unbillable hours

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, I had to let him down. I explained the turn of events of Saturday. I then posed my dilemma to him: do I assume that she was lying, and making up an excuse to not go out, or do I assume that she was telling the truth?

"You can't assume the worst. That's horrible! You can't assume that she was lying." He thought for a second. "And don't take the advice of Henry or anyone else. Those cynics have been married for years. Christ, Henry met his wife when he was fucking 17! What the hell does he know about women?"

The thought occurred to me that Rick, quietly, was perhaps the best person we had on the team. Others may come off as more intelligent, but the guy was thoughtful and kind. Those are two key traits for family lawyers.

"So," I asked, "What now?"

"Call her tonight, and ask how she is doing. Ask how her mother is doing. Let her know that, if there is a better time, you'd like another shot at getting together. If she refuses, then move on."

It seemed like good advice.

"Thanks," I said, getting up. "All right, enough of this shit. I'm going to get more coffee. Want anything?"

He demurred, and I went on my way. The day went by quickly. I addressed one client's potential domestic violence problem. I continued research on an article I was drafting. Eventually, it was the late evening. It was time to call HP, and to find out whether I fish or cut bait.

I took the elevator down from my office to the atrium outside the building. Resting against the wheel well of my car, I called Helen. Her answering machine picked up.

"Hi, um... this is TPB. I was calling for Helen, and I uh... well, I just wanted to see how she was doing. If you want to give me a call, you can reach me at my cell phone."

So, I'm still in limbo. If she does not call me, I will assume I know what the answer was to this little delimma. If she does....

updated 7/31/03 Initials replaced with pseudonym, addition of quotation.

what we talk about when we talk about sex[1]

I

It was on Thursday that I got this idea. Sitting at lunch with Rick and Henry, an associate and a partner who work with me on the matrimonial team, we were all joking about sex, largely in response to Rick's and my terrible cases of wandering eyes. Every time a pretty girl walked by, I would slowly phase out of the conversation, and then, as she left my field of vision, return.

"...yeah, I think she's attractive." Henry was saying.

"How about Gabrielle [Reece]?" Rick asked.

"I think she's attractive, but I don't think she has sex appeal." Henry responded.

He paused for a second to pick at the sausage in his pasta dish.

"Now, Sigourney Weaver, she has sex appeal." Henry mused.

My voice rose with incredulity, "She's older than my mom! How can I think of someone older than my mom as someone with sex appeal?"

We were slowly departