants to demonstrate it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So he gets out this slinky and takes us into the hallway. The slinky must be ten feet long. Thing’s damn huge! And we’re sitting there on that shitty-ass seventies era tile, with Carl Lycergia on one end and me on the other, and we’re doing waves and canceling waves and whatnot.”

“I can see,” Harry said as he poured himself a pint of Guinness, “that this is not going to end well.”

I pointed to Harry in affirmation, “and right you would be, sir. Here’s why. We’re sitting there, shaking the ol’ slinky, and Ms. L walks by. Remember her? She was like the proto-feminist English teacher. Obsessed over the Wife of Bath from Chaucer?” I don’t wait for Harry to answer. I just continue. “Anyway, she sees Carl and I there with the slinky, and she’s like ‘That’s one big slinky, boys.’”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Oh… no….”

“Now, me, you know I can’t resist this. Hell, I’m not even thinking at this point. So I turn to her, and I say, ‘well, that’s what all the girls say, ma’am.’”

Harry nearly snorted the head off of his Guinness. “So what did they do to you for that?”

“Oh nothing, nothing” I answered waiving my hand away dismissively, “Mr. C stifled his laugh and sent me to Brother Louis’ office. Brother Louis heard what I had said, stifled a laugh, and gave me a week’s detention and told me to stop making ‘phallus allusions.’ I mean, come on, who wouldn’t have said something?!”

Harry laughed and went back to other customers on the other side of the bar. I went back to staring into my ale. It had taken me far enough back for the day. I rummaged through my messenger bag until I found my book and my smokes, propped my feet up on a nearby empty chair, and settled in with other stories from other lives.

As Big As Your Fist (A Love Story)

- My Grandfather, JQC, and his Seabee Unit, Guadalcanal, 1945.

I dreamt of Charles Bronson the other night. I was standing in a coffee shop in New York by where I used to clerk for an entertainment law firm, and I was speaking with his daughter. She was telling me how she was frustrated with him because he kept sneaking off, in his old age, and buying sweets. I nodded and offered up my commiseration, but secretly sympathized with the old man. I slept with the radio on that night, and must have overheard reports of Bronson’s death in my sleep. It happens sometimes.

The woman continued complaining as we ordered our espressos, and I began to realize I was listening to the old complaints of my mother, frustrated with how her father would disappear in his old age, sometimes leaving in the middle of the night to drive from New Jersey to Florida or Maine. He went where his fancy directed him.

Grandpa was a creature of another time, and had absolutely no place in the post-Vietnam, post-patriotic day and age. He, his older brother, and his older sister, grew up on the shores of Massachusetts and Maine. Theirs was a fishing family, but their father rejected that, and moved inland to farm and operate a small general store. My grandfather was a teenager then, and used that as an opportunity to find his first job.

- TPB, Senior, Bletchley Park, England, 1940.

He was a bootlegger. My father’s father left a respectable life as a professor of mathematics in Kracow in order to fight World War II. He, a polyglot, speaking Russian, Polish, German, and English, worked in Polish Liberation, smuggling information by boat to England and back to Poland. Eventually, he had nothing to go back to, and so he immigrated to the United States, joined the Eighth Army Air Force, and became a bombardier. His body was filled with shrapnel by the end of the war and he died soon after because of it. My mother’s father, on the other hand, left a life of smuggling barrels of whiskey in old deuce-and-a-half trucks from Canada, across Northern Vermont, and into Boston or holds full of gin from Nova Scotia into the old Gloucester harbor. He enlisted with the Navy. Because of his experience with boat and truck engines, along with his less “savory” experience, the Navy placed my mother’s father in the Seabees, a unit of demolition experts, engineers, and construction workers famed for building airbases and sabotaging Japanese shipyards under the most hostile of conditions. Their motto was “Can Do,” which always begged the question “what can they do.” The answer was “anything.” They sent him off to the Pacific, where he ended up on Guadalcanal.

- JQC, Somewhere in the Solomon Islands, 1945.

One of the things clear from the few pictures we have of “Grandpa” (not having known my father’s father, my mother’s took on the singular role of being grandpa) in the South Pacific was that the Navy did little to control my grandpa’s wild streak.

- Going Native, Guadalcanal, 1945.

The Seabees responsible for building the airbase on Guadalcanal were the prime targets for the Japanese that attempted to retake the island by air and amphibious assault. It wasn’t until after my grandpa’s death that I even knew he took photographs there.

All I can imagine is that Grandpa’s wild streak was his salvation. He had channeled his less-than-legal background into something that could keep him alive. Others weren’t so cagey.

- The Burial of JQC's Commanding Officer, Guadalcanal, 1945.

When he came back from the war, Grandpa joined up with the Gloucester fleet. He continued in the tradition of the Seabees, however, and became a specialist in diesel engine repair under less than hospitable conditions. When the trawling rigs or cod boats broke down in the middle of the North Atlantic, my grandfather would pile his gear into a sturdy lobster boat he had purchased from a then-unknown clothier named Leon L. Bean, and sail out to the disabled ship. He would be lifted from his ship along a wire that ran to the other ship, where he would fix their engine, and then would be lifted back for his own arduous sail into port.

A few years after his children left home for college, my grandfather returned to his first profession, this time legitimately. He joined a trucking company, where he fixed the diesel engines of semi rigs and occasionally ran loads of pecans and orange juice up from the south or lumber down from Maine. He loved the road, much like I do now, and often volunteered for the long trips that ran up from the orange farms of Florida to the Canadian Maritimes.

In his later years, my grandfather was fond of sitting down at a table over a deck of cards. The cards were props to him, merely a means to keep someone in place so that he could tell stories. He started with my as soon as he could. His big mechanic’s hands were nimble, despite their scars and calluses, and he began with basic lessons in poker.

“I want you to listen to the cards as I deal them, Johnny,” he would say in his gravelly voice.

“Grandpa, my name’s T, not Johnny.” He often mixed up names, sometimes calling me by his son’s name, sometimes calling my mother by his wife’s name.

“Hush now.” His hands controlled the cards so that they fluidly slipped into place as he shuffled. He began dealing to me, neatly slapping the cards before me on the kitchen table with a sharp double-tick as he dealt. “Hear it?”

I would smile, naively enjoying the game, “Grandpa, that’s the double-tick,” using the words he had taught me. “You’re dealing from the bottom!” I would giggle, and he would gather up the cards and show me how blackjack cheats used mirrors to beat the system.

Eventually my mother or father would catch on.

“What are you teaching him?”

“Gin Rummy,” he would say.

“Marked cards!” I would exclaim.

“Dad,” my mother would say, “you can’t teach him how to cheat.”

“I’m teaching him how others cheat. So he knows. He can’t be a fool in cards!”

“He’s seven, dad.”

My grandfather looked at me through his thick bifocals, rubbed his arms, two hairy, sinewy blocks of muscle made distinctive by the Seabees and U.S. Navy emblems tattooed on the forearms.

“All right, kid, our game’s been busted,” he said, “let’s go get a custard.”

A custard, in his old New England vernacular, was a soft ice cream. He and I would pile into his monstrously big Cadillac and drive out to the beachside ice cream stands near the Sandy Hook lighthouse. “A custard,” really, was an excuse for him. My grandfather was a lifelong smoker. My mother abhorred smoking. Getting out of the house meant that, at some point, he could sneak a Lucky Strike.

We’d sit on the chrome bumper of his Cadillac and look out at the ships leaving the nearby Earle Naval Weapons Station. The Naval Weapons Station was – and is – a giant supply depot, one that refitted all of the destroyers, frigates, and – some said, in hushed tones – ballistic missile submarines in the Atlantic Fleet. It began at one side of the county, thirty miles inland, and then traversed Monmouth County by way of a railroad that stretched to the other side of the county, and then proceeded over a concrete dock at least a half mile out into the ocean. When shipments of armament (“always conventional,” claimed the Commandant of the Naval Weapons Station) passed over the rails, the marines would establish heavily fortified perimeters around the railroad track and patrolled the road that ran along it in armored personnel carriers. A few years later, I would nearly get arrested for evacuating during a hurricane along that road.

“When I was with the fleet, this was, ah, up in Gloucester, he said, pointing north with a crooked, cracked finger, “we got this call in the middle of a horrible storm.”

Even by seven, I knew this story by heart. “It was Christmas Eve, right, Grandpa?”

“Ayuh, Christmas Eve. Goddamn blizzard. Cold as a witch’s tit.”

I settled into licking my ice cream cone, listening to his rumbling voice. Our older cousins referred to my grandfather and his older brother, a supermarket magnate, as “the Growler twins,” due to the way their voices rumbled and rolled during their frequent arguments over politics.

- JQC and JCC, Medfield, MA (1981).

“And, so, I said goodnight to your grandmother, God rest her soul, and drove out to my boat in Gloucester. An hour in that storm, and you’d want to die,” he said before sneaking a cigarette out of his pants pocket. “we sail out north, up past Portsmouth and Kennebunk.” Portsmouth, New Hampshire and Kennebunk were once great lobster towns, now more or less home to outlet malls and antique shops.

“There were waves…” I began, continuing his story for him.

“That’s right. Waves like houses. Breaking down over the deck. The Kathleen Anne was a good boat, though, and she took them like they were nothing. We get out there and it’s a bunch of goddamn Portuguese yahoos from Fall River.”

We were finished with the ice cream, so my grandfather grabbed me by the hand and we walked along the beach, up to Battery Potter, an old World War One era fort built on Sandy Hook. Other times, when he told me this story, we wandered amongst the fishing boats of Highlands. He missed that life, I think. It kept him scared, and that kept him from gin. It kept him from thinking of how he never wanted to outlive his wife.

“Anyway, my boys winched me up, and I lined across to the Portuguese ship.” He said it like it was nothing, but the idea of riding a quarter-inch wire from one ship to another in the middle of a North Atlantic storm still strikes me as insane.

“I get into their engine, and it’s all busted to hell. So, I ride back to my ship, bundle up the necessary parts to put the cams in order, and line it back.” He laughed. “By then, not only were the boys on the Portuguese boat seasick, even my crew was loosing their Christmas feasts.”

“Why did you go out on Christmas Eve, anyway, Grandpa?”

“Didn’t matter what day it was. If the boats were in trouble, someone had to go. That was the way it was.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to make sense of why he couldn’t refuse to go out during the holidays, “but couldn’t you send out the Coast Guard?”

“The Coasties were nothing more than pussies in white polyester,” he retorted. Pride, as with any fishing story, factored heavily into my grandfather’s tales of the sea. “Not even real navy,” he continued. “So I fix up the diesel and get their screws turning. It’s coming on two o’clock in the morning. Their captain agreed to pay us through the account, but also swore – ‘on his blood!’ He said – to give us something else for making it out there in the storm.”

At the battery’s great iron doors, we would turn around and walk back to my grandfather’s Cadillac. “Did he stiff you, grandpa?” I asked.

“Nope. The little guy shows up at my door on New Years Eve,” he said, amused at the memory. It was there in his eyes, in the way they twinkled at the thought. “with two fifty pound bags of scallops…. Little bastard had kept on harvesting even after I jury-rigged his boat. I put one bag down in the ice box,” the term he used for the deep freezer he kept fish in down in his basement, “and opened up the other one.”

I giggled as he got to this part in the story. It was my favorite part, just because he grew so excited as he told it.

“In this bag, I pull out scallops,” and he thrust his hand out before me, for demonstration, as he spoke, “as big as my fist!” His hand was huge to me.

“As big as your fist.” It became a mantra in my household. Whenever someone repeated a story, to this day, one family member or another would thrust out a hand and shout “As big as your fist!” in an approximation of my grandfather’s gravelly voice.

One time, after telling the story over dinner, my grandfather finished and sat back, sated with his meal and his opportunity to tell stories. My father suddenly turned to me – I think I might have been fourteen at the time – and asked “What’s the moral here?”

“The moral?” I replied.

“Yes, what’s the meaning to this story?”

I didn’t get a chance to answer. “Moral!” My grandfather exclaimed. “There’s no goddamn moral! It’s a story.”

My father looked at him, “But Quinn,” he asked, in his steady, prosecutor’s voice, “there’s always a moral. There has to be an answer.”

My grandfather scratched at the white stubble on his cheeks, and smiled, “Ayuh? Well, what was the moral of the story I told you about my time in the Philippines, when the boys in the unit went down to the red light district of Manila and….”

“Okay, that’s enough stories,” my mother said, cutting him off.

“No, no,” I argued, “this one sounds good.”

“No,” my grandfather conceded, “that’s enough stories. Next time.” Still, he was chuckling.

That summer, my parents let me go down to visit my grandfather in his new home, just north of the Florida Keys. He had spent sixty years in the snow and ice of New England and the Canadian Maritimes, and he had no interest in spending another winter there. He bought an old Airstream trailer home, a Boston Whaler, and traded his Cadillac in for a cheap, beaten-up station wagon. In truth, the drinking was starting to get to him. His eyes, always watery, were cloudy and he constantly seemed tired.

We sat out on the Boston Whaler most nights, watching the sun set over the Gulf of Mexico. He sat aft, reading a naval history I had brought down for him, and I reclined up on the bowsprit of the aluminum motorboat, reading my summer reading or a beaten-up copy of whatever Steinbeck novel I could find. Traditionally, this lasted for no more than an hour or so before we both dozed off and the boat drifted back to shore.

The naval history I bought for him, The Cruel Sea, was something I had read before giving to him. It told the story of the British Corvettes, the small boats they used to hunt German submarines in the Atlantic. I remember, when I first read it, that it was the first book that made me think of what my grandfather had done during the war. For years I had known the history of my father’s father. He was a hero of that side of the family, the holder of multiple medals of honor of some sort, and a member of a B-14 crew profiled by National Geographic. I knew him better from the National Geographic article than from my father’s stories. He died when my father was so young that, in truth, my father learned more from the National Geographic than from his own childhood. But my grandfather, my mother’s father, had never told the stories of Guadalcanal to me.

“Where were you?” I asked my grandfather, who stood on the shore as I pushed the Boston Whaler off of the beach and into water deep enough for us to motor it back to its moorings.

“What’s that?”

“Where were you? During the war?”

He smiled. “You never asked about that story. Not before, anyway.”

“Well?”

- B-24's on Henderson Field, Guadalcanal, 1945.

“I was in the Pacific. I went from island to island. We built things. Blew up a few things too. Good work.”

“What did you build?”

“Well, there was this one island,” he said, “it was near Japan. We built an airfield there. Henderson Field.”

“Henderson Field,” I repeated. It sounded so bland, like it could have been built in the pastures of Monmouth County. It meant something, I knew, because he named it.

“Ever hear of Curtis LeMay?”

“General, right?”

“Ayuh. Ended up a pally of George Wallace, the shit. Still, he wanted Henderson Field so he could have Tokyo. We gave him Henderson Field,” he paused.

“Took a hell of a lot of boys to give him Henderson Field,” he said, possibly to himself. I had the Whaler back in the water, and my grandfather waded up to it and slowly pulled himself up to the deck. His back had been fused during surgery to repair slipped disks the year before. His years of punishing work were catching up to him.

- Guadalcanal, 1945.

“Anyway, we took that island, and the Japs tried to take it back, but we kept it. I think it’s just Polynesia now,” he said, huffing and puffing from climbing up the gunwale.

“Did you kill any of the Japs?”

“Ayuh, a few.”

“Are you upset about it?”

- Prisoners, Guadalcanal, 1945.

He scratched his head. His fingernails were stubby and dirty from working on the Whaler before we set sail after dinner.

“Not much. Would’ve killed me, I suppose.”

We didn’t say anything for a minute, so I turned the engine over and we puttered back to the moorings.

“I had a reason, you know,” he said.

I thought that he was afraid I was accusing him. “Oh, no, no, no. I understand.”

“No. No, you don’t. You’re too young,” he said as he fished out a Lucky Strike. “Thank God for that. But I had a reason. It’s like your father said, up at the restaurant, what was that place…”

“The Hofbrauhaus, Grandpa?”

“Ayuh. That’s the one. Good sausage, there. But, he said there had to be a moral. There’s no moral, but there’s a reason.”

“What was that?”

“A reason.”

“No,” I said, “I heard you. What was the reason?”

“It was war, boy. War. You don’t need a motive. It’s not one of your father’s cases, but you still needed a reason. We let a few go, too, you know.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Let ‘em sail back to their islands. Let ‘em pretend that the war was still going on, thirty years later. We had some boys, they would kill anything they saw. Jap. Native. Hell, I think they would have shot me if they didn’t know better. But they didn’t make sense. There was no reason.”

We were at the mooring, and I idled the engine and hopped up to the rotting wooden planks. I tied off the bow of the boat with a clove hitch on one of the pilings, then hopped back in the boat. I needed to drop down one of the inflatable bumpers before tying off the stern.

“You know, pretty place like this looks a lot like that island,” my grandfather said.

I stopped and looked at the beach, the palm trees, and my grandfather’s Airstream trailer hidden beneath a few of them.

“I wonder,” he said, “I wonder if a few of our boys stayed on those islands too, some of those that shot at anything. Still fighting the war, still killing anything that moves.”

I listened as I walked to the aft compartments and retrieved the bumper.

“Damn shame. Missed out on a lot of the fun on the island.” He was finished with his story. I watched as he flicked his cigarette into the water, winked at me, and then walked to the bow of the boat.

“Now let’s see what shit knot you tied here, boy scout.”

“Clove hitch, old man,” I said. We liked teasing each other.

“Tomorrow, you want to do a poker tournament up in Pinellas, or do you want to go to Epcot?”

“How’s your back?”

“Fine, Jimmy,”

“My name’s T, grandpa.”

“Whatever. It’s good enough. You want to go to Epcot again, don’t you?”

“I like the future stuff.”

“Don’t mind the pretty girls at the Sweden exhibit either, eh?”

“Whatever,” I shrugged, embarrassed. “Sure.”

“Whatever,” he said, mimicking me.

“It’s Norway, though,” I said.

“Oh, Norway, is it? Fine, fine. So, you want to go?”

“Sure.”

I tied off the stern of the boat, hopped off into the warm water, and helped him down. His arms, even then, were still the knotty, muscular beasts that I remembered as a child. I turned to walk toward the trailer, and he gave me a playful smack on the head.

“Get in, Gunga Din.”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“You’re not going to tell your mother about the poker tournament, are you?”

“I never told her you taught me how to count cards, did I?”

“No, I guess you didn’t.”

“Won eighty bucks off of the kids at lunch last year,” I said. I was exaggerating.

“Not bad. You ever learn how to double deal?”

“Not yet. I can’t get the pinky to flip quickly enough.”

“Maybe next summer,” he said, wheezing, “you come down and I’ll teach you.”

I never made it down next summer. Grandpa's drinking had caught up with him. My mother didn't want me to get into his car again. He disappeared on Thanksgiving Day, 1992. The Florida Highway Patrol called us in early December of that year. He had been drinking, and hit a bridge embankment. The accident put him in a coma that lasted until just before his death, in 1993.

My father and I went down to Florida to dispose of his possessions. We cleaned up his trailer, throwing out the old bottles of Beefeater and Jamesons. While he tried to figure out a way to deal with the old Airstream, I went down to the moorings. There was the old Boston Whaler. Although I didn't, I was very tempted to undo the hitches on the motorboat and just let her drift off into the current. Still, a man has to have a reason to do something.

who we are after dark

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

Pablo Neruda, Nothing But Death

---

I was sitting, lazily, in my car. I was parked behind the Dublin House, with my seat reclined back, the windows rolled down, and I was ambling towards flicking a cigarette ash out the window.

Julius was on the other end of my cell phone, and he and I talked about the last few months. Julian has been my best friend since we were fifteen. We went to the same Catholic high school, and wandered – confused, yet still cynical and aggressive – through its seventies-era beige hallways in our Dockers khakis, Doc Marten shoes, Polo shirts, and bad ties. After high school, he made his way through Lehigh University while I sleep-walked through Boston College. He became an engineer, and eventually settled out in Silicon Valley. I bounced from Boston to Washington, D.C., and then back to New Jersey along my way to becoming a lawyer. We havent’ talked for five months.

“Sorry I haven’t called,” he explained, “but after my identity theft, things have been a mess.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh God. What a fucking disaster it was. I was going somewhere – I think it was in San Francisco.

“You don’t go there often.”

“Well yeah. Or it could have been when we drove down to LA. Did I tell you about LA?”

I didn’t have a chance to answer. This has been our way. Rapid fire, often tangential story lines weave their way through our conversations, one story folding into another until we end exhausted.

“We drove down – my roommate and I – with these girls. Anyway this one girl, I always thought she was a bitch. She’s really pretty, so guys would come up to her and get shot down all the time. She and I started this conversation. We were talking about the mating habits of sharks and then my roommate and I went to go to the bathroom. I said to him there that she was really smart and he said that, yeah, she is.”

I flicked my cigarette out the window and considered lighting another one. I was supposed to meet Hugh at the Dublin House for a pint. “So anyway,” I said, “You were telling me about your identity theft.”

“Yeah, I lost my wallet somewhere. It was horrible. I had my rent check in there. I guess I was on my way to work, because I was going to mail my rent check, and I didn’t realize this, but my health insurance card had my social security number on it.”

“It did?”

“Yeah, it’s the client number for Blue Cross and Blue Shield. It’s really stupid.”

I fumbled for my wallet and pulled out my health insurance card. Oh shit!

“Plus,” he continued, “I had my driver’s license in there. So they had everything. They were using the account to make deposits, withdrawals. I didn’t have a license until last month. It was horrible. It was all I dealt with for the last five months.”

“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah, it was probably why I broke up with my girlfriend. It didn’t help my paranoia any. God,” he said after a pause, “she was a trip into the dark side. It was a walk through all of the D’s.”

“The D’s?”

“Yeah, depression, despair….”

“Drugs,” I suggested.

“Drugs?”

“Yeah, did she do drugs?”

“Oh yeah, I mean, besides pot, she would tell me that she hadn’t done coke in a couple of a years, and that she had done crank.”

As Julius talked, I thought of an old science fiction movie that referred to crushed-up caffeine pills as “Nazi Crank.” Why do they call it Nazi Crank, I wondered. Why not Stalinist Crank or Khmer Rouge Crank? I didn’t even know what it was. I never was intrigued by the substance scene. I started thinking of two attorneys I had run into at Red, another nightclub in town. One, a Californian, asked me if I knew where he could score “coke.” I told him I had no idea. His friend, an attorney that practiced in New Jersey, remarked “See, that’s the difference between East Coast and West Coast law.” He pointed at the Californian. “Whacked.” He pointed at us. “Normal.” I told him his definition of normal needed reconsideration and moved on.

“… so I told her that was, for a fairly smart girl, one of the stupidest things I have ever heard, and she said to me,” he began to use a screeching falsetto, “’who are you to tell me how to live my life and what the hell do you know….’” He sighed. “That was right toward the end.”

“Hmm, that’s surprising,” I said sarcastically.

“So, it didn’t help my paranoia any. But it’s good now. I have my identity back, and I’m starting to write again. I haven’t written in so long. My parents came up a couple of weeks back. We finally got a refrigerator.”

I didn’t ask him to explain that part of the story. He did anyway, and then continued on.

“But my parents got me a journal. I had filled up my old one and had to flip it over and write on the back pages.”

I grunted in acknowledgement and decided to get out of the car. I paced back and forth next to the car, listening to Julius tell the story. Hugh was probably waiting for me, I realized.

“But it’s good now. I have my identity back.”

“That’s good. Definitely. That’s good,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“So, listen. I’ve got to get going. I told Hugh I’d meet him at the Dub’.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Catch you later," I said, trying to sound optimistic. Julius sounded sad that I had to go.

“Sure. How’s he doing anyway?”

“Not bad. I think he’s going to go off to school again. Finally finish off that degree.”

“Nice. Well, that’s good," he replied. I don't know if either of us were listening.

“Yep.” I started to rock back and forth on my heels.

“So,” Julius said, slowly, “I guess I’ll get going. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Good. I look forward to it.”

I met up with Hugh at the wooden-slat covered back porch of the Dublin House. He was drinking a black and tan. I ordered a gin and tonic after talking with him for a few minutes. Looking around the bar, I realized that, other than Hugh, I didn’t recognize a soul there. It’s a goddamn fraternity party, I thought. Dumb-looking guys in golf shirts and backwards baseball caps talking to beach girls in tube tops and Capri pants.

“We’re not staying here long, are we?” I asked Hugh. I was cringing.

“No,” he said after looking around, “I definitely don’t think so.”

The waitress came by with my gin, and I took a sip.

“Have a game plan?” Hugh asked.

“Not really. Head east?” I said, thinking of the bars in Long Branch.

Hugh’s eyebrows rose at the thought. “That could be promising.”

“Indeed, it could be….”

I tapped my right index finger nervously on the green plastic table. I was feeling wired, but didn’t know why. Inside the bar, the cover band began a painful rendition of Train’s Drops of Jupiter, a song I didn’t even like when performed by them. I groaned.

“Oh god, let’s get out of here – quick.”

“I’ll chug this fast,” Hugh said. He grabbed his black and tan.

I shot back the majority of my gin and tonic and then let out a satisfied “ah.”

Hugh gives me a sharp look.

“You have a serious problem,” he said, nodding toward the now-empty gin glass.

“What? That it’s empty?”

He laughed, finished his beer, and we sat there for a second.

“It’s gin. It’s not like it’s whiskey or anything.”

The band launched into an off key attempt at the refrain to Drops of Jupiter. I closed my eyes and grimaced. Hugh shook his head.

“Let’s go,” I said and quickly got up from the table. Hugh grabbed his cell phone and cigarettes and we impatiently pushed our way out the gate to the porch.

We made our way through the back roads of Red Bank, Oceanport, and Eatontown in Hugh’s old Ford Bronco. After passing the horse track, we were in Long Branch. We wove past the teaching hospital and the Mexican barrio and parked in the lot behind The Mix Lounge and just to the right of The Celtic Cottage. The former is an upscale, trendy bar, typically packed with Guess and Armani clad men and women in their late twenties. The latter is a traditional Irish bar, generally filled with a rough crowd of blue-collar workers. We started out at The Mix Lounge.

It was crowded. Some guy brushed past us as we eased our way through the crowd to the bar. He was dressed in a tight black shirt, probably one of those half-spandex, half cotton button-down shirts that men wear to accentuate how toned they are. He struck a pose that was met with amusement and bewilderment by me, and then began to dance, ridiculously, with himself.

I realized we weren’t going to stay there long. After our first round of drinks, we slip into a booth along the wall, where we idly talked and watched the women pass.

“Care to play a game?” I asked Hugh as I considered a woman grinding at the front of the bar. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, based on the wrinkles that bordered her lips like parentheses. Her body jiggled grotesquely as she moved.

“What sort of game?”

“Count the divorcées.”

Hugh snorted. I counted four women that, based on their actions and ages, fit the parameter of “divorcée.” I was starting to get bored of the scene. As was often the case with lounges like this, the waitresses were the most attractive women there. Hugh muttered something about a waitress’ ass the next time she asked us if we want anything. She didn’t catch it over the loud house music, but I had to suppress my smile as I tried to order another gin and tonic. We finished that last round and decided to walk over to the Celtic Cottage.

“So, I spoke to Lorraine last night,” Hugh said as we tromped through the parking lot. He paused and pointed to a local convenience store. He needed to pick up cigarettes. I nodded, and we redirected without losing the thread of conversation.

“And?” I asked.

“I’m no longer a father.”

Hugh had dated Lorraine since before I had returned to New Jersey from law school. She had a child from a previous relationship, and Hugh took on the child, Kevin, as his own during the relationship. Even after Hugh and Lorraine broke up, last winter, he watched Kevin when Lorraine wanted to go out, and would constantly take him to the park or for long walks through the town.

“What do you mean?”

We paused the story as we entered the convenience store.

“Well,” he said as we left the convenience store and headed back toward the Celtic Cottage, “I told her that I had re-enrolled at Rutgers, and that I wouldn’t be around as often as I used to be.”

He stopped telling the story as we walked into the bar. We ordered drinks. Another gin and tonic for me. Another black and tan for Hugh. We were creatures of habit. After we paid, we sat down at one of the many wooden tables that ring the bar.

We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. We just looked off into space, listening to the music. Ari, a local DJ and friend of ours (well, friend of Hugh’s brother, Cal, and I), stopped by our table. She asked me to help her out with a traffic ticket, and I agreed to call the prosecutor. I thought about how I’ll be able to work out the plea bargain through a memory of statutes that had been fogged by too much gin. My eyes wandered to the images on the Golden Tee video game near the back door to the bar.

“Three years of my life,” Hugh said. My eyes shifted back toward him.

“I’ve never had a part of my life so neatly sealed off and packaged like that,” he continued.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I went over to Lorraine’s, and I told her that my schedule was going to change because, on top of work, I was going back to school.”

“Right,” I answered, “You told me a part of that before.”

“Right,” he said, before taking a long drag on his cigarette. He exhaled slowly, aiming the smoke up toward the yellowed ceiling panels and eighties-era recessed lights. “Well, she said that if I couldn’t be around to visit Kevin every week, then I couldn’t be a father to him.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Well. Yeah,” Hugh said, debating with himself, “but I had thought the same thing myself. I knew it was going to be tough taking care of him forever.”

I didn’t remind Hugh of the fact that, once, last year, I warned him to stay away from Kevin. I didn’t bring up the fact that, rather coldly, I told him that getting involved with a child is nothing more than legal liability. Zoya overheard it, at the time. She told me later she thought it was the coldest thing she had ever heard someone say. I didn’t tell her of the things I had said at work to people by that time. I didn’t tell her that I once referred to child custody as nothing more than a glorified “cost-benefit analysis.”

“So how are you going to break it to Kevin?” I asked instead. “Are you going to slowly phase yourself out, so you become like a benevolent uncle or something?”

That would be best for the kid, I thought. Psychologically, at least he’d know he had someone on which he could depend.

“Well, that’s what I’d thought I would do. I started telling Lorraine that, you know, I’d come by and take him out. You know, for a couple of weeks. Three or four or so. And I’d break it to him and give him time to talk about it. Inasmuch as a three-and-a-half year old can get his mind around these things.”

“And?”

“Well, as I’m telling her this, she looks at her watch.”

At first, I didn’t get it. Then, I stopped, and visualized the scene. Hugh was standing there. He was speaking to Lorraine, probably on the porch of her Red Bank brownstone. He was feeling the tension and the sadness of the moment, and as he was talking, she slowly let out a little yawn… and then dramatically looked at her watch. You’re wasting my time, she told him with that movement. I have the power to tell you I don’t need to listen to you.

“That bitch,” I said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“So what did she say?”

“She said ‘well, I don’t have to be anywhere for the next twenty minutes, why don’t you buy him a cookie and do it now?’” He paused and sighed. Hugh looked down at his drink and swirled the beer back and forth in the pint glass.

“Christ,” I said, still whispering. “Twenty minutes.”

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice gaining force as he continued the sentence, “so I took Kevin down to Zebu and tried to explain it to him there. Bought him a gelato. Talked to him about Skelator.”

I didn’t want to picture that scene, but I did anyway. “And did he understand?”

“He’s three-and-a-half.”

“Hmm. Point taken.”

“So then Lorraine took him off to her sister’s and that was that.”

That was that. It wasn’t that simple, though.

“So now what?” I asked him.

“I don’t know. I just feel like there… well, that everything I was for three years is gone to me.”

“No, that’s not true,” I explained. I started giving Hugh examples of the good things he had in him that continued on beyond his relationship to Kevin. At the same time, I thought of the times I told clients how their relationship with their children shouldn’t change much after their divorces. What a laughable proposition, I thought.

“You know,” Hugh said. “Did I tell you that I was there when Kevin was baptized?”

“No.”

“Oh my god,” he said, stretching his back and smiling as he spoke. “What a zoo. When I started dating her, Kevin was just a few months old. She asked me if I would be willing to go up with her when he was baptized. So, I agree.”

“Oh god. Were the heavens aflame? Was there sulfur? Brimstone, perhaps?” I joke.

“Ha, ha, asshole. No, she said she needed someone to come up, and Kevin’s father wasn’t around…. Actually, it was pretty funny. Lorraine’s family hadn’t met me yet. So, there I am, on the dias with all of the other fathers, you know, I mean, the real fathers, and her family’s over there, glaring at me. Giving me the evil eye.” He drew out the last sentence, enjoying how it rolled off his tongue.

“Nice.”

“Yeah, and, well, there I was. I’m there for Kevin, and it’s his baptism. And I remember thinking, ‘what the hell am I doing up here?’”

I was thinking of court. I was thinking of how I argued that custody should be divided one way or another. I didn’t like the mental image.

“And what did it?” I asked. “I mean, what justified it for you? Being up there?”

We pause to take swigs from our drinks. A waitress came by and told us it was last call. Hugh ordered us another round before I could demur. I knew I wasn’t driving home at the end of the night.

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think it was a divine revelation or anything. I don’t know if was something that I thought was a particularly… a particularly…. I don’t know.” Hugh searched for words.

“I mean,” he continued, “I guess I thought it seemed like the right thing to do. To stand there. And now I can’t stand there anymore.”

“No,” I said, thinking of what Hugh hoped to do by going back to school, “No you can’t.”

It wasn’t Hugh’s burden in the first place, I thought. He stepped in for the man who failed to do his duty. He was not remiss for what he had done. Still, I thought, it will take him time to believe that. He was going to have guilt, for something over which he had no damn control.

“And so that means three years of who I am is gone,” Hugh said.

“Not at all. It’s not at all like that. It’s not like closure. Closure,” I said, thinking of a statement made by James Ellroy, “is nothing more than a concept for self-help books and daytime television. You’ll carry this with you… probably all your life.”

I took a sip of gin from the glass recently given to me by the waitress. The bar was starting to empty out.

“And, odds are, so will Kevin. You don’t think he’ll remember what you did for him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Three-and-a-half or no, the kid’s going to remember. He’s going to remember that he had this person who took him to Riverside Park and all of that shit. That gave him He-man toys and played with him.”

Besides, I thought but didn’t say, it was about time Hugh had a life back to live as a young man, not as a father. I wondered about that. Was I missing the point of what Hugh had done? Why didn’t I feel those same longings? Was it work? I shook my head. Such musings, I thought, were best left to sober times – or to never be thought at all.

“Come on. They’re closing up this shithole,” I said. “Let’s head back to town.”

Hugh let out a sigh. “Yeah. Let’s get it on the road.”

The drive back to Red Bank was fairly quiet. We had the windows down, and I had eased my seat back and shut my eyes. We were relaxing in the cool air that marks the end of a summer that I have grown to hate. A summer that could not end any sooner. Too much loss has overtaken us this summer, with friends, relationships, and goals swallowed up in the fetid humidity of July and August.

smoke break

"You mean to tell me that a baseball coach can't motivate his players by telling them they hit like a girl?!" Keith, one of our bankruptcy attorneys, was flabbergasted.

"It's harassment. Implicit in the statement is that women are inferior players and that the player lacks the ability to hit well," Paola explained. She was one of our employment discrimination lawyers, a wild, funny Portuguese woman.

"That's bullshit," Keith retorted.

"Look, you can't go around saying things to someone just because you think it will motivate them," I chimed in.

"So, you honestly think that baseball players are going to suffer some emotional harm from this?" Keith asked.

"Absolutely," said Paola.

"Reasonable person standard," I said.

"That's rediculous!" He retorted.

"What are you talking about?" I said, "it's the law and you know it's that standard."

"Keith, Keith, listen," Paola tried to explain, "you know how you write in a flowery, ornate fashion?"

"Yeah. So?"

"What if your boss said that you 'write like a girl,'" Paola used her hands to emphasize the quotes.

"That's crazy. I'm not judged by how masculine I am," Keith said.

"How fortunate for you," I replied.

About The Author

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The views expressed herein are solely the author's and should not be attributed to his employer or their clients. This site is not maintained utilizing the author's employer's resources or on company time. Any postings on legal issues on the Unbillable Hours blawg are provided as a form of entertainment for the web community, and do not constitute solicitation or provision of legal advice. I try to provide quality information, but I make no claims, promises or guarantees about the accuracy, completeness, or adequacy of the information contained in or linked to from Unbillable Hours. Legal advice must be tailored to the specific circumstances of each case, and laws are constantly changing, so nothing in Unbillable Hours should be used as a substitute for the advice of competent counsel. I am admitted to practice law in New Jersey and do not intend to represent anyone desiring representation in a state where this site may fail to comply with any and all applicable laws and ethical rules. [*disclaimer via Denise Howell, Esq., and Kevin J. Heller, Esq.]

All stories, incidents, and characters are fictional. Any similarity to any person, place, thing, or event is purely coincidential. This site, in its entirety, is fictional.

All written material copyrighted 2002 - 2004. All photos copyrighted 2002 - 2004 unless otherwise noted. All rights reserved.

sick of doing straight time

Seems you can't get any more than half free I step out onto the front porch, and suck the cold air deep inside of me Got a cold mind to go tripping cross that thin line I'm sick of doin' straight time

Bruce Springsteen, Straight Time, from The Ghost of Tom Joad (1995)

“What do you want right now?”

“What do I want?” I asked, repeating his question.

“Yes. What do you want right now?” He drew out the last sentence for emphasis.

I ran my hand over my face and slowly exhaled.

“A nap. I want a nap. A nap and a cigarette and a beer,” I told him.

“But not necessarily in that order,” I added.

---

Tuesday, the night after the memorial for Stephen, I sat down with his family to go over taxes and estate matters, basically to help them close up affairs. It was decidedly unpleasant.

“Okay, you need to get a tax identification number for him. It’s not that hard,” I explained to Stephen’s brother, a tall fellow with a shaved head, a long goatee, and eyeglasses with purple lenses.

“What’s that?”

“Well,” I said before taking a sip of beer, “it’s kind of like a social security number, but well… well, you know, for dead people.”

“Oh. Okay, I can do that.”

“You know how to do that? You know how to get in touch with the State Division of Taxation and all that?”

“Yeah,” he told me, “it’s not a problem.”

“Okay, now, in order to address the tax liabilities of the estate, you need to understand that, for tax and intestacy purposes, there are four types or classes of beneficiaries. A, B, C, and D.”

I paused, trying to remember the satisfaction order for estates, and then the tax classifications of the various beneficiaries that could be satisfied after the taxes, medical costs, administrative fees, and judgment creditors are satisfied. I started to explain the rules to them, but paused after a while. I didn’t like my tone. It was far too clinical.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be coarse, talking like this,” I said, “I’m just trying to address…. Well, it’s hard not to be somewhat…. Look, if I’m being cold about this, you can stop me and we can—“

“No,” his brother replies, “don’t worry about it. This stuff is just business.”

---

Today, I found myself sitting in jail for four hours. My pro bono case was coming to a close, and it was time to deliver the mitigating circumstances, the victim impact statements (if they bothered to show up), and then listen as the judge imposed his sentence. I hate the holding cells. They all smell of piss and vomit.

To get into the holding cell, I had to take one of the service elevators down from the courtroom. It was a solid steel cage with a metal grate placed in front of the traditional elevator doors so that prisoners could not get out without a sheriff’s deputy unlocking the grate from the outside. I went down a poorly lit passage way, past the child support enforcement offices, past the bar association smoke room, to a gunmetal gray steel door with a buzzer next to it. I pressed the buzzer.

“Yeah,” came the voice from the intercom attached to the buzzer.

“Attorney for Roskolnikov,” I shouted back into the intercom.

The door was electronically unlocked. I handed over my briefcase, my pen, my eyeglasses, and cellular phone to the corrections officer and sat at one of the fast-food restaurant style plastic booths by the weapons locker. I might as well be near the armament if someone decides to pull an “Attica.”

Two hours of discussion with the client and negotiation with the prosecutor go by. Oh god, just fucking shoot me, I thought when I realized I had worked through the lunch recess. I was starting to smell like the holding cell, I noticed. By mid-afternoon, we finalized a plea agreement and put it on the record.

I made it back to the office just in time to numbly stare at the computer and wonder what the hell it is that I do anymore.

If a Clod should fall from the Continent

Ingemisco, tamquam reus: culpa rubet vultus meus; supplicanti parce, Deus. - W.A. Mozart, Requiem Mass, K.626, Recordare.

I groan like a guilty man. Guilt reddens my face; Spare a suppliant, O God.

There’s a stillness that comes over Red Bank in the hours before dawn and long after dusk that makes the town a place entirely distinct from the town it was just a few short hours before. Long after the nightclubs, bars, restaurants, and coffee houses have emptied out, the cranes return to the Navesink River.

There, among the reeds, just below the train bridge that brings commuters to and from Manhattan, the cranes swoop low, settling in and standing, archly, waiting for their fish. In the mornings, at this hour, the first fishermen begin to return to the town. Some come in ragged pick-up trucks, their beds full of rusty crab traps. Some come in off of the sea in Bayliners and aluminum Boston Whalers.

I saw the cranes last week, coming home from a long night at the Dublin House. Stephen, my boy behind the bar, poured me a heavy stream of Guinness, one after another, until it was well past closing time. Cal grabbed me by the shoulder at the end of the night and pulled me out of the bar, bringing me down to his friend’s house so I could grab a few cups of coffee before heading home. We sat on his friend’s porch sobering up as we chatted about our jobs, enjoying the cool breeze of summer nights.

---

Stephen died on Saturday. It was respiratory failure, caused by an overdose of narcotics. Cal and I found out as we walked the streets of Red Bank. He had just picked up a pack of cigarettes at the Red Pipe, and I was heading to Starbucks to pick up a cup of coffee. Our friend, Sasha, came up to us, and told us as she worked the outdoor booth for Funk & Standard, selling ironic tee shirts to teenagers.

Cal stood there, quietly, and I looked at Sasha. “What happened?” I asked.

“It was Stephen.”

“Stephen,” I repeated. “Stephen?”

“He just died.”

Cal hugged Sasha, who was beginning to cry. I turned and started walking, nearly ending up in the street.

“Stephen,” I said again.

Cal and I walked for a bit. “This is bullshit,” he said.

I nodded.

“This is bullshit,” Cal said again.

He repeated that a few more times as we walked down the street. Cal lit a cigarette and looked at me from behind the brown lenses of his sunglasses. I shook my head. We walked down to the end of the street, not really sure of where to go. Finally, Cal made the suggestion that was most appropriate, in light of Stephen’s life.
“Let’s go get a drink.”

---

Stephen was one of the bartenders at the Dublin House since he was eighteen. Tattooed and notoriously eccentric, he was one of my favorite people at the bar, particularly since he and I were polar opposites. Tending the quiet upstairs bar at the Dublin House, Stephen would quietly tease me for sitting up there with my Bar-Bri texts, preparing for the New Jersey Bar Examination. I’d tease him back for being a “scurvied, hemp-wearing vegan.” At the same time, we also had hours of discussions concerning novels – he was, like me, a fan of Shusaku Endo’s Silence and Alan Lightman’s Einstein’s Dreams - or music. He had a thin, almost naïve face, one that didn’t belie his intellect or his wit. He usually masked it with a thick beard, although he did, at one point, shave it down to what he called his “porn star” moustache.

Cal and I walked into the bar in silence. At the corner of the front part of the bar, Andy, one of the younger bartenders, sat sniffling. He was so terribly pale. Cal kept going, down to where some of Stephen’s friends sat, in the back corner. I grabbed Andy by the shoulder.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I said.

Andy leaned against my shoulder, and I quietly talked to him.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay. It was far from okay. I heard, over the course of the weekend, the story of how Stephen died. How his body was found by a friend who had helped him to a couch after he had too much – too much to drink, too much in his system, perhaps too much of life. The friend attempted CPR; the police came over immediately from their nearby station house; the doctors did their best. It was done, though. Stephen was gone.

I sat next to Cal at the end of the bar. I had wanted to make the trip into Red Bank a brief one, a quick stop for an espresso or coffee before a trip up to work. Instead, I sat there, numb, listening to friends, grown men all of them, sniffling as they thought of Stephen. Jimmy, the owner of the Dublin House, a man whose salt-and-pepper beard and buzz cut often reminded me of a drill sergeant, sat quietly next to one of the taps, smoking his cheap, generic-brand cigarettes. Jimmy looked straight ahead from behind thick glasses, silently rubbing his hand through his hair.

I ordered a gin and tonic and waited quietly, staring down at the heavily lacquered wood that ran the length of the bar. I could picture Stephen, standing by the taps where Jimmy now sat, his shoulders slumped, his eyes a mixture of mirth and boredom. He would make countless obscene and absurd jokes, frequently at the expense of his closer friends. It was a sign of affection, of sorts.

Jimmy took a breath, and began talking, almost to himself. “He would come in here, and I’d have the Irish music on….”
The Dublin House used to exclusively play traditional Irish music. From my grandfather and his brother, I had already learned the lyrics of most of the songs. Some nights, I’d sit there quietly, singing along.

‘Si mo laoch, mo Ghile Mear, ‘Si mo Chaesar, Ghile Mear. Suan na sian nm bhfuaireas fiin. O chuaigh in gciin mo Ghile Mear….

“…he’d sit there for a second, stare at the CD player, rip the disk out and scream ‘what the hell is this shit.’”

We began laughing. The gin arrived, and I took a deep draught from it. Jimmy stared forward.

“I mean, honestly,” he continued, “he would just wig out and throw shit when he heard it. Then he’d put in his music…. God, that shit that would drive half the patrons out the door.”

“Who am I going to get to play that alternative, crazy shit he played now?” he whispered, “who’s going to put in Mongolian throat choruses doing bluegrass, or whatever the hell he was into?”

The room returned to silence. I knew him in high school, I said in my mind. I began to practice the line over and over again. I knew him in high school. Nine years. I knew him in high school and I therefore knew him for nine years. It was all mathematical. Nine years of friendship, less two years of substance abuse, divided by fifteen minutes of failed resuscitation. What is the end sum of all of that?

I turned to Cal. He had put his sunglasses back on, but I could still see his eyes welling up. I apologized to him. I didn’t know what else to say. We sat there, two young men, both unshaven, both looking vaguely ratty on a bright Saturday afternoon. Four gins later, and I was beginning to feel something other than numbness.

Shannon came in around then. We all saw her. If an eye were planted above us, it would have seen the universal reaction: four grown men, one a combat veteran, looking over at a shockingly blonde-haired woman, and then looking back down again. Andy greeted her first. Without a word, he grabbed her and pulled her in a tight, desperate embrace. Shannon was a history teacher at a local public school. We chatted on occasion – not often, as I suspected that I bored her – about the topic. She was once engaged to a local who, like many around here, spent his weekends and early mornings fishing. The Coast Guard found his body after one of storms that often swept down from the North Atlantic. Shannon dated Stephen for nearly a year. The relationship ended just as Stephen was swept into the world of narcotics. She had two ghosts to carry now.

I got up from the bar, wobbled slightly as I did, and walked out the back door. The light hurt my eyes, and I slid on my Oakleys. I leaned against the emerald green wooden railing that led to the back porch of the Dublin House, looking out on the street. The noises of shoppers walking from the boutiques and the local arts cinema seemed profanely loud.

I called Hugh, letting him know what had happened to Stephen.

“I have your brother with me,” I said of Cal.

“And?”

“Wanted to let you know. He may need some looking after.”

“I’m at work, what do you want me to—

“Nothing. Nothing.” I rubbed the back of my head, trying to get feeling back in my fingers as we talked. “Don’t do anything. I’ve got him.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

A passerby peeked into the slat-roofed porch area. I looked at her, with her fat thighs and red and white striped shirt. She started moving on. I gave her the finger as she walked away.

“All right. Well,” I sighed, “I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

“All right.”

Back in the bar, and Shannon was consoling Andy, even as she herself wept. On the night before the wake, Cal would pull me aside “how is it that the men are all fucked up and the women are the only ones with their heads on straight?”
We were sitting in Red, the upscale martini and wine bar up the street. Neither of us wanted to go back to the Dublin House. We hadn’t since Saturday. Since we heard. From behind my scotch, a drink I hadn’t been able to stomach for two years, I looked at Cal.

“They’re there at the beginning. Seems like things are cyclical. Maybe being there at the beginning helps them with dealing with the end.”

We’re not bred for feeling empathy and sorrow, was what I really thought. It was what I wanted to say. We’re designed for fighting. Our sole purpose beyond propagation is the destruction of others.
We don’t know how to deal with it because usually we’re responsible for it.

I left the bar at six, claiming a need to go home and shower. Instead, I walked up the street to the Red Pipe, where I picked up a CAO Robusto, a short, dark, bitter cigar. I took it down to Riverside Park. I puffed on the cigar and watched the sailboats pass. After a few minutes, I began to faintly hear a tune wafting from the docks beneath the park.
I walked up to the river’s edge and leaned over the protective railing to look down at the docks. A man stood on one of them, playing a set of bagpipes. It almost seems cliché, I thought. A damn bagpipe player. He ran through the traditional set of marches, ending with Amazing Grace. From the Elks Club next door, a few old men leaned out a window and clapped. I turned to leave.

As I walked up the hill, I could see Cal and his friends Carroll, Wormold, Nora, and Lou tromping down the path toward my section of Riverside Park. I shook my head and smiled slightly as we converged.

“Seems like the park is the place to be,” Lou said.

“Oh yeah,” I answered from behind the cigar, “I do believe it. I do believe it’s true.”

No one said anything for a second. I suddenly realized that, given where Stephen had died, he had to have been with Carroll and Lou.

“How are you guys making out?” I asked.

No answer.

I turned and walked back down towards the river. Wormold followed. He wore a loose silk Hawaiian shirt and brown slacks. Wormold, who I used to jokingly refer to as “Our Man in Havana” because of his affection for fedoras and Panama hats, sidled up next to me at the railing. I didn’t look at him. The sailboats were starting to head in to their moorings.

“What kind of a cigar is that?”

“A C-A-O. Robusto,” I said. “The thing’s got a bit of spice to it. Wake you up.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Got it at the Red Pipe.”

We paused. Up the hill, I could hear Lou cracking jokes to Nora, Cal, and Carroll. That’ll do them good, I thought. Keep them distracted.

“So you heard?”

“Yep.”

“I tried to do CPR…” Wormold said, before trailing off.

I turned to look at him.

“You couldn’t have resuscitated him. You would have had a better chance if it was just his heart…. He went into respiratory failure. His brain died.”

Wormold didn’t say anything.

“No one gets resuscitated. There’s a twenty percent survival rate,” I continued to explain.

He nodded. We turned and started to walk back to the rest of the group. I needed to piss. The cigar was basically done, so I flicked it to the ground and crushed it with my sandal.

“You guys going to be at the Dub’ tonight?” I asked.

They assured me they would.

“All right, then,” I said as I started to shake their hands. “I’ll see you there.”

“Stupid, selfish son of a bitch,” I said to myself as I drove the Sable up Front Street, past the spot where steamboats used to anchor and disembark passengers from Manhattan. Now it was a library that I spent countless hours in during the summer I prepared for the bar exam.

“What made you think you could fuck with this stuff and get away with it? What made you think that there wouldn’t be consequences?”

Personal histories, to me, were no different than geographical ones. The people in the town had their own stories and their own roles to play, and somehow all of them meshed into one giant drama that did not seem to ever come to a close. Red Bank was formed, way back in 1736, as a village of a nearby town, a sleepy little fishing community that had no impact on the world. By 1830 it was a bustling town, made lively by the dredging of an inlet at the Sandy Hook channel, so that passengers could commute, via steamship, to Manhattan. In 1870, it was a city of its own right, bigger than the town it was formed from. Steamers came back and forth from the city, evidence of its rhythmic exhale, its organic expansion. Forty years later, it was even bigger, when the Eisner family brought in textile factories and a boatwright shop. Queen Elizabeth I visited as part of her American tour just before World War Two.

Stephen became a part of Red Bank a year after I did. He was a class behind me at Christian Brothers Academy, the local Catholic school, and we both took the discipline of the monks with good humor and mirth, aware that they laughed along with us when we played our pranks. My friends formed a small sub-unit of the culture that flowed from the heart that was the Dublin House. Back then it was a bar and a coffee house, so teens were exposed to the place long before they could legally get into what has now been made into three separate bars. Stephen was part of the wilder, more artistic group. Back then my friends were holding court at the Dublin House fully aware that we were only a part of that body public for a short while. We – Julius, Adam, JP, and myself – were there often during for high school and the summer that we spent preparing for college, first, then making brief returns on holiday breaks and long residencies during the summer, then brief visits, after college, when we were home to see our families on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and then, eventually, occasional memories or infrequent visitors, just there to make sure the body was still “kicking.” With my group’s passing, Stephen’s took hold. They congregated upstairs, and were the first to make the transition when it was converted from a coffee house to a quiet public house bar. They had wild parties that they photographed, frequently obscenely, and then posted those photographs throughout the upstairs. The body, the social body, was growing, and the ribs of the Dublin House could only hold them in so far.

In the 1950’s, Red Bank reached what, as of yet, has been its greatest size and energy. It bustled with life, with Studebakers and Edsels traveling down to the law firms that dotted Front and Broad Streets – one of which was staffed by both United States Supreme Court Justice Brennan and New Jersey Supreme Court Justice O’Hern. Banks prospered after the war, fat on the interest created by thousands of former servicemen exercising their G.I. Bill rights of homeownership. Count Basie, a child of Red Bank, then a bandleader in Kansas City, moved his orchestra to New York, and began referring to himself as the “Red Bank Kid.” Forty years later, the town would re-christen its theater as the Count Basie Theater, in honor of his lifelong boosterism.
By 1998, when Julius, Adam, and JP had moved on to the Silicon Valley and Boston, and I had taken up residence on Capitol Hill, Stephen and his friends had their strongest hold on the social life of the Dublin House body. The scene was a weird mix. It had the vibe of CBGB’s on some nights, and the Algonquin round table on others. Marajuana mixed freely with booze and sex. Some guys straightened up when they knocked up their girlfriends or had run-ins with the law that were beyond “boys will be boys.” Some of the women straightened up after too many parties where they could only vaguely remember events of consequences. The expanding chest was beginning to contract. Most of Stephen’s crew had eschewed the traditional college route, favoring instead the life of “artists” or “musicians.” Some started to think twice about this, and headed back to school, first to community college, then to Rutgers. They rarely came back home.

The sixties and seventies hit Red Bank hard. First, the economic growth stopped. Textile mills weren’t exactly welcome as industries in densely populated suburbs, and the Eisners moved the factories out of town. The buildings still remained, but they were moldy, rat-infested shells of what they once were. The family remained, though, and started buying up and leasing most of the commercial real estate in the area. Then the banks dried up and a fire took out the theater that would later be called the Count Basie. There was less of a reason to come to Red Bank. During the seventies, race riots – which paralyzed New York, and raped Newark and Camden – tore the city apart. It was long quietly acknowledged that Blacks lived in the West End of the city and were not welcome, thank you very much, in the East End. Where the Blacks couldn’t go as consumers and residents, they went as mobs. Much of Red Bank was broken down, burnt, kicked in, or looted. A long stretch of stores – a stretch that once ran nearly a mile, from the River up the hill and south to Shrewsbury – closed down for good. A few old time families remained. The Mustillos continued selling hand-sewn wedding dresses opposite the Reussiles’ jewelry shop. Clayton and McGee, a 170 year old tailor’s shop, continued its operation. As a child, I would go in there to buy cub scout shirts – dark navy blue polyester shirts that itched terribly – and stare fascinated at the model collars, some of which were Edwardian in style, that the store still used for its custom shirts. By the 1980’s, Red Bank was regarded with derision as a town that would never get out of the economic depression that had clamped itself around its throat. Local urban planners jokingly referred to it as “Dead Bank,” and the zoning board started allowing any store – any store at all – come in and remodel the once Victorian streets as they pleased. McDonald’s tore down a 100 year old brownstone to put in its plastic and concrete Golden Arches. Bamburger’s, a department store that competed with Macy’s and Bloomingdales, tore down one of the Eisner textile mills to put in a big box store. After a few years, they took a look around and fled for richer climes. The city was shivering as it grew small and old.

After three years on Capitol Hill, and three years in Georgetown’s lawyer factory, I was ready to come home. I was sick of big cities – having lived in the two biggest on the East Coast for nearly eight years – and wanted to come back to someplace quiet. I wanted to see the ocean again, to see sidewalks and flowers and people I knew. I started first by looking at law firms along the shores of the Charles River, in small towns just outside of Boston. They were communities – strong ones built on nearly five hundred years of Puritan determination and New England charm – but they weren’t my community. I settled on Single & Single, a large firm just north of Red Bank that allowed me to commute back down each night with enough time to grab a pint with friends or to walk along the Navesink on cold fall nights. I came back to the social body of the Dublin House. Surprisingly, to me at least, I was welcomed back warmly.

Just as I returned to Red Bank, it hit its stride after decades of stumbling. A planning board made up of local businesspeople, RiverCenter, organized a redevelopment effort along Broad and Front Streets. McDonalds was kicked out, and the building it occupied was recreated as a 1940’s era home for Merrill Lynch’s satellite offices. Morgan Stanley set up a satellite office next door. The old Victorian stores that lined Broad Street were renovated, and tin ceilings and canvas awnings that flapped in breezes given to us by the Atlantic Ocean began to give shade to the sidewalks. Local filmmakers Kevin Smith and John Sayles hit their stride, and both of them found themselves (at one time or another) as darlings of the Festival Circuit. Springsteen came back from Los Angeles. The Count Basie Theater was rebuilt. Old five-and-dime and Army-Navy stores were replaced with upscale boutiques that caused the older locals to sneeringly refer to the place as “Hiptown.”

Stephen set aside a place for me at the copper-topped upstairs bar and would greet me with a friendly “get in here you fucking cocksucker” each time I stomped up the rickety wooden stairs. I spent most of my nights there, pouring over remaindermen and life estates as I dreaded the two day exam that would determine whether I would become a lawyer. I fell in with a group of people that he sometimes ran with, and we’d find each other at common parties. I left long before him. Long before things got wild.

I pulled into the Dublin House parking lot and sat in my car for a moment. I wiped my eyes dry, took my key from the ignition, and headed in. Linus, the bespectacled, older bartender that joked with Hugh and I each night we were there about the “riffraff”, nodded to me somberly. I reached over the bar and shook his wet hand. We didn’t say anything. A part of the body had been removed, wrongly, and there were no words for that. We just knew that, in some way, we had been violated.

I left Linus at the outside bar and headed in to the air conditioned downstairs bar. The Dublin House had hit rough times in the past two years, and had just closed down the upstairs bar. I could no longer go up to the burgundy-painted room to say my goodbyes to a time and age. Instead, I edged my way through the crowd, shaking hands of friends and acquaintances as I went, sometimes getting the slap on the back, sometimes giving the supportive grasp of the shoulder. There were no words, again. Harry, my favorite bartender at the Dublin House, with his glib smirk and wild sense of humor stood behind the bar without an expression on his face. We shook hands, and I noticed the welling of tears in his eyes. Jesus, this is a fucking mess. Everyone Stephen touched has poured themselves out here, tonight. It is their moment of purging. I talked to Harry for a minute, then left. I couldn’t be there.

“I wanted to apologize about missing you guys on Sunday,” Hugh was telling me through our cellphone connection.

“It’s not a problem. How are you doing?”

He grunted without commitment. “Fine, I guess. I spent all day in bed. I think it’s the hernia.”

“Right,” I answered absentmindedly as I checked my email from my office computer. My boss wanted some document from me. “Well, you better get that checked out.”

“Yeah,” he answered, then took in a deep breath. “So what time are you going tonight?”

I stopped checking my email. Closing my eyes, I rubbed my right thumb and forefinger on eyelids that felt very, very tired. I had insomnia again.

“Well, the Press said that the wake was from seven to nine, and there’s some sort of service at 8:30.”

“Yeah, I read that.”

“I don’t want to see the service. I don’t want to be there for that. I’ll probably go at eight and bolt when it starts.”

“That was my plan too.”

“Good, good. Well, I guess I’ll see you there.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

We didn’t say anything for a moment. I stared ahead of me, at the print of an old Life Magazine shot of a man hitchhiking down Route 66 in the desert. I suddenly wished I was back in the desert. It seemed so pure there.

“Say, you’re not mad at me for this weekend are you?”

“No, no, no. I could care less. We’re cool,” I answered.

“Okay. Good. Well, I guess I’ll see you there.”

Yeah. I hung up the phone and began searching the network for the document Benjamin was seeking.
I didn’t make it to the wake until 8:30, just as the service started. Damn, I cursed myself. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to hear consolation. I don’t think there is consolation. After the service, I got on line to walk up to Stephen’s body and pay my final respects. To see how lifelike my friend’s dead body appeared to be.

It was a disconnect, looking at Stephen. I could see where his skin had grown pale from beneath the mortician’s make-up, and I could see where he still looked alive and didn’t need such make-up. I couldn’t understand it, how someone who appeared so alive could be a cadaver before me. A friend I had spoken to four days earlier was now someone to whom I had to say goodbye.
Someone had left a bundle of sage in the casket next to Stephen, and someone else a handful of coins. A handwritten note rested next to his right shoulder. People were giving gifts to the dead.

Hugh, Cal, and I sat at the hotel bar across the street from the funeral home. I began ordering drinks for the three of us, alternating between gin and scotch as the night moved on. By 10:00, I had knocked over one of my drinks and was nervously flicking bar nuts at Carroll’s drink. He and his group of friends sat next to ours. We traded stories and jokes quietly. I listened as Nora told one of how Stephen used to harass her, and turned to Cal and whispered.

“Congratulations. You’re in a Lawrence-fucking-Kasdan movie,” I said, thinking of The Big Chill.

We finished our last round and I settled up what had become a $90 bar tab. We headed over to Carroll’s house to have a bite to eat and a few last drinks. I lagged behind when a friend called to see how I was doing. By the time I got there, all but Lou had left for the Dublin House. He sat there, quietly sniffling as he watched a re-run of the Howard Stern Show with the sound off. I patted him on the shoulder as he sat in an easy chair and moved to sit on the couch next to him.

“There’s no sitting on the couch,” he said as a warning.

I stopped. This is where Stephen died. This is the spot right here. A piece of foam rubber rested on the couch, stained black in spots with what seemed like oil. Gurney oil, I remembered from my brother’s days as a paramedic. The medical examiner left part of the stretcher here.

I quickly said goodbye to Lou and went to the Dublin House, where I got good and drunk. I didn’t make it home until 2 am the next morning.

Tomorrow is the memorial fundraiser for Stephen. We set it up – Jimmy, his son-in-law, Harry, myself, and a few of Stephen’s friends – and worked out a deal to transfer the proceeds over to his family. I have to go back to the Dublin House tomorrow and pretend it’s exactly what I want to do and pretend that I want to answer questions from the family about tax free trust transfers and pretend that I don’t want to just grab someone and smack the ever-loving shit out of them until they bleed. I have to go and sit with friends that stood and fought against fate as a part of their final act of friendship with Stephen. I have to go and socialize with someone, his name I do not know, that sold Stephen the drugs that finally killed him.

All the while, I keep thinking about how the town has expanded and contracted, and how a part of the body that has so recently thrived at the Dublin House is now excised from the whole.

The reeds will be there, when tomorrow is long over, and the Navesink will keep flowing along. The town will continue to inhale and exhale, grow and recede, long after I am gone. Still, a part is gone from the whole. The breath is more labored than before, and we remaining parts ache for the loss.

the parties and their witnesses, or, a cast of characters

I've decided to create a running list of the characters I use. I've grown to find the use of initials both boring and confusing, and I think this will help the characters develop. Where initials have been used in the past, I've included them again herein. Some characters are real. Some are fictitious. All lawyers, law firms, judges, and clients are the creation of the author, and any semblance to other, actual individuals or entities is accidental.

Characters

(this list will be updated over time)
A – Andy, a barback at the Dublin House
ADL - Adam L., a friend of TPB
AL - Alice L- college classmate to TPB, and former girlfriend of Jared
AM - Amber M - a social worker
BU - Bill U, college classmate and roommate to TPB
BEU – Benjamin U, a partner at Single & Single, TPB’s mentor
BL – Benny L, a bartender at the Dublin House, son-in-law of Jimmy
Bigelow - an adversary of Single & Single
Carroll - commodities broker, regular at the Dublin House
CY - Charles Y, a college classmate and roommate of TPB
CLV – Christian V, a senior partner at Single & Single
CLK – Cal K, friend of TPB, brother to Hugh
CLR – Clark R, an associate at Single & Single
DBL - Diane L, a secretary for Henry and Rick at Single & Single
Father Jack - Jesuit, Philosophy Professor, Mentor to TPB
HJD – Henry D, a partner at Single & Single
HLK – Hugh K, friend of TPB, brother to Cal
HR – Harry R, bartender at the Dublin House
HXP - Helen P, a high school crush
HZA - Hannah A, Linda A's mother
Jaydub - a friend of TPB
JA - Jared A, sociologist, college classmate, roommate, and friend to TPB
JBJ – Julius J, optical engineer, high school classmate to TPB
JCA - no pseudonym - Author of Sua Sponte, law student
JK – Jimmy K, owner of the Dublin House
JPO - Jean Paul O, chemist, high school classmate, friend to TPB, wife to Jo O.
Jo - Johanna O, chemist, wife to JP, friend to TPB
JV - Jenny V, a law school classmate of TPB
JZL – Jane L, Of Counsel at Single & Single
KD - Karyn D, once a barfly at the Dublin House, now off to California
Keith - associate, bankruptcy department at Single & Single
LD - Lizzie D, engineer, friend to TPB, Jo, JP, Linda, Adam, and (sometimes) Julius
LEM - Laura M, college classmate and one-time crush of TPB, telemarketer
Lou - Tattoo artist, regular at the Dublin House
LV – Linus V, bartender at the Dublin House
LZA - Linda A, medical student, friend to TPB
Michael L. – tenor, former member of chorale with TPB
Nora - regular at the Dublin House
Paola - associate, employment discrimination team at Single & Single
PJB - Flounder - TPB's brother, college student
PZL – Patricia L, Of Counsel at Single & Single
Rachel W. – social worker, college classmate of TPB
RQD – Rick D, a senior associate at Single & Single
RVA - Rollins, a law school classmate of TPB
QL - Quincy, a law school classmate of TPB
QZA - Quinn A, father of Linda A
SO'L - Shannon O'L, teacher, regular at the Dublin House
SM – Sugarmama, computer geek
SAL – Stephen L, bartender at the Dublin House, deceased Saturday July 26, 2003
SV – Sasha V, unemployed, friend to TPB and Hugh
___ & ___ - Single & Single, LLC, TPB’s law firm [1]
TPB, Esq. – narrator, associate at Single & Single
Wormold - regular at the Dublin House
ZZ – Zoya Z, dental assistant, friend to TPB and Hugh

I will never discuss clients by name or initials. Litigants will always be called: "The Judge," "the client," the "husband," the "father," the "wife," the "mother," the "adverse client," or the "adversary." I will number parties when multiple ones are mentioned. All clients, adversaries, adverse clients, and judges are fictionalized.

Footnotes
1. Borrowed in homage to John Le Carre; the novel Single & Single is one of my favorite stories of post-Cold War intelligence work.

come sit at my table

It’s Friday night and I’m sitting at the counter in the Broadway Diner. I’m supposed to meet Hugh, our friend Zoya, and a mutual friend of ours Sasha, for the first meeting of what we’ve called the “Friday Night Supper Club.” The idea came about after I had suggested to Hugh that we needed a good night on the town. Hugh agreed, and recounted a similar arrangement made by Carl Reiner, Joseph Heller, Mel Brooks, and others in the fifties. The idea had merit, so we stole it.

There in the diner, though, I’m sipping on a hot cup of coffee, trying to finish a draft of a letter I’ve been writing and re-writing for a week. Hugh strolls in as I cross out one of the closing paragraphs.

“Good evening, my dear litigious bastard,” Hugh K says, his brow wrinkled as he delivers his mirthful greeting.

“Good evening, Mr. K. And how are we on this wonderful Friday?”

“Fine indeed, sir. Fine indeed.” Hugh intones. We smile at the faux formality of our phrasings. “And what is that you’re writing there? Another one of your soul-stealing contracts?”

I look down at the letter and smile.

“No. I suppose you could call this a … a paean.” I reply slowly, choosing my words as I scratch at my beard.

“A paean?” Hugh asks, his eyebrows arched precipitously.

“A paean.” I answer as I get up from the counter. I throw a few bills on the counter for the coffee.

“Shall we, Mr. K?” I ask as I motion toward the door.

Hugh nods and begins walking out. I stuff the draft of the letter into the breast pocket of my jacket and follow Hugh out the door and into the night air. We walk down to where Hugh has parked his old Ford Bronco. Inside, Sasha waits, laughing along to a Dave Attell disk that has been making the rounds amongst friends.

“So, who is the recipient of this paean, counselor?” Hugh asks as we stroll down to the Bronco.

“Do you remember that trip I took down south a few weeks back?” I ask as I pause to light a cigarette.

“Down to DC, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You met that girl…”

“Yeah,” I answer, cutting him off as I take a drag from the cigarette.

From inside the Bronco, I can hear Sasha yell, “We’re going to be late!” Sasha is a boisterous woman. In the 1940’s, she would have been the wisecracking sidekick to the delicate heroine. Hugh and I smirk and shrug. The story will come out later.

We get to the restaurant, a Portuguese place in Asbury Park called Bistro Ole, ten minutes after our reservations. Standing outside, Hugh, Sasha, and I chat as we wait for Zoya to arrive. She pulls up in a red Hyundai clone of the Saab 9-3 coupe just as the maitre d’ steps outside to reassure us that our table would be ready shortly.

“How could I not have a table for you people?” The maitre d’ asks with a flourish. “You’re lovely. Even your little bearded friend here.” The maitre d’ puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Ooh, he is so rugged.”

I rub my left hand across my eyebrow as I feel my cheeks heating up. Zoya trots across the street over to us.

“Oh, he’s blushing; that’s so adorable,” the maitre d’ jokes as Zoya walks over to us.

“Is she with you?” The maitre d’ asks us. “Oh, she is a doll. Ladies,” the maitre d’ says as an invitation before kissing Zoya and Sasha.

“I’ll get your table ready right now,” the maitre d’ says before stepping back into the restaurant.

We’re silent for a beat. Hugh and I stare at each other, our eyes bugged out after our sensory overload.

“I just loved him in The Birdcage,” I state in my best deadpan tone.

“Shhh…. Jackass,” Hugh hisses. “This is Asbury.”

Asbury Park’s recent revitalization is largely a result of adventurous artists and a burgeoning homosexual community making the town their home. It’s done wonders for the town’s rateables.

“What?” I ask with mock defensiveness, although I notice a few women that have been standing near us now giving me considerable glares. I shrug.

“I was just joking,” I say.

We’re seated beside the restaurant’s huge Mondrian-esque mixed media installation. By this point in the meal, we’ve already finished off a pitcher of sangria and half of the varietal red – Oratorio, I believe – that Hugh brought. I let out a contented sigh. We have shared appetizers of grilled Portobello mushrooms and plantains relleno (a dish of plantains with shredded meat). Sasha is talking about how she is uncomfortable with the size of her arms. She used to box locally. Hugh and I try to reassure her, and I find myself annoyed at the rather cloy voice that comes out when I say “they look very nice.” I grimace at the false-sounding reassurance and think of my own insecurities, those things that make my dealings with women nervous and stutter-driven.

Our dinners arrive. I size up mine, a dish of pork done in a mustard base. A few weeks ago, I sat down to a similar dinner, this one in Felix, a trendy Washington restaurant. There, I had pork marinated, interestingly, in black tea.

---

The dinner in Washington was a more anxious one for me. I sat at a table with someone I had never met before, with someone who had no past connection to me. I barely noticed my food that night, as I was intent on listening to the two women that sat across from me.

One, a brunette, with delicate hands and a sweet smile, Sugarmama, looked on quietly as her friend, a much louder blonde, Ariana, told me of her family’s connection to the former President Bush and a famous architect. I smiled at the time, but I could feel my eyes pinch at the corners as I listened. I wanted to hear the quiet one speak. I wanted to continue to put a face and a voice onto someone that I had grown to know and like from emails and readings of her website.

---

I take a sip of wine after a final bite of my meal. Hugh and I have been chatting for a while about his plans to apply for a creative writing grant at USC. After a while, we pay our tab, and head outside. Hugh steers the conversation back to the letter.

“So, you’re writing a paean, you said,” he remarks.

I laugh as we walk to Hugh’s truck. “You waited till I had a bit of wine in me before asking about that.”

We both laugh at that.

“Well, I hear it loosens the tongue.”

“It does indeed.”

“Does this mean you will continue to hide the identity of the person receiving this letter?”

“No, not at all. I’ve told you about her before. This is the woman I met down in DC. Sugarmama. The one from my website.”

“Ah yes… the internet girl.”

“Yeah,” I say with a frown. “The internet girl.” I get a bad feeling about the way he said that.

“Well, that is how you met her, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I answer, “but I don’t want you to get the idea that this is something akin to the computer generation’s form of the personal ads.”

Sasha chimes in. “I met someone off of the internet … from match.com, I think… and that wasn’t pathetic.”

“I thought you weren’t happy with him. And what makes you think this has anything to do with pathos?” I answer.

“Well, yeah, I wasn’t happy with him,” she replies. A wolfish smile crosses her face, “but I’m still human. I still have needs.”

Hugh laughs.

We’re on the road, driving toward Zoya’s house. I have no idea where we are. I am drunk.

“So, if it wasn’t “match.com,” Hugh asks, “what is it?”

I think back to my meeting with SM and smile. We were both so tentative, so awkward in our attempts to get to know each other.

“I once saw this movie. I can’t remember the name. It was with Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. He was a bookseller in London. She was a literate widow in New York. They met, in letters only, because she sought out rare books, which, I guess, only he sold. They had this remarkable friendship – one during which they never met in person – over many, many years because of the bond they framed with their letters.”

I pause for a moment, formulating what I want to say.

“I guess it’s something like that. Some people have a connection because of their words.”

Sasha chuckles at that and quietly tells me that I’m “such a geek.” It’s a good-natured snipe, and I smile self-consciously as I rub my hand through the back of my hair.

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh, “I guess so.”

---

Sugarmama, her friend Ariana and I were walking from bar to bar in the warm, southern, Spring air. Her friend was frustrated with me because I didn’t remember where one of my old DC bars was located and had forced us to take a roundabout path to it. After a few minutes of reconnoitering, I located the bar – Madam’s Organ – and we tromped in.

Madam’s Organ had a honky tonk flair to it. Drinks were served in Mason jars and bluegrass and punk/country acts were regular staples there. Sugarmama and I squeezed our way up to the bar to get drinks. She was trying to keep her hair from falling down over one of her eyes. I watched from the corners of mine.

Sugarmama looked at me sheepishly.

“I wanted to get some time to talk alone with you,” she said as we watched her friend return from the bathroom.

“We’ll get some,” I answered. “Eventually.”

---

At Zoya’s house, we’re wandering around aimlessly. There’s an awkward pause. Hugh and I look at the small wet bar by the refrigerator.

“I believe I see another bottle of the Oratorio,” Hugh notes.

“Indeed, I as well.” I smile.

We grab glasses and attack the bottle with gusto.

---

Sugarmama and I were talking in Madam’s Organ, and we were close. Beneath the table, I could feel my knee pressed against hers. I could have moved it, probably, but she felt warm. We were talking about those we knew that also wrote online. Sugarmama knew of my friends from Boston. I asked about her life, during college, in New Orleans. I cracked a joke about the “Girls Gone Wild” footage that I constantly saw on late night television. She laughed, probably humoring me, and placed her hand on my knee. We both smiled, and I looked down.

I thought of an excuse to lean in and say something in her ear. I placed my hand on her shoulder, and cracked another inane joke. Her hair smelt amazing.

---

Hugh and I stare out into the night with glassy eyes. He and I had just gone over a love letter that he had once written to Zoya.

“After all the shit you just gave me…” I begin.

“Well,” Hugh answers in his dry baritone, “It’s not like you.”

“I’m capable of writing without acrimony,” I answer with mock indignation.

Hugh grunts and smiles in reply.

We both sit and stare into the dark, taking drags on cigarettes.

“Going into town?” I ask.

“It’s kinda late.”

“Ashes, then?” I suggest, thinking of a sedate cigar bar.

Hugh thinks for a second.

“Yeah, what the hell,” he answers.

---

Sugarmama, her friend and I were in a cab. Her friend was yelling at me for ignoring her in Madam’s Organ. For a second, my lawyer’s instinct takes over, and I started to formulate a defense. I took a breath and thought better of it.

“Where are we going now?” Ariana asked.

“An Irish bar I used to go to,” I answered.

“Where?” the friend reiterated, more forcefully.

“Umm… Fado. It’s down by Chinatown.” I thought for a second. “Look, I’m sorry again…. I didn’t mean to….”

“That’s fine. Just tell me what’s going on. Hand signals. Something, for Christ’s sake.”

I sunk down into my seat.

---

Hugh and I stand in the crowded hallway of the Dublin House. Hugh’s little brother, Cal, called before and we had agreed to meet him in here instead of going to Ashes. Hugh and I grimace at the crowd while Cal hits on some girl.

“If only I had a taser,” I begin.

Hugh grunts in acknowledgement. We are possessive of the Dublin House. It is ours. It has been since we were sixteen, sneaking in from the coffee houses. After a few more minutes of jostling, though, we’re heading toward the door. We gulp down the last of our pints in disgust. The crowd is loud, boorish, and full of “bennies,” the New Jersey nickname for the trashier tourists who come down to the shore towns from New York.

Walking over to Ashes, I tell Hugh more about the Washington trip.

---

Sugarmama and I tried not to laugh as Ariana stormed off to the bathroom in Fado.

“Um…. I didn’t mean to piss off your friend,” I said.

“No, don’t worry about that. Ariana likes to be the center of a conversation.”

I looked down as I talked to her, even though I knew it was a bad habit. “Well, I just wanted to get to talk to you more.”

We paused, both tired from our long days.

I noticed Sugarmama looking at something over my shoulder. I flagged down the bartender before turning around, and ordered two pints of ale. Sugarmama and I slid into our barstools. I turned to see what Sugarmama was looking at. Her friend, Ariana, I surmised. Ariana walked over to Sugarmama and I and sidled between our barstools.

“Get you anything, Ariana?” I asked, trying to hide an amused smile.

---

Hugh and I stand in a corner of the cigar bar, sipping our gins. I had picked up a Romeo y Juliet at the attached cigar store, and occasionally I take a puff on it.

“I don’t know how you can stand those things.”

“They’re good,” I say. “On occasion, at least.”

“A change of pace,” I continue, pointing out Hugh’s chain-smoking cigarette addiction.

“Mmm,” Hugh says in acknowledgement from behind his highball glass. With a flick of his head, he indicates something behind me. I turn to see his brother, Cal, bopping his way through the crowd in his denim jacket and jeans (an outfit I once referred to as his “British prisoner’s uniform”).

“Couldn’t take it?” Hugh asks.

“Too crowded. This isn’t bad, though.”

I look around. A number of older couples, most of whom are expensively dressed, congregate around the marble-and-mica bar. Their faces are pale and shadowy from the lighting hidden beneath the translucent slabs of stone and mica. Still, I think, at least we weren’t pressed up against them.

I think about the parts of the weekend that I didn’t tell Hugh about. I think about Sugarmama leaning in to kiss me on the cheek after the cabbie dropped me off at my hotel. A was waiting in the still-running cab. I closed my eyes slowly, and then reopened them, looking at Sugarmama as she kissed me.

Hugh and Cal are used to me drifting off into dream landscapes. They continue with their conversation, now mostly about the girl Cal was going after. I nurse my cigar, regretting that I got it, since I don’t want to leave until I finish it. Instead, I stand there and think about how memories can be compressed and expanded. About how, after Sugarmama kissed me good night, I stood at the window of my hotel room, staring out at the White House and the Washington Monument. About how I sat down in one of the hotel armchairs and thought about the day, the television muted in front of me.

---

The next day of the trip down to Washington never comes up in my discussion with Hugh. Instead, I keep to myself a quiet, pleasant morning in Eastern Market. It was the neighborhood I lived in during law school, and I think about showing Sugarmama and Ariana my crumbling, 18th Century apartment. It was my safe harbor in law school, though, and I didn’t think Sugarmama and Ariana would enjoy traveling along with me on that little jaunt down memory lane. Instead, we wandered through the stalls selling produce, antiques, rugs, pigs’ feet, and local artwork. We went down to an outdoor café on Pennsylvania Avenue, where we chatted quietly, slowly, over sandwiches and iced tea. My head hurt, more from the lack of sleep than the drink. We had lost our energy. It was time to go.

After lunch, I walked Sugarmama and Ariana down to the Eastern Market Metro stop. They wanted to visit someone in Arlington, just across the Potomac. I wanted to head home to New Jersey before sundown.

We bid our farewells. Ariana and I shook hands. Sugarmama and I kissed each other’s cheeks, and hugged far less tentatively than when we met the day before. They walked toward the escalator leading down to the station. I started to walk back to my car, but thought better of it. I turned and watched Sugarmama head down into the concrete heart of the Metro stop. I watched her head move as she talked to Ariana, never looking back up at me.

Smiling, I turned again and headed for my car, and for home.

---

My cigar is almost done. Hugh and Cal have just left, and I am finishing up my gin in the corner as I watch the bartenders finish closing up the last of the open tabs. I think, and realize that, like memories, relationships expand and compress. Old friends from high school fade and move away, their relationships with me contracting to a vague point in the past. New relationships begin with intensity of feeling, and are compressed into a single controlling moment. They are compressed into the flash of a firework in the night sky. Old friendships expand out as they continue, becoming the warm glow of candles at a dinner table in a restaurant.

updated 7/31/03: formatting, replacing initials with pseudonyms

the sweetest punch

The tape wraps around my wrist twice. I hold my hands out, helpless like a child, as the trainer wraps them. He brings the tape up and around my metatarsal bones, bones I had shattered in a fistfight years ago.

“Spread your hand out.”

I do.

“Make a fist.”

I do. He pulls the tape tight around the palm of my hand, and then begins wrapping over the base of my fingers. He pushes the tape back toward my wrist, and then brings it back down around my thumb before wrapping it a few last times on my wrist.

“Make a fist again.” I nod and grunt from behind the mouth guard, looking at his thin black moustache as the trainer hums a song from Puerto Rico. He begins taping my other hand.

“Square up!” he shouts as I duck his first punch, an intentionally wild hook. I bring my hands back up to my face and swing my right leg back, planting it with my toes out, giving myself a pivot point. The trainer throws a jab, and I duck again. I feel his jab brush my hair. As I duck, I look down. I can see drops of sweat flick off of my face. My eyes burn from it. I twist my right leg forward, and then snap off of my left hip. I catch the trainer in the breast and armpit with an uppercut, and he jumps back.

“Hit harder!” the trainer orders.

“It’s okay?” I ask.

“You’re not going to hurt me.” He comes in again with a few jabs, and I swivel on my hip. The first two miss, but the third clips me in the right cheek before boxing into my ear. It throws me off, and I and I hop toward the left for a second. The trainer turns with me, and sends a left uppercut into my ribs. I nearly fall over, but instead scoot across the mat.

“Fuck!” I try to say from behind the mouth guard. I drop my hands.

“Square up!”

My arms are tired. I bring the gloves up to just below my chin, resting them against each other. I send off a few slow jabs at the trainer, watching him block them with his forearms. I feint as though I’m going to duck again. He brings his hands to his body, and I swing out with a wide left hook. It catches him at the base of his neck, where it meets the collarbone. It’s pleasing, I realize. I want to hit him now. As though the part of me that I pretend does not exist, the part that isn’t modern and given to rationalism, has been reintroduced into my system, I let out a growling smile and advance on the trainer.

“Fast, to the hands,” he shouts. I start jabbing at his hands as he backs up. I switch to a few lunging uppercuts, trying to see if I can actually get under the hands while advancing. It’s tiring and I drag my right leg behind my left, which I’ve taken to leading with. I go back to jabbing, and, with a small rush of energy, speed up the shots.

“Now back!” the trainer shouts.

I retreat, blocking his occasional shots. I throw an uppercut again.

“No! You don’t want to come off balance, and you don’t want to shift your weight forward.”

Feeling like a patient in a dentist’s office, I try to ask how to hit.

“Jabs. Keep your body straight.”

I go back to throwing jabs. I start to lower the shots, aiming more for the solar plexus than the high chest and face. The trainer comes in with another hook, much quicker than before.

I lean back hard, letting the punch hit my left forearm rather than my face. It’s a numbing burn that travels through my arm. I’m slow and I try to square my arms up tightly around me. I twist into the next punch, letting the trainer hit me again in the forearms. Son of a bitch, it’s hurting me, I think. And I want to hurt him back. I can see his third punch coming for me, a straight jab. I twist down and to the right, and find myself directly in front of the fourth punch. I take it in the forehead, stumble a bit, and then come in as the trainer squares his hands up, straight and true, not nearly as sloppily as my hands are. I put myself within inches of his hands and start throwing punches underneath them. God damn you and your work, I think. A punch hits me in the cheek. God damn you and your fucking cynicism. I throw one in at the trainer’s stomach. No sense of the hours it takes. No sense of the life I’ve given you. I’m not feeling the punches he’s throwing at my head now. I make slight attempts to keep the shots away from my nose and lips. I’m tired, and my punches are weakening.

“Harder,” the trainer orders.

I hit him again in the chest, and push him away with my other hand. He shakes his head and throws a jab.

“Harder!”

I grunt and twist my right shoulder, my weak shoulder since a car accident, before coming up at his sternum. My chest is twisted almost ninety degrees from where my feet are planted, and the punch lands true. The trainer lifts off the floor for a second. I only see work, only see the partners, the clients, the judges, bailiffs, clerks and lecturers as I throw the next punch.

interlude

I sat on the side of the bar that faced away from the television, ensuring that I wouldn’t be distracted by the Nets game. Hugh was next to me, and we were chatting about, of all things, old Batman comic books that we had enjoyed. I had just read an email from an old friend in entertainment law about the production of a new Batman movie, designed to follow one of the comic books I read as a kid.*1

A fellow walked in the front door of the Dublin House. He wore a black fedora and a loose fitting Hawaiian shirt over a substantial gut.

Hugh snorted in amusement.

“I like to think of him as ‘Our Man in Havana,’” I said.

“Okay, Mr. Greene. Apparently, he’s not our man at the salad bar.”

From behind me, I noticed Karyn, one of the local Red Bank hippies that had once dated Hugh, slide into the bar stool next to him. She started explaining how she was about to leave for California in a few weeks, and that she was nervous about the trip. Bored with the conversation, I turned to the book[2] I had brought with me. I would have rather read the book – any book, really – than continue with their conversation. Hugh nudged me a few minutes into the conversation.

“Tell Karyn that she has nothing to worry about.”

“What?”

“Karyn’s moving to California---

“Yeah, I heard. What are you worried about?” I asked of her.

Karyn said something I couldn’t hear over the ambient noise in the bar.

Hugh leaned over to me and explained that she’s nervous about driving across country and settling in Los Angeles.

“You have nothing to worry about. I drove across country twice,” I said to Karyn.

“No,” she responded, “I’m worried about settling in.”

“Well, aside from the infestation of Californians out there, I don’t think there’s much to worry about. What are you planning on doing out there?” I asked.

“I want to be an actress.”

“Oh.”

I thought for a second before speaking up again.

“Well, I’m sure it will be fun out there.”

I went back to the book. After a few minutes, Karyn left. Hugh turned to me.

“You have an amazing ability to get out of conversations,” he said.

I looked up from the book. “I was bored. When I get bored in a conversation, I either tell people what I need to as quickly as possible, or, when that doesn’t work, I run circles around the English language until they’re confused and then tell them I’ll talk to them on Tuesday.”

We said nothing for a few minutes. I took sips on my Sam Adams Light, grimacing at the fact that I had decided to switch to light beer. Hugh drank his half-and-half.[3]

“I’ve been meaning to forward to you an article I read on Billy… Billy… oh, what’s his last name….” Hugh began.

“Who?”

“The poet laureate.”

“Connelly?”

“No. I can’t remember his last name.”

“I think it was something Irish,” I suggested.[4]

“I don’t know. Anyway, he wrote this poem on love that I thought you’d get a kick out of. Lyrical, but not obnoxious about it. All about how we don’t really understand love, and that lovers don’t really know the difference between self-love and actual love….”

“Nice,” I interjected.

“I haven’t read him. I’ve heard he’s good,” I mused. “I haven’t read many modern poets. Well, modern as in after Jeffers or something.”

“I blame Carl Sandburg,” Hugh responded.

“Sandburg? I don’t know. I always blamed the Beatnik Poets. I always thought they ruined poetry. Them and E.E. Cummings.”

“It’s like rock and roll,” Hugh responded. We were developing a rhythm to the conversation. “The ‘Stones’ were rock and roll because they took that old, pure natural sound. Blues and such. Everything after them has been crap because they borrowed from the Stones.”

I thought of how Brahms once said he couldn’t write for forty years because he felt Beethoven standing over his shoulder as he tried to compose.

“I don’t think it’s that. Well, for me,” I said. “Cummings and the Beatniks – the Beats, um, the Beat Poets – they ruined poetry for the same reasons that art and music and movies started to get ruined.”

Hugh rolled his hands, as if to say “go on.” That’s what I took the expression to mean. I took a swig of beer.

“You have this thing in… in the arts. It’s like… well, it’s this thing where each major art form had this sense of tone, and beauty, and harmony. Then along comes the 20th Century, and we get all sorts of dissonance. In classical music, you have Stravinsky and Schoenberg, doing the whole atonal, dissonant, twelve step…”

“Twelve tone,” Hugh corrected.

“Right, twelve tone. This twelve tone thing. They ruined classical music. They made it inaccessible. That’s a real shame too, because, well, classical music was the predominant art form for the masses for, like, 400 years. You know? You had art, but that was only for the elites, at least until the 1800’s. Classical music was public, because of churches and operas and…. Well, anyway, you had this point where art did it too. After Picasso, it’s all crap. It’s all inaccessible. Sure, there’s an interesting academic exercise in there… and I guess there are a few exceptions – Warhol and Rauschenberg, I guess – but it’s all stuff the people can’t get into. Same with poems. People used to read poems. It used to be a big deal to get a Robert Frost or a Dylan Thomas on the air. Now, outside of the British, who gives a shit? Same with the film world. Artful cinema was ruined by the French New Wave and… and … I don’t know, David Lynch or something.”

“Right. And there was also Sandburg.” Hugh responded.

I hadn’t read much Sandburg. “Yeah. Well, the point is… the point is that modern culture didn’t make these things unacceptable to the masses. The world of the arts pushed modern culture away. No one cares anymore because there’s no art to care for. It’s all theory, no humanity,” I continued.

Hugh grunted in acknowledgment.

“I don’t know,” I said, starting to question myself. “All I know is I need a new book to read. I’m done with my history kick. I want some fiction. The only thing I read constantly anymore is travel writing.”

“You mean how to get to places or travelogues?” Hugh asked.

“Travelogues. I like misadventures. Disasters, I suppose, but on a small scale.”

I looked at my watch. 12:00 AM. Time to go.

“Anyway,” I said looking to Hugh, “let’s get Harry over here and then get the hell out. I’ve got to go to work.”

Harry was over in a minute. He was wearing a novelty tie bearing a Monopoly board game theme.

“What’s my damage?” I asked. I had two beers.

“Three seventy-five.”

No single beer in the bar cost that little. I plopped down a ten and walked out. I limped slightly, still sore from a recent visit to the trainer.

“I feel like death,” I said to Hugh, who walked behind me.

“At least you’re fit enough to feel like death,” Hugh said. He had been injured on a job and wasn’t allowed to work out until he had surgery to fix his hernia. “I can’t run. I can’t lift weights….”

“Can’t masturbate?” I asked, facetiously.

“No, I still can manage that.”

“Good, good. Otherwise, I’d really start calling you ‘Johnny One-nut’.”

“Hernias have nothing to do with your nuts, it’s a pushing of the intestine….”

“I know. Never let the facts get in the way of a joke, though,” I said.

We were at our cars. Well, my car and his early model Ford Bronco. I was surprised it didn’t come with a stepladder.

Hugh shook my hand. “Tomorrow, sir?”

“Of course,” I answered.

He got into his truck, and I gingerly limped toward my car, dumping the book in my briefcase after I unlocked it.

A tall, buxom girl stumbled by me. She was pretty, but very, very drunk. She stopped and looked at me, squinting.

“I know you,” she said, drawing out her words.

“Wonders never cease.”

I got into my car and drove home.

Footnotes

1. For those film buffs out there, the Batman movie in production is based on Frank Miller’s graphic novel “Batman: Year One,” which was a sort of film noir story about Batman’s first year as a vigilante and his burgeoning relationship with (soon-to-be) Commissioner Gordon. It was an odd little story, if only because, unlike most comic books, the characters actually had emotional depth. Yeah. I know. I’m a huge freaking geek.

2. I’m still working on The Stork Club. I don’t see it being finished, though. The first 140 pages of the book detail how the proprietor of the night club came to New York from his life as a bootlegger in the Midwest. Forty pages of those first 140 cover that topic. The next forty cover how people used to like stealing ashtrays from the Stork Club. I don’t mind reading about bootleggers or how gangsters used legitimate businesses as fronts, as that’s fairly instructional, but forty pages on stealing knick-knacks? Christ, I don’t post about every time I swipe a pint glass from the Dublin House; I don’t need to hear about how Toots Shor snagged a swizzle stick from the Stork Club.

3. A half-and-half, for those that don’t know, is like a Black and Tan. It’s one part Guinness or a similar stout (Murphy’s also works), and one part Irish ale, such as Harp. It’s multicolored. It’s tasty. We like it.

4. It’s Billy Collins.

updated 7/31/03: formatting, replacement of initials with pseudonyms

sleeper, awake

It was trial call this morning. Up Route 18 I went, gulping down a coffee as Handel’s Royal Fireworks Music blasted from the stereo, martial trumpets and froggy clarinets working out the rhythm that would have been played when King George III sailed down the River Thames. An hour in the traffic that covers the last ten miles between my home and the Superior Court of New Jersey for the Middlesex Vicinage and I was roving the streets of New Brunswick.

I was in the parking deck at 8:57 for my 9:00 trial call. Damn. Late for call. Being late for trial call, a process by which the courts organize the week’s cases (if organization can be said to come from a two-hundred year old system of a judge reading a case name and an attorney answering “Ready for your ears” or “a problem has arisen”), meant that I had to deal with the clerks in the Assignment Office. Dealing with the Assignment Office is an experience in how well one can stomach confusion and chaos.

I stood in the back of the Presiding Judge’s courtroom just a few minutes later, coming in right as the trial call started. I settled in amongst a gathering of the lawyers that filled the courtroom, most of whom were personal injury attorneys. I grumbled. I didn’t like listening on personal injury lawyers. Their conversations about the injuries of their clients seemed too flippant to me, as though they didn’t recognize that a “C-4 fracture of the vertebrae” meant excruciating pain for their clients, or perhaps even paralysis. My first two cases came up.

“Allan versus Barrow, Docket number CV-111-999-03A,” the Judge announced.

“Settled, plaintiff, Your Honor,” I answered for the first.

In her chair to the Judge’s left, the clerk scratched off the case name from the open docket.

“Charles versus Dalton, Docket number CVI-111-555-03B.”

“Ready, defendant,” an attorney announced from the side of the courtroom. Through the crowd, I couldn’t see who had spoken up.

“Ready, plaintiff, your honor. Mr. CO will be appearing,” I answered for the second.

The third case came.

“Edson v. ABC Corp., Docket number CV-111-123-03A, the ABC firm on behalf of the plaintiff, the XYZ firm on behalf of defendant, consolidated with ABC Corp. v. Edson, Flynn, and John Doe Defendants 1 through 99, Docket number CV-111-165-03A, this matter is listed as adjourned,” the judge announced.

I looked at my sheet. Doe v. ABC Corporation was listed as ready-hold, meaning that the attorney responsible for trying the case would be ready to try it this week, as soon as he finished up another case. I groaned. No, no, no, not a goddamn error. I need to be in the office today, I thought.

“I have that as ready-hold, your honor,” I announced.

No other attorney answered from the wings. Damn.

After waiting a beat for another attorney to answer, the judge looked at me, a sympathetic smile on her face.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to see me after class, counselor, so we can figure this out.”

A few lawyers in the courtroom chuckled at that.

“Thanks, your honor.”

An hour later, I found myself sitting in the Judge’s courtroom, along with six other attorneys, all of whom had personal injury cases. I slumped down low in one of the “pews” that lined the back of the courtroom, slid my briefcase forward, and propped my legs up on it.

“Poop,” I said to no one in particular. “Poop. Poop. Poop.”

One of the attorneys turned to me, a younger man who had a goatee much like mine.

“Should’ve been in the office?”

“An hour ago,” I answered.

“You know,” he began, “when I was in high school, I used to work on the boardwalk at one of the games of chance. Six dollars an hour. Best job I ever had,” he said.

I smiled. I knew this game.

“When I was in college, I worked as a park ranger for the state. Five eighty-five an hour,” I answered, “they actually paid me to backpack and canoe.”

Another attorney, an older man with a red comb-over and a ratty yellow tie, joined in.

“I bet you never worried about liability then,” he said.

I snorted. “Are you kidding me? I drove the State’s Econolines and F-150’s into trees, buildings, other trucks, with absolutely not a care in the world. At $5.85 an hour, who gives a shit about liability?”

We sighed, almost in unison. The older attorney with the red comb-over, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, tried to take the game to the next level.

“I told my son about Dave DeBusschere’s death last week,” he said. “He didn’t have a clue who he was. I told him he’d have to find out himself. Have to watch some footage or something.”

I smiled only slightly and shook my head. “Before my time, buddy.”

The other young attorney turned to me. “To think I went to Seton Hall for this.”

“I would have thought one went there for the scenery.” I answered. Seton Hall’s law school was in the heart of the Newark ghetto. I refuse to attend conferences there at night.

“No,” he laughed, “the reasonable tuition.”

“Oh god, I don’t want to think about student loans,” I moaned.

“How much you have left?”

“Under 20 k, but I had a drunk driver help me out with paying off a good part of it.” I answered. Two years ago, I sued a drunk driver for ramming into my car and shattering my collarbone and various muscles. The settlement check went straight to Sallie Mae.

“Nice. You weren’t at the Hall, were you? I don’t remember you.” The younger attorney was probing.

“No. I went to school down south.”

“Where?”

“Georgetown.”

“I think I’ve heard of that school,” the young attorney answered.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wish I had heard more about its tuition bill before I went there.”

“I got in there,” he said.

I started fumbling in my pocket, bored with the conversation. I wanted to read whatever news Avantgo had pulled onto my handheld.

“You did?” I asked absently.

“Oh yeah. Walked right in the main gate. Same thing at Harvard.” He answered, laughing at his own joke.

I smiled and laughed slightly.

“Man, let me tell you about that boardwalk job…” the young lawyer began, hoping to get back into the game. At the same time, my cell phone began vibrating.

I answered the phone as I held up a finger to the young attorney, hoping he would pause.

“TPB.”

“What are you doing?” A voice asked from over the phone, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work, being ‘the Man’?”

I laughed. I recognized the voice as Zoya, Hugh’s … friend? Girlfriend? I didn’t know. I liked her though. She had a certain urbane persona about her that amused me. Plus, she recognized most of my sexual puns, finding them “salacious,” as she once put it. I nearly growled with pleasure when I heard that word. It was one of my favorites.

“Yeah, no, I’m actually stuck in court right now,” I answered.

“Wait, you’re answering this from a courtroom?”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Waiting for hell to freeze over, I think,” I answered. “No, I just have to work out scheduling on a case and the judge is in her chambers.”

“Can’t you get in trouble?”

“Um… I don’t know, actually. Maybe. So what’s up?”

“Nothing, I don’t want to break up your day---“

“Trust me,” I answered looking at the nearly empty courtroom. “You’re really not.”

“Okay, I just wanted to say I read your site---“

“Oh god no,” I laughed.

“No, it’s good, boy wonder. You’ll have to call me tonight. We’ll talk about it,” she said, laughing.

“Sounds like a plan.”

We finished the conversation. The other two attorneys had moved on to reading the sports sections of various newspapers left in the courtroom. I put my feet back on my briefcase and began to dose off.

It was 11:30 when I finally straightened out the confusion concerning the third case’s status. I wandered around the construction around the Courthouse until I made it to the parking deck, and headed back to the office.

I didn’t get in until five of noon, strolling past my boss’ office and to my secretary’s cubicle. The standard office noises were going on, mostly unheard by me. Rick was telling someone he wanted a dog. His secretary, Diane, the “den mother,” as I called her, asked me how court went. “Like slow death,” I answered. My secretary was busy hiding the fact that she was checking out bridal magazines.

“Any messages?” I asked her.

“No,” she said without looking up at me.

“Very well, then. As you were, soldier,” I said in a falsely authoritarian voice.

I leafed through the mail. Invitations to conferences. Binder catalogues. A memo regarding conflicts. A fax from an adversary regarding a settlement conference. I moved the fax into the “CC” pile, for my secretary to send off to the client, and threw out the rest. Time to get me some coffee, I thought. By the time I finish that, it’ll be just in time for lunch. Yum-a-dum-dum.

I walked back past Benjamin’s office.

“Where the hell were you?” he asked.

“Trial call.”

“Oh god.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t too much of a clusterfuck. Hey, I ran into one of our old adversaries.”

“Who?”

“Bigelow.”

“That reminds me,” he began. “I need you to take care of this order.”

Benjamin began dictating the terms of a consent order we were going to file. I scribbled on a post-it note, frantically trying to keep up with him.

From behind me, I heard one of the paralegals call my name.

“Mm-hmm?” I said without looking up.

“Can you come here? Diane is sick.”

I didn’t notice the tone in the paralegal’s voice until then. I dropped the post-it note and turned around. Diane had her head on the desk. I came around the side of the cubicle, next to a secretary who was patting Diane’s shoulder. Diane’s face was red like raw meat.

“Move, please,” I said to the secretary who was patting her arm.”

“Diane?” I said, tentatively. “Diane, are you okay?”

Her head rolled back and forth as she rested it on the desk. My stomach twinged.

“Get Rick,” I said to my secretary, who was now clustering around the cubicle along with four or five other staffers. “Go away, please,” I said to them. Diane looked up. Her pupils were dilated. Shit. She either overdosed or she’s on the verge of a massive fucking coronary.

I turned to Rick, his eyes bugged out.

“Let’s move her to your couch.”

“No, no. Don’t move her.”

If she loses consciousness, I thought as I looked at the cluttered cubicle, there is no way we’re moving her.

My boss, Benjamin, looked on from his doorway. He was uncomfortable around sick people, he once told me. I grabbed Diane’s arm and told her I was going to help her lie down. She slowly got up, telling me in a whisper she was okay. I held her by her elbows, walking backwards as I led her to Rick's office. Rick had disappeared. Diane’s arms were heavy in mine. She was heavier than me by about 100 pounds, I guessed.

“Take the other side,” I could hear Benjamin say. He had stepped out from his office. He helped me lift Diane’s arms and slowly move her to the couch in Rick’s office. One of the office administrators arrived, a sphygmomanometer in her hand. As she went to take Diane’s blood pressure, I walked out of the office. Rick was at the desk of Benjamin’s secretary, talking to paramedics, I presumed.

“They just moved her, against my clear directions.” He was shaking.

I frowned and shook my head. It was a lawyer’s statement coming out of Rick’s mouth. One of the other secretaries mentioned that someone should call Diane’s husband. Our file clerk started going through Diane’s rolodex – Diane refused to use Outlook’s contacts – until she found her husband’s number. Benjamin remarked that Diane should have an emergency contact. I felt like I was in a fishbowl. I was hearing things, but they weren’t registering.

Back in Rick’s office, the office manager was joined by one of the senior supervisors, a former military man. Good, I thought. Someone who knows what he’s doing. I walked in and watched. DBL’s head lolled back and forth on the couch. Face is red, elevate the head, I thought, remembering the old rhyme from Boy Scouts. She was likely going into shock. As the office manager undid the Velcro of the sphygmomanometer’s cuff, I slipped my hand onto Diane’s wrist.

“It’s all okay,” I said. “Rick is going to take care of everything.”

I counted off the seconds as I felt Diane’s pulse throb beneath my forefinger. One, two, three… damn, this is going too fast.

I tried again, losing count after ten seconds. By six, that’s…. let’s see… I struggled with the arithmetic. It seemed like it was above 170 beats per minute. I looked at the office manager.

“It’s high,” she said to the senior staff supervisor of Diane’s blood pressure.

I returned to counting the beats. I was nervous, and was having a hard time differentiating between Diane’s pulse and mine. Diane’s eyes had rolled back in her head, but she continued to whisper, claiming she was fine.

Five minutes later, we had Diane on the floor. Her breathing had stopped, suddenly, in mid-sentence. The supervisor stood over her head, holding her nose and her chin. I straddled Diane’s stomach, searching for the gap between chest and sternum. The magic “v,” they called it in my ranger training. Find the magic “v.” I found the spot where the rib cage ended and the lower chest began. It felt indecent, touching Diane like that. I felt guilty. I placed my right hand slowly over her chest, still feeling for the edge of the rib cage, and curled my fingers inward. I checked her wrist again with my left hand. Nothing. Realigning my right hand, I slid my hand on top of it.

“Oh shit,” I said.

“Three to fifteen, right?” The supervisor asked.

“I think so.”

He bent down and began breathing into Diane’s mouth. Her chest rose.

“Two,” I said, as he breathed into her again, “and three.”

I leaned down and slowly did my first compression. I waited a second, afraid of hearing the sound of Diane’s ribs popping. Her chest was soft beneath me. I began the second compression, and then began pumping seamlessly. Four, five, six, seven, I tried to keep track, Oh god, my elbow hurts. Why did I go to the gym? I have bursitis. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. I swung my body up, and felt dizzy for a second before I realized I had forgotten to breathe. I sucked in air as the supervisor checked Diane’s pulse and breathing. He furrowed his brow, and knelt down to her mouth.

“One, two, three,” I counted off.

I brought my hands up to Diane’s chest as the supervisor lifted up off of her. Her chest rose suddenly, and I looked at the supervisor, startled, before Diane weakly tried to bat us away from her.

Someone was pulling me away as I groaned in relief. A blue sweatshirt sleeve was in my face, and I could see a denim patch. I felt myself placed on the floor before I realized that the paramedics were there. I sat there and watched paramedics place ECG stickers on Diane’s leg and arms. I looked at the multi-colored wires that led up to a blue nylon pack on a gurney in the doorway. I slowly got up, pulling myself up by grabbing onto Rick’s bookshelf. A pile of compact disks fell to the floor. I moved past the paramedics, out the doorway, and past the gurney. The supervisor who had done CPR with me walked out and into his office. I stood at my secretary’s desk, staring at the Yankees clippings she had taped to a cabinet. Turning around, I could see the supervisor writing at his desk. I walked down to the lobby, and hit the elevator button. My arms were shaking.

Five minutes later, I was sitting in my car. I had turned on the CD player and selected Bach’s Wachet Auf Cantata.

“Sleepers, awake,” I translated, “the voice calls you on battlements, the watchmen yonder.”

I eased my seat back into a reclining position and closed my eyes.

“Wake up, city of Jerusalem! The bell calls out the midnight hour and full clear on high its voice is heard. Where are you now, you virgins wise?”

I squeezed my eyes, feeling them moisten in the corners. I sat there for an hour before coming back into the office. I stared at my calendar. I had to be in court tomorrow, and that meant I had to revise a statement. It was nearing two in the afternoon. I wanted lunch. I began to figure out how to get together all of the exhibits I needed as I searched through my desk drawers for enough change to get a soda.

updated 7/31/03: formatting, replaced initials with pseudonyms

I sentence you to be exposed before your peers

I arrived at Monmouth County Courthouse bleary-eyed and confused at 8:30 AM on Monday, ready for jury duty. I had my required forms, my work to review (a 300 page document production package that I needed to redact), and a healthy supply of newspapers. I was curious, albeit irritated, as to how jury duty would work. Curious, because family lawyers have absolutely no contact with jurors. Family law is considered the law of equity, a type of law that is not guaranteed the right to a jury under the Constitution. I was irritated because my jury duty had fallen in amongst the most busy week of the month. I had to, by Friday, prepare a settlement agreement, draft a lecture, and appear in Atlantic City for the Annual Association of Trial Lawyers of America (ATLA) "Boardwalk Seminar." I was ready for anything.

Anything, that is, except for the sort of unending boredom that likely awaits me in whatever pit of Hell to which I'll be sent.

By 9:30, the judge had sworn us in as jurors. After swearing us in, the judge launched into a thirty minute long defense of the jury system that seemed strangely defensive and largely irrelevant (regardless of what people felt of the jury system for resolving disputes instead of, say, mediation, we were stuck there, and we were likely going to be jurors). He left us to our own devices for half an hour before the jury administrator returned, explaining that, in payment for our services the State of New Jersey would provide us with $5 for each day of jury services. State employees, however, would have to turn over their regular wages (which one must assume is just slightly more than $5 per day) in exchange for this compensation. "Oh yes," she explained, "you also are entitled to one free small cup of coffee per day at the cafeteria." Oh, well that makes all the difference, I thought. Initially, I thought we were getting a raw deal by being trapped here at a rate of $5 per day, but now that I know we are also entitled to one (1) cup of coffee per day, everything's changed. I began banging my head against the top of the folding table I was sitting behind.

At 10:30, I noticed that a group of men, one of whom was shuffling a deck of cards, were sitting at a nearby table. I walked over and introduced myself. A large man with a blond moustache and a Harley Davidson meshback baseball cap invited me to join them.

"What are you playing?" I asked.

"Five card draw," another man, this one missing one of his incisors, answered.

"Sounds like a game," I said, and sat down.

The dealer finished shuffling the deck and quickly dealt the cards.

"No wilds, ante at a quarter," he said as he picked up his cards. We all chipped in our quarters and picked up our cards. I had two eights, a jack of spades, a three of diamonds, and a ten of clubs. I anted up another quarter and dropped the ten and the three. The dealer gave me another ten - which caused me to groan inwardly - and a four of hearts. I ended up losing to someone with three nines, and anted in another quarter. It's going to be a very, very long day, I thought.

Two hours after we began playing, after a stern lecture from one of the Sheriff's Officers that guard the courthouse ("you, of all people, should know better than to gamble in a courthouse." "Officer, I of all people shouldn't be forced to have the free time to gamble in a courthouse."), we were released for lunch. No jurors had been picked, but the judge gave us a stern warning that if we weren't back from lunch and were called for a case, he would personally sign the contempt order. I sighed. There's nothing like using fear as a motivator for people who were kind enough to show up for their civic duty.

After lunch, it was more of the same. One pool of jurors, mostly elderly women, was called up for a case. Judging by the number of jurors called, it was for a criminal trial. In criminal matters, the judges usually call up thirty-two jurors for voir dire (where the attorneys and the judge question jurors prior to eliminating those jurors they don't feel suited for the case). The thirty-two jurors are whittled down to a final group of sixteen, with twelve jurors and six alternate jurors serving the length of the criminal case. In civil cases, twenty-four jurors are called up, and eight sit (six regular jurors and two alternates) for the duration of the trial. I made another feeble attempt to use my cell phone to call my office, fearing that all hell had broken loose in my absence. Unfortunately, the jury pool was located at the precise location where no cellular service could be obtained in the courthouse (mind you, I don't think that was on purpose; the Monmouth County Courthouse pre-dates portable radios....). I grabbed my juror identification pass and clipped it to my shirt (so that my colleagues, my fellow attorneys, would not make the mistake of causing a mistrial by talking to me).

Outside, it was beautiful. The sun, that strange orb of natural light that I somehow missed for the past three months, seemed to be causing something called Spring, judging by the number of women I saw jogging past the courthouse. As expected, my call to my secretary revealed that, in my absence, she had decided to sneak home earlier than usual. I left a message with her asking her to forward all calls to my cellular phone's voice mail system, and went back down to the jury room. I arrived just in time to hear myself being called for a jury. I assembled with twenty-three other people, and was led to a large freight elevator. There, we were sent up to the back side of the courtrooms, escorted down a narrow passage that was dotted with the judges' chambers, and assembled in a courtroom. Two attorneys sat at the litigants' tables, preparing overhead projectors and powerpoint demonstrations of what appeared to be a series of contractual documents.

After a few minutes, we were ordered to rise by the Sheriff's Officer, and the Judge entered the courtroom. I stifled a laugh. It was the judge before whom I had tried my first four cases. I had heard that he had been transferred from the Chancery Division (which hears family matters) to the Law Division, but had forgotten about it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Judge began, "thank you all for being here today. You are playing an important part in the function of government. You are deciding the weight given evidence heard before us today. I will be deciding the law. Today, ladies and...." The judge paused.

"TPB, what the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

I held up my juror identification badge with a silent smile.

The judge laughed. "Get the hell out of here. Go back down to the jury pool and make sure you don't go before anyone here that you know."

"Thanks, Judge." I gave him a little wave and headed back down to the basement.

I checked back in with the Jury Administrator, explaining that the judge had dismissed me from his case, and sat back down at the folding table. The men with whom I played cards were gone, perhaps to another jury. In the front of the room, the three televisions in the jury pool had been tuned to soap operas. I grabbed two adjacent chairs, turned them so they faced each other, and settled in for a nap.

"Jurors, your duty for the day is over. Please return here at 8:30 tomorrow for your next day of service," the administrator announced over a microphone. I awoke with a start.

"Sweet Christ," I gasped, trying to figure where it was that I had woken up. After a second, I came to a more full consciousness and packed up my things.

I didn't make it to my office until 5:30 that night, my desk covered in a pile of memos, phone messages, and notes from colleagues asking for research from me. I settled in for a long evening of making up for those hours of the day taken away by the State.

The second day was a repeat of the first. A judge walked in, swore us in as jurors, lectured us on the merits of the jury system, and left us to our devices. I unpacked two novels - Richard Russo's Empire Falls and William Gibson's All Tomorrow's Parties - that I had slipped into my briefcase before leaving home, and began reading. Lunch was called a few hours later. I returned from lunch and finished the first novel. The jurors were dismissed, none having been called, a few hours later. I returned to my office, smelling a disturbing trend. They're not going to let us escape, even if they don't need us. They're going to trap us in that basement regardless of whether there is any need for a single juror. My desk, once again, was a mess of telephone messages and memos.

The third day, once again, repeated the trend. We were sworn in, and I settled down in two chairs for a nap. Effectively, I had spent the past two days napping and reading. At 11:00, though, I was called up to another courtroom. Once again, we filed into the freight elevator like cattle. Escorted into the courtroom, I slouched down next to a man wearing a baggy black sweater over a faded purple polo shirt. I rested my eyes for a second before the man caught my attention.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"How come you're all dressed up?" he asked.

I was wearing a sport coat, dress pants and a tie.

"The sheet said to come as we dressed for work." I explained, and slouched down further, hoping to slip back into the nap I had begun in the basement.

"What do you do?" he whispered.

I smiled.

"I'm a lawyer."

The man laughed and nudged an older fellow in front of us. The older man wore a satin VFW jacket and appeared to be constantly adjusting his dentures by slipping his jaw back and forth.

"No way he's getting called," he whispered to the older man. "He's a lawyer."

The old man laughed.

"I'm sure you guys have a deal worked out where you don't call each other for the juries," the old man said.

I rubbed my eyes.

"I don't know," I answered. "God knows, I wouldn't pick me. No one in their right mind would pick me."

The man in the sweater and polo shirt nudged me. "So what do I have to do to get out of this?"

Blinking, I thought for a second.

"Well, besides being me, you have to be either a doctor, priest, or engineer."

"Why those?"

"A doctor knows too much about the body and medicine. An engineer knows too much about math and is too analytical. A priest... well, people tend to defer too often to priests."

I had made up the part about the priest, but it sounded good. My colleagues in personal injury law had mentioned the other two professions to me as ones they wouldn't accept onto juries.

"What if you don't do any of that?" He asked.

"Act like you're reasonably intelligent, have a decent income, and a clue about what the hell's going on, and you're pretty much guaranteed to get removed from a jury."

The judge came into the courtroom and introduced the jurors to the two attorneys and the parties. He explained that the matter stemmed from a consumer fraud action relating to the purchase of a sedan, and began the selection of the first eight jury candidates. I was skipped over for the first round, to my relief. Please, please please. Please don't select me as a juror. I have to write a motion. Please don't make me come in for another day of this. I was hedging my bets. I theorized that, if I wasn't called to a jury by the end of Wednesday, I would be dismissed. No judge would start a case on a Thursday or Friday.

The first juror was excused after he explained that he had bought a car from the dealership being sued. The judge called up a second juror, a young woman in conservative clothing. She wore an engagement ring and simple, slightly unfashionable glasses. The judge began questioning her, part of the same voir dire routine that the other jurors had undergone. She was a nurse who lived with her parents, but she intended to move out once she was married. He asked her what her family members and her future husband did, and she explained that most of them worked for an ambulance company. The judge asked her what magazines she read, what television shows she watched, and what hobbies she enjoyed. After she answered that she would have no hardships if she served as a juror, the judge moved on to the man next to her.

The man was in his mid-forties, it appeared. He worked at a deli counter in a nearby supermarket, and wore a short-sleeve Oxford shirt with what appeared to be a tie provided by the supermarket. On the backs of his forearms were tattoos of dragons that seemed vivid in the courtroom light. The judge ran through the voir dire questions with the man until the man stated that he did have a hardship. The judge called the man up to the bench for a sidebar conference between him, the judge, the two attorneys, and the court clerk. After a few minutes, the judge dismissed the man, and called up another juror.

The juror was an older woman with thick glasses. She wore a stained red sweatshirt and baggy blue sweatpants. Her hands were shaking as she approached the jury box. Before the judge could begin his voir dire questioning, the woman began babbling.

"Please, I can't do this. My doctor said with the stress and my son, he killed himself and I'm alone, and I can't do this because of the decisions and the tension..." she began before the judge cut her off and asked her to approach for a sidebar conference. Most likely, both attorneys felt compelled to let the woman go, rather than lose sympathy with the other jurors. The woman nearly ran out of the courtroom after the judge dismissed her from the panel. The judge looked back down at his list, attempting to hide a wide grin that had spread over his face as the woman ran from the room.

"Mr. TPB?" he called out.

"Yes, Your Honor," I answered as I stood. A few heads turned in the courtroom. I was the first person to use the phrase "Your Honor" in reference to the judge. I was called up to the jury box as juror seven, and the voir dire questioning began. Shit. I thought. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Would you state your name for the record?" The Judge asked.

"Yes, Your Honor. My name is TPB, Esquire, appearing on..." I paused. I wasn't appearing on behalf of anyone, I realized. The phrase had become habit when introducing myself to judges.

"And you heard the voir dire questions I asked of the other jurors?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Your Honor, I am currently employed as an attorney of the ________ Law Firm. I am an associate specializing in family matters and criminal litigation. My mother, your honor, is an administrator and guidance counselor at the __________ High School. My father is an administrative law judge, appellate team, Midatlantic Region, for the United States Department of the Treasury, Internal Revenue Service."

I could hear a few snickers from the back of the courtroom. The sheriff's officer guarding the room smirked. I must be the first lawyer they've had, I thought.

The judge looked at me for a beat.

"Continue, please, counsel."

"Thank you, Your Honor," I answered, and tried to remember the questions asked of the other jurors. "Um... My hobbies are backpacking, skiing, and photography. I, uh... I don't watch television, really. Well, other than movies and 'The Simpsons.' I read four newspapers: the New York Times, the Asbury Park Press, the New Jersey Lawyer, and the New Jersey Law Journal. I read the following magazines: Backpacker, Outside, GQ, and, um, National Geographic. Ah... as for the rest...." I thought for a second, and then reconsidered answering the questions.

"Your Honor, may I approach the bench?"

"Counsel," the Judge answered, looking at the two trial attorneys, "please come forward."

I walked over to the witness stand, where the judge had situated a microphone on a separate system from the one broadcasting to the courtroom. The judge instructed me to speak into the microphone as I spoke with him and the two attorneys.

"Thank you, Your Honor," I whispered as I crouched in order to speak into the microphone. The posture forced me to look up at the judge from an awkward angle. "Your honor, I do apologize, but I have a convention at the end of the week, and I am to give a talk there that I do need to prepare for. Would it be possible to be excused?"

The Judge pointed at the defense attorney before as he answered. "Sorry, counsel. He's going too."

We chuckled at that point, recognizing the bizarre circumstances that had forced me into a position normally held by laymen. "So I'll be able to get out of here in time to make it to A.C. for the lecture?"

"I promise," the Judge answered. "We should be in here today and tomorrow, and then Monday, if necessary."

I frowned. The judge didn't seem to understand that the tomorrow in question - Thursday - was the day I had to be in Atlantic City for the lecture.

"Okay, then. Well, thank you Your Honor." I answered.

I returned to the jury box. The judge concluded his questioning of me by asking me to list the vehicles my family owned or leased, and whether I had any knowledge of valuation. I listed our vehicles and explained that I had written multiple articles on the valuation of closely-held businesses. Again, the judge, the trial attorneys, and I suppressed our respective smiles. We all know it's a joke that I'm here, I thought.

"Finally, counsel," the Judge asked, "do you think you could defer whatever interpretation you may have of the law for the interpretation I provide for you?"

The question threw me. I thought about it for a second. The truth of the matter was that I wasn't sure I could do that. I knew just enough law to know what I thought would be proper interpretations of it. As I started thinking about the issue, I began to realize what a problem it would be if I were selected for the jury. I couldn't help but mouth, silently, objections when watching other attorneys litigate. What would happen if I did so from the jury box? What if I did genuinely disagree with the judge's interpretation of the law?

"Honestly, Your Honor, I will do my best."

"I don't want you to do your best, counsel," the Judge responded. "I want to know whether you can do it - yes or no?"

I took a deep breath. "Yes, Your Honor."

The judge turned over the floor to the trial attorneys, who began the process of excusing those jurors they didn't like. The first to go was a woman who sat next to me on one side. She was a homemaker, and wore what appeared to be an outfit from Banana Republic along with a Tag Heuer watch and stylish glasses. Her husband was an investment banker. She's too educated for plaintiff's tastes, I thought. Next, the plaintiff's attorney asked the judge to excuse the young nurse. I assumed it was because she had working knowledge of car accidents and injuries. I ended up being the first juror nixed by the defendant, and a slight titter went up in the courtroom. I stood up.

"Thank you, Your Honor," I said as I exited the jury box. As I made my way past the litigants' tables, I whispered my thanks to the two attorneys for excusing me. Outside the courtroom, the young nurse who had been excused by the judge waited by the window that allowed people to peer into a courtroom.

"Hi," I said, still in a whisper, a habit I seemed to develop around courtrooms, as though they were like churches or art museums.

She smiled and we began talking.

"The second I heard you say that you were a lawyer, I knew you wouldn't get picked," she said.

"Well, I wasn't so sure," I answered. A colleague of mine had recently served on a criminal jury. "Regardless, I'm glad I'm done with it."

"Don't you have two more days?"

"Sure, but we'll probably be excused today if we're not called up again," I explained.

We went down to the jury pool, where I returned to napping. After an hour, the jury administrator excused us for the week, explaining that no more juries were being called for the week, as I expected. We fled the jury pool for the warm spring air like children from a schoolhouse.

Strolling to my car, I thought about how juries tended to be selected, musing on the fact that most of the jurors were seemingly retired, unemployed, or homemakers. Those that weren't disqualified from the jury I sat on tended to be uneducated and appeared to fall into the lower income brackets. There was an implicit assumption being made about the decision-making qualities of these people: they were just dumb enough to do what the lawyers wanted them to do. I didn't like the idea behind that. It struck me that such a thing didn't serve the interests of the litigants, or of the law in general. Better that we have jurors selected completely at random, without voir dire, other than questions relating to conflicts of interest or knowledge of the parties, witnesses, and adversaries, than those selected for their lack of education, experience, or intelligence. This, however, was not the system that has evolved, and I knew my colleagues that tried cases before juries would find my suggestion frightening. I could imagine them asking why I would be willing to give up an attorney's right to question jurors about their beliefs. My reasoning, as best as I could formulate it, was that I didn't want the attorneys to select those jurors whose beliefs were largely simplistic or in line with what the attorney wanted them to believe. "A jury of peers" was promised to us. Weren't we likely to have peers who were intelligent, well-educated, perhaps in disagreement with us, perhaps aware of the law or of science? If so in the real world, why not in the jury box?

Settling in for my drive back up north to the office, I realized that, really, I was more relieved that I wouldn't have to serve on a jury for the rest of the week. I returned to the building just in time for one of my bosses to assign an answer to an Order to Show Cause to me.

"The judge is going to hear argument on Friday, so I'll want that done and out by tomorrow morning," he explained.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly 5:30 in the evening. Shaking my head with a smile as I walked down to my office, a part of me wondered if I would have been better off trapped back at the courthouse.

I filed the reply papers, as requested, the next day, and made my way down to Atlantic City just fifteen minutes before my presentation, which went off without a hitch, other than a few minutes of nervous stuttering. Returning from Atlantic City on Friday, $280 richer from the tables and slightly hungover from the free drinks given to us by the fine people of Bally's, I received a call from the law clerk for the judge who was hearing our argument. The judge had accepted my reasoning and dismissed the opposing party's motion with prejudice and fees (granting counsel fees is a rare occurrence, and I was decidedly pleased). Not bad for a week spent largely in the basement of a courthouse, it seemed.

a city with a hopeless street light

The snow came down hard the weekend before my trip to Aruba. “The fourth worst snowstorm in the Tri-State History” proclaimed the news anchors. I wasn’t around for the three previous ones. I spent the snowstorm of 1996, the infamous nor’easter that laid flat the Mid-Atlantic sprawl from Alexandria to Nashua, in Boston. It was the spring break of my sophomore year, and I had decided to spend it alone in the city. Wandering the trenches that the city public works department or the campus facilities crews had dug, I felt as though I was seeing, in some small part, what the siege of Stalingrad must have been like.

This year’s blizzard, another nor’easter, albeit with a very wide swath, gave me the opportunity to spend some quality time with my parents. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I was trapped at home for two days. Like it or not, an expanse of time had been opened up before me. King’s X, the weather declared, your date book is now cleared.

The prospects seemed daunting.

The adage that distance makes the heart grow fonder is true in my family, at least for me. I love my family. I just don’t like the idea of being with them on a constant basis for more than twelve hours. Shoveling snow on Sunday, I found myself reverting back to old behaviors, old habits, in dealing with my father.

“Are you going to come out and shovel with me?” I asked him on Sunday night.

“Now?” he asked.

“No, Dad, next Thursday at three in the afternoon. I just want to put it in my handheld now.”

He didn’t come out to shovel that night. I cleared the front walk, grumbling to myself about how I would probably get harassed later this week with his traditional complaint that I never do anything to help him out (he did, in fact, make that complaint). I never really thought about the fact that I was obnoxious for snapping at him as I did. No, doubt and self-criticism never comes quickly, at least for me. The injury has to be sufficiently irreparable for me to realize my fault.

By Monday morning, another two feet of snow had fallen. I woke up late and shuffled downstairs. Bedhead giving me a lopsided, somewhat stoned look, I stood in the kitchen, blankly staring out at the snowfield behind my house. I could hear my father starting up the snow blower in the garage. Shit. I thought. I’m going to have to go out and do this again.

It took us four hours to finish shoveling that day. Afterwards, I went upstairs to read William Gibson’s latest novel, Pattern Recognition. My father stayed downstairs, watching ESPN. In the kitchen, my mother contentedly worked on baking. It was all terribly domestic, in every sense of the adjective.

Domesticity has its way of coming to a close, and the evening’s events demanded my departure from the home. I came downstairs after finishing the novel, and watched as my father repeatedly pressed random buttons on the home theater I had built for him.

“It doesn’t work,” he said.

“What, the Dolby? I told you, we needed more speakers for tha-“

“No,” he said, “not that.”

“DVD?”

“No, the satellite. It doesn’t work.”

“Let me see what I can do with it.”

My father stopped pushing random buttons. I noted, with some amusement, that the whole time he was fiddling with the home theater system, he had been adjusting the stereo sound from Dolby 5.1, to THX surround sound, to two-speaker sound, and then back to Dolby 5.1. Not once had he recognized that he was ignoring the satellite component.

I turned on the dish, and watched as the screen indicated that it was searching for a signal.

“Did you do anything to it?”

“No,” he said.

I reset the satellite receiver, and went upstairs to check the separate one I had set up there. The upstairs dish worked. I walked back down to the downstairs system. My father was now pressing random buttons on the satellite dish’s remote control, shifting from menu to menu.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey… don’t do that. In fact, don’t do anything just yet. Let me see if I can figure this out,” I said.

He nodded, and went upstairs.

I began to adjust the calibration of the receiver, making sure that it was directed at the proper line of sight, that it was capable of storing information, and that the connections from the dish to the receiver were in order. As I finished up with the final task, the television’s screen switched from the traditional menu to a second of static and then a blinking error message.

No signal. No signal. No signal.

My father came downstairs.

“I adjusted the dish. Is it any better?” he asked.

I looked at him for a second, my mind blank.

“Um… you didn’t happen to keep it on the same declination, did you?” I asked.

“The same what?”

It’s okay, I thought. There’s nothing you can do. Without the satellite dish pointed in the right direction, it would not receive signals from whatever EchoStar satellite beamed information down to us. He means well.

“Okay well it’s broken broken. As in, it can’t be fixed by us.”

My father looked at the television somberly, as if it were a fallen comrade.

“If you call the DishTV people, they’ll figure it out for you. Someone will probably have to come over, though.” I said. It offered him slim consolation.

He found the ray of light amidst these clouds soon enough, though.

Eagerly, he walked over to his collection of videocassettes and thumbed through them, carefully selecting a tape.

“We can still watch tapes, can’t we?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Well, I’ve got a great one here,” he said as he turned on the old videocassette recorder he kept.

I sat on the arm of the love seat, an old habit my mother hated. The screen was full of static for a second, but then suddenly a basketball game appeared.

“What is this?”

“1999. BC versus U Conn,” my father answered as he settled down into his seat on the couch.

“You tape old basketball games?”

“I tape every sporting event I watch.”

I thought this over for a second.

“Wait a minute, weren’t you at this game?” I asked.

“Yep. Maybe we’ll see me.”

I pondered the post-modernism of that statement for a second before shaking my head as I snapped out of it.

“Wait. You tape games that you’re at?”

“Yep.” My father looked at me like I had asked him with incredulity about the fact that he tied his shoes.

“But you’re there?”

“Yeah,” he answered, blinking, “but I like to relive the games.”

It was time for me to go. Instead of replying, I went upstairs, bundled up in my down jacket, the one friends jokingly referred to as my “gangsta’” jacket, and threw on a cap, a pair of driving gloves, and grabbed my camera bag. I moved quickly. I was frantic.

“I’m going into town,” I told my father. He nodded absently.

Driving into town, I watched as the last gasps of the nor’easter came down. Broad, airy flakes tumbled down on the roads, still thick with snow and ice. As I drove, I pulled out my cell phone and began dialing the number of a pub at which a friend of mine tended bar.

“Dublin House,” he answered.

“Tell me you’re open!” I shrieked.

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughed.

Thank God. I closed the cell phone, flipped it onto the passenger seat, and slowly continued driving. The snow has a way of giving a place, once familiar, a new and alien look. I decided to take some photographs, to capture that effect.

I stopped in front of the local pharmacy so I could take a few pictures of the snow for a friend that lived down south. The pharmacy, one I've never entered, is a relic from the fifties. Its neon sign is a reminder, to aficionados of the era, such as myself, of a day when men wore hats and when automobile design required fins, not because of aerodynamics, but rather because… god damn it, a car needed fins! I took a few shots of the building, focusing on the neon as a few illegals pedaled by me on their bicycles. In my town, many of the restaurants, bars, and shops are cleaned by illegal immigrants from Mexico. Without citizenship, they have no way of obtaining drivers' licenses, and so there is a contingent of young men that ride around the town on old Schwinns or Huffy BMX bicycles. To most, the illegals seem to quietly fade into the background. I like them, and, although I dislike the idea of illegal immigration, I admire their work ethic. Life is hard for them, yet I've never seen seek out pity as he busses a table or does yard work. It's a tough life they lead in that shadow between legitimate society and the underworld. In my mind, though, I envision that one generation lives that life to advance the lives of the next generation. That makes the endeavor worthwhile.

Down the street, after I had finished taking photographs of the pharmacy, police cars blocked off the central square on Broad Street. Behind them, front-end loaders and tractor trailer rigs engaged in snow removal in front of the upscale boutiques and the cigar bar, Ashes. It used to be that these boutiques and somewhat self-important bars and restaurants were unheard of in Red Bank. Twenty years ago, business leaders and politicians jokingly referred to the town as "Dead Bank." Growth had been stifled for nearly a decade. Most of the major stores - Bloomingdale's Department Store, F.W. Woolworth's, and the like - had left the town. All that remained were a few local stores. Prown's, one of the last true general stores on the East Coast, remained in its sturdy red brick building, selling lawn chairs, screen doors, model trains, candy, and anything else that caught one's fancy. In the summertime, they would bring out a wooden barrel, in which they would deposit countless American flags. Flapping in the light breeze that comes off the Navesink River, cooling the city, the flags always caught my eye as a child. A few doors down from Prown's was Carroll's Stationery. Carroll's was another old time store, one of the few places where one could order custom paper - truly custom paper, where one could pick out the hue of the sheet, its texture, and even if there should be flecks of another color infused into the paper. There, my mother bought me my own set of writing stationery when I went through the Sacrament of Confirmation. It was a full set, with paper sizes that were last widely used during the late Nineteenth Century, in the high culture of Wharton or Cabot Lodge. Carroll's left years ago, after its owners (the great-grandchild of the original owners and his wife, elegant, quiet people who always smelt of the talc used to keep moisture from the paper goods) died in a car accident. Their son, just seventeen, sold the store for a hefty sum. Now, the Carroll's lot has been given over to a store that sells upscale furniture, and, in a unique combination, also offers Spanish tapas and Brazilian rodizio. I haven't gone in since the stationer left. I still have a few sheets left of the paper my mother purchased at Carroll's, a deep, rich brown with neat lines impressed upon its surface, my initials in black embossed in an architect's font on the top.

The snow removal was going slowly. Most of the cops and road crew workers eyed me suspiciously as I trudged through the snow banks alongside them. I still wore my suit and overcoat from work, although my tie hung loosely a few inches beneath my throat.

Throughout the eighties, Red Bank languished. Economically, the city seemed slowly destined to follow Asbury Park or Flint, and slowly become a necrotic reflection of itself. By the mid-nineties, however, Red Bank had made a complete turnaround, widely considered a model community within New Jersey. Its revival was so remarkable that urban planners studied the town. My doctoral dissertation was on Red Bank, making economic comparisons between it and Jersey City.

The prime mover behind the growth and development of Red Bank was not the deus ex machina of the American economy, which lifted most of the nation into a higher financial state, but rather a small group of local business owners. These business owners, some who had stayed in the town through the lean eighties, others who had just arrived, eager to leave Wall Street for a shot at being a small town entrepreneur, created a private foundation called RiverCenter to improve the commercial state of the town. When Red Bank passed an ordinance, authorized under New Jersey law, that declared a large swath of the town to be a "Business Improvement District," the RiverCenter was authorized to take away zoning and variance authority from the town, and control the development in that region.

Improvement was quick and significant. The Business Improvement District ("BID") took a page from the school of architecture and urban planning known as New Urbanism, a revisiting of classical, early 20th Century notions regarding space and zoning made most famous by Andres Duany and Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk. Duany and Plater-Zyberk, founders of Duany Plater-Zyberk & Co., Architects and Town Planners, are most well known for designing Seaside, Florida (where The Truman Show was filmed) and Kentlands, Maryland. Their design is decidedly a return to late 19th and early 20th century architecture. One almost expects the cast of Our Town or The Music Man to appear while strolling the streets of any of their developments.

I walked away from the snow removal site after taking a few photographs. Slipping as I trudged through the snow in my wingtips, I made my way down a side street, past the back entrance to Jack's, a local record shop that occupies a Victorian-era brownstone. The shop, one of the few independent record shops in the area, has a varied clientele - patchouli-scented members of the local surfing and skateboarding cliques mingle with investment bankers and local celebrities (it was here that both Jon Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen debuted their latest albums). I like the place, but sometimes the clerks remind me a little too much of High Fidelity.

Duany Plater-Zyberk's towns are quaint. They have charm. Red Bank, however, took a different, more individualistic course when it grew. Rather than become quaint, it became lively. New restaurants, three of which stole chefs from Manhattan, sprung up in the region (The Olde Union House, the Pastaria, and the Red Bank Bistro). Nightclubs, one specializing in funk and jazz, another in punk rock and heavy metal, and others that follow the traditional acoustic pub routine, developed, and with them came a devoted group of barflies. I, myself, settled here, at the Dublin House.

At the bar, my friends and I cracked jokes about escaping our homes. Hugh, my closest friend in Red Bank, found me as I tried to park the Sable in the lot behind the Dublin House. My car fishtailed and slid across the lot as I tried to force the car into the proper position for a space. Laughingly, he helped me push the car into a spot.

“What the hell were you doing out there?” he asked, “You can barely drive in this weather.”

“It was an emergency – or at least that’s what I was going to tell the cops.”

The police were, officially, at least, enforcing a ban on non-emergency traffic.

“Yeah, what,” Hugh asked, was that emergency? You were getting the DTs?”

“No. I was preventing a double homicide,” I answered.

I explained to Hugh how my father had destroyed our satellite system and he chuckled. He explained to me that he had been trapped at his ex-fiancée’s house for the duration of the snowstorm. After a few hours of unwinding, releasing tension after our brief travails, we went our separate ways.

I trudged down through the snow to the Broadway Diner, the local sobriety station for the town. Popping in through the brushed aluminum and glass doors, I passed the Greek owner who sat quietly at the cashier’s station, counting money. He waived at me without looking up. Snow plow drivers and third shift cops and nurses sat at the counter in front of the coffee urns that seemed to have been lifted from the USS Alabama and row after row of pound cakes, danishes, bear claws, and Italian cookies.

“Hey, Nancy,” I said to one of the waitresses, a friendly woman who had been working at the diner since I was in high school.

“Hey, babe,” she answered, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing deeply as she smiled.

“Can I get a coffee regular to go, equal instead of sugar?”

She gave me a “sure thing, hon” and took care of the coffee.

The diner, the pub, and the very streets of Red Bank had, over the years, become a focal point in my life. It was a place to which I felt a deep connection, as though the town was a part of my family. Walking out of the diner, back to a car that I would nearly launch off the road on the way back home, I was content to be, quietly, a part of the town.

hands

I.

"Lighting a lamp, Wing Biddlebaum washed the few dishes soiled by his simple meal and, setting up a folding cot by the screen door that led to the porch, prepared to undress for the night. A few stray white bread crumbs lay on the cleanly washed floor by the table; putting the lamp upon a low stool he began to pick up the crumbs, carrying them to his mouth one by one with unbelievable rapidity. In the dense blotch of light beneath the table, the kneeling figure looked like a priest engaged in some service of his church. The nervous expressive fingers, flashing in and out of the light, might well have been mistaken for the fingers of the devotee going swiftly through decade after decade of his rosary.”

Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio, "Hands."

In 1919, Sherwood Anderson published an influential collection of short stories entitled Winesburg, Ohio. These stories centered on the affairs of the denizens of the small, mostly agrarian town. Much like Edgar Lee Master’s Spoon River Anthology, or Sinclair Lewis’ Main Street, Anderson’s tales reflected something more than just the lives of those that resided in the town. The stories can be used as a microcosmic reflection of human behavior. I suppose some would say that all stories are designed to reflect all of humanity, but I disagree. There are stories that are pertinent only to their own little worlds, and in those worlds, become sirens, threatening to draw the reader into a fantasy that the world is real, and just as beautiful as on the printed page.

Anderson opened up forcefully in Winesburg, Ohio. The first story, "Hands," tells of a schoolmaster who was accused of engaging in untoward sexual conduct with one of his students. Later, as many of the other students recounted how the schoolmaster had tousled their hair or placed his hand on their shoulder, the men of a small Pennsylvania town gathered together. In response to these accusations, the men had a simple solution. The schoolmaster would be hanged. However, their resolve was tested upon facing the schoolmaster.

“They had intended to hang the schoolmaster, but something in his figure, so small, white, and pitiful, touched their hearts and they let him escape. As he ran away into the darkness they repented of their weakness and ran after him, swearing and throwing sticks and great balls of soft mud at the figure that screamed and ran faster and faster into the darkness.”

II.

Toward the balmy close of November 1998, I was nearing the end of my first semester at Georgetown Law. It was, in my mind, a decidedly unpleasant experience. My professors seemed aloof (for the most part), unwilling to interact with their students beyond the mere delivery of lectures. My classmates were a motley bunch, and many of them intimidated me with their intelligence, their wealth, or their social charms. I was amongst a small group that hung along the fringe of our section, not quite an outcast, but intentionally and willingly not a member of the group of students that considered the section to be familial, that considered their peers to be comrades. Law school was a competition, I thought. These are not my peers. These are my adversaries.

I held this belief, then, and hold to this day that, even though someone is my adversary in the field of law, I would hold myself to certain rules of engagement when addressing him or her. I would not stoop to “dirty tricks” or dishonesty, I vowed, somewhat sanctimoniously. I would allow myself to be unyielding, perhaps even callous, but I would never be malicious.

Thus, when the rumors began to circulate regarding Jenny, one of the top students and a notorious “gunner,”[1] I was enraged. The rumor started slowly. Quincy, a jovial yet moody classmate from Kentucky, the friend that eventually got me interested in alt country, whispered to me as we walked out of our Legal Justice Seminar.

“Jenny’s obtained a dispensation from the Registrar. She doesn’t have a time limit on her exams,” he said.

I was puzzled, and I could feel my forehead furrow together.

“She told the registrar that she had carpal tunnel,” he said, “and that she could not type or write at high speeds.”

That day, I saw Jenny walking across the marble floors of the law library. She had her hands in braces that looked remarkably similar to those used for inline skating. I decided not to let on Quincy’s introduction to the issue, and greeted Jenny warmly. It was a warmth I did not feel.

“Good lord, what the heck happened to your hands?” I asked. I tried to keep my pitch high and sympathetic.

Jenny explained that she had developed carpal tunnel syndrome, and that she needed to wear the braces while she wrote. I examined her as she spoke. Jenny was older than most of our classmates. She appeared to be in her early thirties, given the wrinkles around her eyes. She wore a gray sweatshirt emblazoned with the campaign slogan of her father-in-law. Jenny had married the son of a noted Democratic senator from New England.[2] She spoke of her father-in-law constantly in Constitutional Law.[3] This was a topic of amusement and irritation for many of the class. For those, like me, that were on the fringe of the social structure, it was the impetus, along with a few other mannerisms, for a seething rage at a woman’s insistence that her social and political stature, or at least her family’s, mark the starting boundary of all conversations.

“For god’s sake!” I once said. “She’s so f-cking arrogant she refers to the president as ‘Bill.’ Who the f-ck refers to the President by his first name? Do I go around referring to the Pope as Karol? Sweet Christ, she’s a pain in my ass.”

In the first year of law school, I was sufficiently agitated and misanthropic that I considered the personalities of others to be attacks upon myself. Therapy, clearly, might have been helpful.

Jenny and I continued to talk. I asked her if she was going to be able to take her exams. She explained that she had, “unfortunately,” been forced to ask the Registrar for extra time on them.

“Oh,” I said, “that’s too bad.” I sighed, and forced a concerned look. “Well, I hope you feel better soon.”

That day, on my way home from working at the law library, I stopped at Union Station. Inside one of the tourist-oriented kiosks, I picked up a disposable camera. I slipped it into my bag, and continued to walk the brick-lined streets of Capitol Hill to my home.

The next day, Quincy, Rollins, a tall, thoughtful classmate from Alabama, and I sat on the steps of the library, chatting about our exam outlines. I had decided to forego the step of creating an outline, relying on my typed notes instead. The others thought I was mad. We smiled and cracked jokes about each other. I lazily sucked on a cigarette. It was another warm fall day in the District. People were still riding their bicycles to and from class. Some were sitting on the small green between the law library and the classrooms, taking their lunches.

Jenny rode her bike slowly across my field of vision, and I stopped talking. I could see her, just by the side of the law library, unloading books from her backpack and locking up her bicycle. She wore no hand braces.

“Son of a bitch.”

Quincy and Rollins followed my gaze.

Rollins let out a single, throaty laugh.

“Yeah, the hand injury’s really interfering with her lifestyle,” he said in a drawl.

“Can’t f-cking believe the audacity of that woman,” I said. I could, though. I knew it the day before.

This went on for a week more. Jenny would complain about her hands and show up in class wearing hand braces. After classes ended, I saw her resting her hands firmly on the handlebars of her bicycle, peddling home. I followed her, one day, and discovered she lived only two blocks from my apartment. Eventually, I began to take pictures of her riding her bicycle.

The day before the study period ended, and two days prior to our first exam (torts, if I can recall correctly), I had the pictures developed. A few came out, clearly showing Jenny placing her weight on her hands as she rode. One, I was pleasantly surprised to see, even showed her standing up off her seat, leaning forward. Her forearm muscles were tense. She had a slight smile. She looked relaxed.

I gave the pictures to Rollins and Quincy when I ran into them again at the library. They laughed. If we handed them to the Registrar, Jenny’s career at Georgetown was over. After a few minutes, it was clear that we were earnestly considering giving the photographs to the Registrar.

Rollins sighed. “It would be funny,” he said. He shook his head and looked down, laughing quietly.

“She deserves nothing better. Hell, we could make them into those photo greeting cards and send them to the class,” I replied. I held out my hands to indicate a caption. “’Happy Holidays, I just cheated you all out of a fair f-cking curve.’”

“She does deserve it,” Quincy said. “It’s not right.”

Rollins waived his hands, defensively. “It’s your photos. I want no part of it.” He got up and left.

Quincy and I looked at each other. Almost simultaneously, we spoke.

“Shit.”

We weren’t going to do it. I shook my head. We lacked conviction, but we had anger. I took one of the pictures out of the packet, and slapped the remainder against Quincy’s chest.

“Enjoy.” I walked off.

We began exams that Monday. Rollins, Quincy and I didn’t have a chance to talk, and I only ran into Jenny once. After my Civil Procedure exam, I walked upstairs from the classrooms, to the second floor where Georgetown had smaller conference rooms and professorial offices. I had wanted to pick up notes for my Legal Justice exam from the professor’s office. Jenny rounded a corner, and we bumped into each other.

“Hey,” I said. I had little force in my voice.

“Hey.” Jenny answered. She wore her hand braces. She looked nervous. Perhaps she had heard the rumor as it spread around the section.

“How are the exams going?” I asked.

“Good. I’m actually in one now. I just need to proof my essays, and then I’ll be done.” She smiled. “Can’t talk, though.”

I smiled back. “Right, can’t talk. Well, good luck.”

The next day, the basement level, which held the student mailboxes, and the first floor of the building were plastered with photocopied photographs of Jenny, standing as she rode her bicycle, a slight smile on her face. Beneath the photocopied picture was simple caption.

“How’s the carpal?”

Jenny transferred from Georgetown at the end of the first year of law school. She ended up at a highly ranked Ivy League law school. She avoided the section, as a whole, during her final semester at Georgetown. She expressed palpable hatred toward me. I never posted the photocopies of her, though. I can only assume that either Rollins or Quincy had a change of heart.

I keep my single copy of the evidence that Jenny lied about her need for un-timed exams in a filing cabinet next to my desk. Amidst the empty fountain pen cartridges, paper clips, and pencils, Jenny can be seen riding across East Capitol Street, just south of the Supreme Court, her fingers tightly wrapped around her handlebars. I suppose it’s time to throw the photograph out, but it does please me to see it.

Footnotes:
1. In law school parlance, a gunner is a student who is aggressively striving for the top grades. Gunners are typically considered arrogant, sycophantic, and boring. Of course, that could simply be my perception.

2. No, not that one.

3. Which bore the title, in the syllabus, of “Democracy and Coercion.” Unfortunately, Constitutional Law II was only called “Constitutional Law II.” They ran out of amusing, neo-hippie titles for classes after the first year of law school.

updated 7/31/03: formatting, replacement of initials with pseudonyms.

Of Scoutmasters and Scorpions

Today, my family, along with the local Boy Scout Council and Congressman Holt, honored my father for his approximately fifteen years of service to the Boy Scouts of America (BSA). It was a nice event, especially since my father was taken by surprise with it. We told him nothing with regard to the ceremony, instead telling him that we wanted to go to a local Rumson restaurant for brunch.

My father started in the Boy Scouts when I was old enough to join. He saw a lack of adult leadership in the local scout troop, largely due to turnover as older boys (and their fathers) left the troop. He stepped in, along with a close family friend, and eventually ended up running the troop. Through that, he had a remarkable effect on the young men in the area. My father led, taught, and encouraged over 300 young men from 1986 to the present date. Of those, approximately 38 rose to the rank of Eagle Scout, including my brother and myself. Nationally, only about 1% of all Boy Scouts become Eagle Scouts. My father ensured that 12% of his troop attained the rank. It’s a definite achievement, reflective of my father’s dedication and patience. Thus, the surprise event was warranted.

Unfortunately, along with keeping the event a surprise for my father, the planners of the event also kept the fact that I was one of the speakers a secret from me. Thus, I had to ad lib it. Fortunately, though, I was the speaker expected to provide the “roast” portion of the event. I think I managed to pull it off without much stage fright, which is a nice change.

Anyway, here is the speech I used to embarrass both my father and myself in front of a member of the United States Congress:

I want to thank all of you for coming here today. It means a lot to me, and it means a lot to my father. You know, many of you, that my father is very dedicated to scouting. He has given many, many hours of his life to it. Through scouting, my father gave us – those he led – an education on morals, on leadership, and, most importantly, a deep and abiding love for nature.

With that in mind, it’s worth considering how far my father has gone. When he and I first joined scouting, my father was not an outdoorsman. Other than shore casting, my father’s understanding of nature came from a few hours of “Wild America” on a lazy Saturday afternoon. However, he learned the ropes, learned how to camp, and became a master woodsman. Today, I am here to tell you how my father became "one with nature."

Just as my tenure in scouting winded down, in 1994, a year after I returned from my trek of New Mexico [1], my father, enamored with my stories of the Desert Southwest, decided the family needed to take one last trip before I went off to college. As my father was afraid of flying, he got the idea that a cross-country drive would be a great summer excursion.

This…was perhaps one of the worst ideas he ever had.

After many weeks of traveling from National Park to National Park, during which we stayed in campsites with Hell’s Angels or cinder block hunting motels with men who spent their evenings polishing guns that, I think, may have been used to assassinate presidents of small Latin American countries, the family arrived at Arches National Park. Arches, a true desert park, is located in the famous and beautiful Four Corners region of the United States. Filled with beautiful sandstone arches and remarkable rock formations that resemble… well… well… Freud would have been at home in Arches.
We spent a week at Arches, hiking the slot canyons, mountain biking, off-roading in my father’s new SUV… walking back to town after my father crashed his new SUV into a gully, and engaging in many, many other foolishly dangerous yet amusing activities. By the last day in Arches, we were hot, tired, and ready to head back home. We decided to have a nice meal in town, one last night under the stars, and then make a break for civilization in the morning.

So… on the last day, we went into the park’s cool, clean facilities to wash up before heading into Moab for dinner. My father decided to use one of the stalls to relieve himself. My brother and I busied ourselves by washing up, aggravating each other, and all of those wonderful things that siblings do.

You know, one of the most interesting things about visiting our wonderful National Parks is the people you meet. We meet the aforementioned biker gangs, as well as the numerous Europeans that come to America each August, as part of the traditional European summer holiday, in order to take pictures of our natural wonders, complain about the quality of our cheese, and demonstrate to our youngsters that Europe is suffering horribly from the effects of a three-generation embargo on underarm deodorant and women’s shaving products. [2]

As my brother and I washed up, two Germans who we had seen earlier in the week walked into the bathroom. Seeing that the single bathroom stall was occupied, the two Germans stood politely in the corner. I began to brush my teeth, when, from the stall, I heard my father say, in a startled manner, “Oh… Oh my.”

My brother and I turned from the sinks, and watched as my father lunged from the stall.

My father, surprisingly, doesn’t usually leave bathrooms in this manner.

He buckled his pants, and turned towards the German man who was attempting to pass him en route to the stall. My father held up his hand to stop him. He shook his head, and simply said “scorpion.”

The German man looked at him with puzzled eyes.

“Scorpion,” my father said again.

The German didn’t get it.

My father, as we’ve noted today, was always very patient with the scouts he taught. If he couldn’t explain to them how to do something in one fashion, he’d always be willing to try another, until that scout learned. Dealing with the German, my father was no different. Seeing that the language barrier made his words meaningless to the German, my father attempted another method.

Stepping from the podium, I paused for breath. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

He lifted his hands into the air on either side of his head. “You know,” he said, “Scorpion.” He then began to clap his fingers against his thumbs in a pincer-like fashion while, at the same time, swaying his bottom from left to right and back again.

I then began the same horrible, scarring dance-like movements I watched my father engage in while at Arches.

This, quite frankly, did not have the desired effects. Panicked, the German’s eyes bugged out in his head as he slowly backed away from my father. At this point, ladies and gentlemen… at this point, I noticed the final piece to this puzzle….

As you know, my father is a neat, clean man. He would never dare sit on a public toilet seat without some sort of protection. Thus, in the stall, he had carefully lined the seat with long strips of toilet paper. One of those strips, I suppose, had gotten caught in my father’s pants as he escaped the poisonous desert creature.

I turned around, still dancing as my father did in Arches National Park’s restroom. My butt swayed from left to right in front of 150 people. Never before have I intentionally embarrassed myself and others in such a public manner... still, for a laugh like I was getting, I would have probably gone on for another ten minutes like this.

That same strip, ladies and gentleman, was now swaying from the seat of my father’s pants!

It was horrible. The Germans were horrified. I was horrified. Many years of therapy were needed for this episode alone.

Fortunately, my father did not share this horror. That’s because I didn’t tell him about the toilet paper until after he had carried his ‘tail’ into the restaurant, throughout dinner, and on the ride back to the campsite.

Thankfully, though, the Germans safely were able to escape the restroom, free to return to their homeland with tales of deranged American tourists dancing in restrooms. We made it back to New Jersey, and now, we find ourselves here today, inflicting grievous insult on my father’s dignity… and, quite frankly, after that spectacle I just made… mine as well.

After that trip, I went off to college, leaving scouting behind [3]. The interesting thing, though, is that my father stayed on. Long after my brother and I left scouting, my father continued to guide and instruct many of the young men you see here today, and many more beyond these walls, on how to become upright and productive members of society. After my brother and I left, he stayed. You know, there’s two things I take from that. First, my father gave. Freely, and without reservation. The Greeks call this ‘agape.’ Looking out in the audience, though, I think it may actually be an investment. I see out in the audience a group composed of social workers, engineers, med students, teachers and lawyers. All of these people now make great contributions to society. This brings me to my second point. My father’s greatness seems fairly patent to us because it is one that cannot be hidden in bank vaults or portfolios. It is an investment in humanity that has produced great returns. For that, I am thankful. Once again, I’d like to thank all of you, as well, for helping me show appreciation for my father’s many years of dedication.

1. In 1993, I had hiked the trail that runs the length of the Sangre de Christo Mountains from Colorado to New Mexico as part of a BSA promotional stunt. It made for a lot of fun, and began my love for the desert.

2. I know it’s offensive. Please stop slapping me, Francois, your feeble arm movements might stir up a breeze.
3. Enough fun. Time for tribute.

the endgame script

I was in the Superior Court today, down in Monmouth County. That's where the Criminal Division is retrying the State's case against Rabbi Neulander. I only know that because the talking heads from Court TV parked in the Attorney/Jury Parking Lot, rather than that general public lot. They had taped down the power lines for their cameras and transmission vans across the parking lot, which the lawyers, myself included, gleefully ripped up as we drove in for trial call. It's a small bit of passive aggressive revenge for the irritation caused by the court reporters during the Impeachment and 2000 Election cases, back when I was on the Hill.

I was in on a Case Management Conference, where the Judge sets the discovery schedule and addresses any outstanding issues. A Case Management Conference normally is a lot like ordering from a Chinese Take-out Menu. "I'll take the Standard, 90-Day Discovery Track... um... 30 days to propound answers to interrogatories and depositions, and Trial Call in 120 days." Thus begins the countdown to the end of a marriage, spoken with the conviction of an order for General Tso's Chicken and Wonton Soup. Today, though, I knew it was going to be different because there was no attorney on the other side. It was a pro se litigant, a man representing himself. In other words, I had a fruitcake on my hands.

In matrimonial law, you learn to hate pro se litigants rather quickly. They argue from the perspective of emotion, of hatred for their former spouse, or just of plumb madness, asserting that there was no way the Court could ever make them toe the line. They learn that they're incorrect usually after only two contempt of court convictions.

I made my way through the reporters, the chain smoking jurors and dead eyed Sheriff's Officers, to the Attorney's Entrance, avoiding the long line for the metal detectors by the Family Part Entrance to the Courthouse. Across the yellow, institutional linoleum I walked, up to the first floor, where Judge Lincoln's chambers were. Judge Lincoln was new to me. I had never argued before him, and only knew that he was experienced in the matrimonial field. Lincoln's docketing clerk, on the other hand, was a face I recognized. He had been the clerk for Judge Kilo, who had heard my first four cases - all pro bono defense cases - back in early Spring 2002.

The docketing clerk waived me over with a smirk on his face. "I understand you're up against a pro se today. Think you can handle it?"

"Piss off, wise guy, I don't even know if the plaintiff is going to show up."

"How about your girl?" the clerk asked.

"Defendant is definitely not in the mood to be in the same room with the guy. I'm off the leash on this one."

"Wonderful. I'll have Judge Kilo's special cell readied for you." Judge Kilo, who used to do domestic violence actions, used to have a special cell in the basement of the courthouse set aside for lawyers he held in contempt.

"Remember," I replied, "I want the fancy mints on the pillow."

I walked back to the gallery of the courtroom, past the mahogany jury box never used in the Family Part, and slouched down in my back row seat. Just as in church, I mused, I find myself compelled to hide out in the back row.. I flipped open my copy of In Ruins, a new book on architecture and archaeology, and began the waiting game.

In the front, Judge Lincoln began the archaic, formal process of terminating a marriage. The parties and their respective attorneys took their seats, the man at the plaintiff's table, the woman at the defendant's.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We are here today for the matter of Smith v. Smith, Docket number FM-11-21119-01F.[1], Counsel, please make your appearances," the Judge announced.

"Good morning, Judge, Mr. Doe of Doe & Doe, LLC, on behalf of the plaintiff," the man's attorney announced. I studied his gray hair and pale facial stubble. He addressed the Judge as "Judge" in open court. Bad form, I thought. Manners, in law, are as important as being right.

"Good morning your honor," the much younger, female attorney for the defendant began, "Ms. Roe of Roe & Casey, P.A., on behalf of the defendant." Yeah, you caught that too, didn't you? I thought, noting the defense attorney's emphasis of "Your Honor" instead of "Judge."

"Thank you," the Judge responded. "Let's begin. Mr. Doe, sir, you may present the Cause of Action."

"Thanks, Judge," the plaintiff's attorney began. He then turned to his client.

"Mr. Smith, you are here today to put through your settlement of your cause of action for divorce, correct?"

"Yes," the client answered, meekly. He shuffled his feet nervously beneath the table.

Mr. Plaintiff sports a pair of Ferragamo's, I see. Pricey shoes for a man with a two-bit lawyer.

"And you recall the complaint filed on June 1, 2001?" Plaintiff's attorney asked.

"Yes."

"Do you recall the allegations of extreme cruelty as you filed them on June 1, 2001?"

The plaintiff paused, a bug-eyed look of fear crossing his face. He couldn't remember what was in the Complaint.

Bad form, sport. You should have introduced the Complaint first, I thought.

The Plaintiff's attorney realized his mistake. "Allow me to introduce the Complaint filed June 1, 2001 as Document P-1. Do you recognize this document?"

"Yes."

"Is this your signature on page 5?"

"Yes."

"And these are the allegations of extreme cruelty you made in the complaint?"

"Yes," the Plaintiff answered.

"And these allegations were true at the time of signing, as well as today?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." The Plaintiff's Attorney turned to the Judge, pausing only to breathe. "Judge, can I address the agreement?"

"You may, Counsel," the Judge Answered.

I checked my watch as the Plaintiff's Attorney asked his client whether he had seen the document before. 10:00. I had been in court for two hours, and my adversary still had not arrived. I motioned to the docketing clerk, pointing at him, then pointing to my eyes with two fingers, and then to the door with my thumb. He slipped from his chair beside the Judge and walked out of the back of the courtroom, to the chamber passageway. Behind each courtroom in New Jersey is a secured passage that leads directly to a Judge's Chambers, his or her offices. Attorneys and law clerks are the chosen few that get to see what are usually the overwhelmingly antique-laden offices down the silent, dark chamber passageway. I stepped out the front of the courtroom, meeting the clerk as he rounded the bend from the passageway.

"No adversary still?" He asked.

"None."

The clerk turned to the bailiff standing guard outside Judge L's courtroom. "Did a Mr. Marbury check in with you?"

"What?" The bailiff asked.

The clerk tried again. "Did a Mr. Marbury check in with you?"

The bailiff shook his head and cupped his hand to his ear. I noticed a full bouquet of white hair streaming from the old man's ears. Irritated, I tried.

"Did... A... Mr.... Marbury.... Check In... With... You....? I asked, nearly shouting.

"No. I'm going to get a danish," the bailiff responded, and then doddered off down the hallway.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, could you get someone that isn't deaf for these jobs?" I remarked to the clerk.

"Hear? The senile old bird doesn't even know who I am and I've been here for six years."

"Christ... all right. He hasn't shown up.... so, no plaintiff. The little shit's been stringing us on with discovery for months. He hasn't even filed his CIS."

The CIS, or Case Information Statement, is a mandatory filing that addresses a party's financial state, including income, taxes, assets, expenses, lifestyle (i.e., from how many Eames Chairs owned to how many packs of cigarettes smoked), and child care expenses. Without this, a case lacks direction.

"So what do you want to do?" the clerk asked, looking at me from behind glassy, over-tired eyes.

"Dismiss the little shit. With prejudice. I don't want him back here with his tail between his legs."

The clerk smiled, "And then what, your client and his go back to being married?"

"No, we just submit a new complaint and get a later vesting date on the asset distribution."

"And with your office, that will take all of a week," he said, reflecting the common perception that my firm churns files.

"Yeah, well, more like this afternoon. Still, dismiss him," I answered.

The clerk took in a deep breath. "You sure?"

"Ah... fuck 'em if he can't take a joke."

We laughed, enjoying the bilious game that lawyers play with language. The same false spite that causes me to allege that I want proof of the death of an adversary's mother before granting adjournments, usually by the phrase "Hey, produce the body," causes others to comment on domestic violence law's reluctance to punish first time offenders with the phrase, "that's just the 'one free smack' rule," paraphrasing the tort law rule concerning dangerous pets.

We went back into the courtroom, where the uncontested judgment continued. The defense attorney had begun her examination of her client.

"Ms. Smith, you read the document marked by Plaintiff's Counsel as P-2, the Property Settlement Agreement?"

"Yes," the client answered. She was more certain, more assertive with her answers.

Mr. Smith must have been a real bastard, eh, Ms. Smith? I thought.

"And you understand the terms of this agreement?" Defense Counsel asked.

"Yes."

"Do you understand that you are waiving your right to alimony under this agreement?"

"Yes."

"And you are satisfied with the terms of this agreement?"

"Yes."

"Are you satisfied with the representation provided to you by my firm?"

"Yes."

"Are you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol that may impair your judgment?"

"No."

The process had come to a close. The defense attorney turned to the Judge.

"No further questions, Your Honor."

"Very well then," the Judge responded, "Ms. Smith, is there an issue of you changing your name?"

"Yes, Your Honor, I wish to go back to my maiden name," the Defendant answered.

"Spell that for the Court."

"J-O-N-E-S"

"And, Ms. Smith," the Judge continued, now addressing his section of the well-rehearsed, timeworn script, "Are you changing your name for the purposes of fraud, avoiding creditors, bankruptcy, or any other reason not allowed by law?"

"No..." The defendant answered, confused by the notion of a crime being committed just by returning to her maiden name.

"Very well, then," the Judge answered, having heard the magic word, "I will make my disposition on the record. Smith v. Smith, Docket Number FM-11-21119-01F, before the Superior Court of New Jersey, Chancery Division, Family Part, Monmouth Vicinage, on this day, November 19, 2002, I hereby make my ruling. The plaintiff has stated his case for divorce on the grounds of extreme cruelty. Judgment will be granted on that part. Defendant has made her case for divorce on the grounds of extreme cruelty. Judgment will be granted on that part. The parties have submitted a Property Settlement Agreement, and I am satisfied that it is fair, just, and not the product of coercion or distress. The Agreement will be incorporated under cover of this order and filed with the Clerk. Case Closed. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen." The preceding being a seamless burst of decision, not halted by breath or thought as it rattled across the courtroom.

I gathered my papers. It was my turn. The parties and their counsel made their way past the swinging doors and into the gallery. Mr. Smith and the very-soon-to-be Miss Jones looked at each other awkwardly. It had been an amicable divorce. Now they were nothing to each other, at least until the installment payments on equitable distribution kicked in.

I let them pass, then grabbed my briefcase and exhibit box, and walked to the defendant's table. The docketing clerk slipped up to the Judge's bench and began whispering. The Judge nodded, and then the Clerk disappeared into the chambers passageway.

"Good Morning, Mr. B," the Judge began. I understand we will be dismissing your case today?"

"That is correct, Your Honor. Plaintiff's complaint should be dismissed and sanctions should be imposed for failure to prosecute," I answered.

"Very well, Mr. B. The order will be prepared by my clerk. Thank you very much... and," at this the Judge checked his watch, "this will be all. Court is adjourned."

The Judge, without the pomp of requiring the Sheriff's Officer who guarded the interior of his courtroom to enforce the "all rise" rule, hopped off the bench.

"When is your firm going to come through with another golf outing?" He asked.

"Next June, like clockwork, I assume," I answered.

"Good. Judge Kilo owes me a rematch."

I chuckled, and then sat back down, waiting for the clerk to bring in the order. He walked in, smirking as he carried the three sheets of carbon paper that constituted the Order for Dismissal.

"You owe me, you little bitch." The clerk was in a good mood, having escaped a full day of trial.

"As always. Gin or Scotch?"

"Your firstborn. Sign the order."

I signed off, grabbed the pink and yellow copies - one for me, one for the client - and packed my bags. I had just succeeded in setting back the termination date of marriage against an absent adverse client. By the time he realized that my doing so had cost him whatever stock and income he had received since the first date of divorce, the adverse client (soon to be a defendant, once we served him with our complaint) would be at least $200,000 in the hole.

Hell. Fuck 'em if he can't take a joke.

1. Names and distinguishing features bear no resemblance to any actual case or attorneys. However, an actual uncontested was heard in the Monmouth Vicinage today.

updated 7/31/03: Initials replaced with pseudonyms. Formatting changes.

all a lot of oysters, but no pearls

I met my old lover on the street last night She seemed so glad to see me, I just smiled And we talked about some old times and we drank ourselves some beer Still crazy after all these years...

Still Crazy After All These Years, Paul Simon, from Still Crazy After All These Years (1975).

I met someone from college that I had not seen since graduation. Nearly five years have passed since I've met anyone from college. I liked it that way. No ties. No history. So, when I received the email a few weeks back from Laura, perhaps my closest friend from college, I hesitated before answering.

I finally replied to her email, and, after a few more exchanged messages, we agreed to meet up when Laura was visiting New York for a seminar. My office is only 40 minutes south of Midtown Manhattan by train. Her seminar was just north of Grand Central Station. It was perfect timing. I left early from work last Friday, claiming I had an "appointment", and sped through town to catch the 5:25 to Penn Station (just west of Grand Central Station). Sitting on the train, I reviewed a case addressing the discovery of draft reports by experts while imagining what it would be like to see Laura again for the first time in nearly five years.

Laura and I had been close all throughout college. We were both psychology majors, although I started distancing myself from the field in senior year, when I grew dissatisfied with the reception of my thesis by the faculty. Laura used me as a sounding board for her relationships. I rarely dated in college, far too timid to deal with the sense of exposure I felt when I asked women out. I went the other route, and threw myself into my work. I used Laura to listen to myself identify my anxieties. It calmed me, somewhat. I drank less when we talked often. Towards the end of college, she took to a fellow in a serious way. We saw each other less often. I took up the task of getting into law school. Things fall apart. It happens. There was no falling out. We were still warm to each other, me, to some extent, admiring and smitten by her wholesome, kind nature. She, for reasons I never understood. I still don't. Purity is a paradox when you assume ulterior motives as a practice.

We ate dinner at Cafe Centro, near where her seminar took place. Crowded with what seemed to be a hoard of lawyers, many of whom I suspect work at Davis Polk, Cafe Centro was not quite the atmosphere I was looking for. I wanted quiet. A place to chat. A part of me, calculating and idealistic, wanted an environment where I could control external distractions. I got a crowded bistro with an open kitchen. It had a good wine list, so I was able to accept the outcome. I needed control, I thought. I was unwilling to reveal much of myself around others.

I was a bit uncomfortable with meeting Laura. It wasn't because of Laura or our past friendship. It was because of my sense of what others see what I do and what I've become. I was a much more warm, jovial person in college. Now the bags under the eyes are a little darker. Now family members ask what happened to the off-kilter, wildly funny and morbidly emotional "artist" that used to talk of becoming a novelist. I don't answer. I never explain. Something happened, wherein I traded a certain element of myself normally reserved for the emotional and the beautiful, the sublimely funny and tragic, for the wry, the rational, the bemused objectivity that allows me to will myself through the day. It is zen. I tell myself that all the time. I am now zen and nothing shall affect me.

The point is, I was scared of meeting Laura. Would she think I was a bad person? Until thinking about meeting Laura last week, I had not given much thought to what normal people - those who do not practice family law - think about family law. Friends ask that I not bring up cases, particularly when I do a lot of domestic violence motions. Parents remark, in their prim Catholic fashion, that "people" should not be so comfortable about dealing with sex as a profession. Still, my colleagues and I eye each other with toothy smiles. We like this. This... this is drama. It's Lear and Othello, Luigi Pirandello, Judith Guest, and, of course, as it's law, The Verdict.

Six Characters in Search of an Author

But what would Laura think? An old friend who last saw me as destined to do therapeutic programs for kids or neurochem lab work now sees me as the dissolute lawyer? I stamped out a partially smoked cigarette and walked into the restaurant. Laura sat at the bar. I saw her at once, recognizing her as though she had never aged. This is going to be good. You're not going to fuck this up. I checked my jacket and my briefcase with the coat check and sucked in a deep breath. Just act like a boy scout, and you'll be fine. Even though she can probably smell that last cigarette lingering on your breath, dipshit. I walked over to the bar. She had the same porcelain Irish face. The same freckles. The same wavy brown hair. Damn, she still even wears the same crucifix.

Twenty minutes after we sat down, I began to breath again. I sipped at the wine, a nice merlot. It had been four years, nearly five, and Laura and I traded "war stories." We had our issues. We had our moments of failure. We moved on in our respective histories, just as my ribeye arrived. Dinner was jokes in between bites of steak, old stories of foolishness.

"You nearly were arrested for rappelling off the side of the dorm."

"I tried to surprise you on Halloween, only to be kneed in the crotch."

"Your roommates were insane."

"All roommates were insane."

The plates were being cleared. I started a little rant. "I want one of those little metal things these yahoos use to clear crumbs off the table. Who the hell makes something like that? I mean honestly--"

She reached across the now cleaned table, and grabbed my hand, holding onto my fingers. I shifted my hand around, enveloping her hand in mine. Her hand was soft. I had forgotten how soft women's hands could be. She smiled, but her eyes had a sheen that the light caught. There was another story, I could tell, but it wouldn't be told that night.

"It's good to see you again," Laura said.

"You too." I rubbed her fingers softly with my thumb. "It's been too long," I murmured.

Perfectly bitter espresso came next, along with a bit of mousse. She asked if I came into the city often. I did, I explained. Did she come down from Connecticut much? She wasn't that far north of the city, she said. I paid the check, and went to pick up our coats. The walk down to Grand Central Station, for her train, should give me a few more minutes to enjoy this. A nice brisk city walk, I thought. I helped her put her coat on, and started heading for the front door.

"Where are you going?" She asked.

"I... I thought you needed to catch a train?"

"Yeah," She smiled. "You can go out the back and you'll be directly above the Grand Central Terminal."

"Oh," I answered. "Oh. I guess we go out the back, then."

I walked her to her train terminal. We bid each other farewell. A brief hug, and she turned for the tracks. I turned for the exit, walking across the central atrium of Grand Central Station, under a fresco of stars on a brilliant blue background.

updated 7/31/03: Replaced initials with pseudonyms, revised quotation.

you're a good boy, wallace

Yesterday, as I polished off my second cup of morning coffee and listened only partially to MSNBC, my father stomped into the kitchen. He was wearing his typical mud-spattered biking gear. His helmet gave his head a mushroom shape. I looked at him, perhaps in a manner not terribly hospitable.

"Are you going to be sitting there all day?" he asked.
"No, I'll be heading into work later."
"It's a Sunday, you know," he said.
"And?" I let that one hang in the air.

"There's groceries in the truck. Your mother fell on the boardwalk, and can't carry them. Bring them in."
"Is she all right?"
He nodded and walked off to his office.

I went out and carried in the groceries. My mother was in the garage, examining her mountain bike, particularly the slight dent in the frame. After carrying the groceries into the kitchen, I went back out to the garage.

"You all right?" I asked.
"Yeah. I hurt my hip and skinned my elbow when I fell."
"Worse things could happen."
"Yeah, well, your father's mad at me. He said I was going too fast."
"Were you?"
"Probably."
"Oh well," I sighed. "Can't say I wouldn't go too fast either."

Later, after putting away the groceries, I went upstairs to do some cleaning. My mother was in one of the upstairs bathrooms, trying to clean the abrasion on her elbow. The skin had been ripped raw from her fall, and her elbow was a sticky red spot about the size of a plum. She had a large flexible fabric Band-Aid in her hand.

"Can you help me put this on?" My mom asked.
"Sure." I put down the shirt I was hanging up, and reached around her onto the bathroom counter for the small tube of neosporin I saw sitting there.

"You know, it's going to scar," I said.
"That's all right, I had another scar there."

I put the neosporin on in small circles, careful not to get it on my fingers. It felt strange, applying a Band-aid on my mother. Right players, wrong roles, I thought.

"Dad's probably right. I shouldn't have been going so fast," Mom said. She was talking to herself more than me. I said nothing, and took the Band-Aid from her hand. I debated the orientation of the Band-Aid. Do the strips go across the length of her arm, or do they go across the breadth of her elbow?

"Which way?" I asked.
"Across."

I slowly applied the Band-Aid.

"I guess I'm getting too old to go fast," she said.
"It was raining." Take the explanation, I hoped.

"I suppose you could look through Prevention magazine, see what it has to say," I joked.

She laughed.

"Okay. All done."

I drove to work a few hours later. Halfway across the Driscoll Bridge, just over the moorings for the cabin cruisers and fishing boats at Lawrence Harbor, I realized I was stupid. I shouldn't have said that joke about Prevention. I should have told her I thought she was young, that she was always young and funny to me. She was my mom. I should have said something better, something caring.

Today, I struggled through work, trying to get everything done, but I still dwelled over what I had said. I say so many things without thinking, and cursed my stupidity.

I want those sentences back, but they're not retrievable. Indelibly written into the record, words evidence my weakness.

excuse me if I break my own heart tonight

Well, excuse me if I break my own heart tonight It's mine from the finish I guess It's mine from the start Situation just don't seem so goddamned smart Situation is tearing me apart

Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart Tonight, Whiskeytown, from Stranger's Almanac.

Saturday, as previously discussed, was supposed to be the night of the big outing between myself and Helen. It began well, as I spent the early part of the evening celebrating my father's birthday. We had a homemade meal of veal marsala (thanks to my mother, who is both the greatest supporter of my carnivorism and the greatest enemy of my attempts to eat healthily). We gave my father his gifts: tickets to an upcoming Mets game, DVDs, a Mets hat, a photo box, and... from my preposterously cheap godmother, a fishing rod from the dollar store. To be exact, a fishing rod from the dollar store with the price tag still on it. $7.99. My godmother rents three homes in an affluent shore town, drives a Cadillac, and lives in a monstrosity of a McMansion. Still, she gave my father a $7.99 (plus tax!) fishing rod. For Christmas, she gave me a car air freshener, Maxwell House coffee, and Altoids. I suppose the last is designed to cancel out the deleterious effects of the middle gift.

As my parents settled in to watch their new movies (The Lord of the Rings), I went upstairs to shower and prep for the date. I dashed out the door, ready for battle. I had my clean shoes, my non-wrinkled casual pants, and a fresh mouth (thanks, godmother!). I started up my freshly cleaned, waxed, and vacuumed (shitty) Sable, and drove down to Sea Bright.

Sea Bright, along with Atlantic Highlands, is the East Coast's answer to Cannery Row. Ramshackle bungalows, family owned bait 'n tackle shops, and beach-lined bars and restaurants dot the isthmus that runs from Sandy Hook National Recreation Area to the chaos of Asbury Park. Saturday, I was going to meet Helen at Donovan's Reef. Donovan's Reef, named after one of the lesser John Wayne films, is a cinder block bar. Normally, you would not entertain the thought of taking a woman to a cinder block bar, but Donovan's also occupies about three acres of beach, and has outdoor bars that dot the high tide mark. People can spend their evenings barefoot, sand slipping between their toes, as they nurse their drinks. This may have been the sort of therapy initially proposed by Carl Rogers when he founded the humanistic school of psychotherapy. Assuming, of course, that he was a lush.

I was halfway to Donovan's Reef when Helen called me on my cell phone. Tearfully, she began apologizing, explaining that she could not go out that night.

"I'm sorry, I just can't do it." She said, sniffling.

"Hey that's all right. What's wrong?" I tried being consoling.

She explained that her mother was ill, that she had cancer, in fact. If this is an overly dramatic version of "I'm washing my hair tonight," I thought, this may constitute the coldest excuse I've ever heard. This may even top my "I'm sorry, but I'm a workaholic" excuse. Still, there was no way I could know whether she was honest or making up an excuse not to go out. My profession told me to assume the worst. My belief in human nature suggested that, while the worst was possible - perhaps even likely - it would be a repulsive response on my part to assume that she was lying. If Helen lied, so be it. However, if she was telling the truth, and I was, in any way, unsympathetic, then I became an evil bastard. Tough call. I decided that the only honorable thing to do was to assume that Helen was telling the truth.

"It's all right," I said. By now I had pulled my car over to the side of the road. I rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. "Look, you don't have to feel bad. These things happen. If you need anything, just let me know."

She thanked me, we said our goodbyes, and we hung up.

I don't know why, but I drove to Donovan's Reef anyway. It was nearly 10:30 PM as I sat down at the bar. I ordered a beer, and sat there. I was disappointed, but at the same time, I was still full of doubt. Do I assume the worst in people in my personal life, and do damage control accordingly, just as I do in my professional life? At work, I know that there are only three truths: (1) the adverse party is almost always lying; (2) your client is almost always lying; and (3) even though your own client is almost always lying, you still have to follow their direction, unless they give you hard evidence that directly contradicts their statements. In my personal life? I know nothing. Certainty disappears once I leave the comfortable order of legal practice.

So, there I sat. I finished off the first beer, and moved on to another one of the cabanas to order my second beer. Halfway through that one, I got fed up with sitting at the beach, listening to people having a good time. I stamped out one of the many cigarettes I had chain-smoked, and drove inland to Red Bank. Sweet Red Bank, home of one of the best bars to go to while miserable: the Dublin House. The Dub, as just about everyone calls it, is a utilitarian, dingy Irish pub. It's a fun place to go to when you don't particularly care where you go or what happens to you. The walls, once clean, golden wood, had taken on a tarry appearance due to the decades of cigarette smoke that covered them. The bar, a pink copper-plated beam, was tarnished and (frequently) sticky. Still, the bartender was a good fellow, quick with an absurd joke. Still further, it was the first place where I had ever ordered a beer - legitimately or otherwise - and had once been home to a coffee house where I spent six years of my late adolescent life, arguing damn near every point possible with a dear friend, Julius.

I walked into the Dub, and climbed the stairs up to the men's room. Halfway there, a voice called my name from behind me. Hugh, a classmate of mine from high school, waived up at me.

"Come down after you're done playing with yourself and I'll buy you a beer, you bastard!" he shouted over the folk music that blared throughout the bar. I nodded and waived my hand in mindless agreement.

"Sure, sure," I mumbled, mostly to myself, "have a beer, a few jokes, a regular guys' night out."

After a few drinks, the evening had improved somewhat. Hugh and I engaged in our usual banter - movies and philosophy - that made discussions with him so pleasing. He was one of those rare breeds of men, never having finished college, who knew more about the liberal arts than most college professors. He spent his days working as a painter and as a sommelier at a local restaurant. Montaigne, writing on education, spoke of the fact that he sometimes wondered whether his education - the lycee, the university, and then tutelage as a lawyer - made him any more full a person than the woman who tended his cabbage fields. Every time I talk with Hugh, I get that same feeling.

I returned to work on Monday, basically feeling blase' about the whole weekend. Rick asked about the "Big Night" as soon as he saw me.

"Well?" he asked, exuberant. I imagine the thought of someone discussing sex pleased him immensely. Unfortunately,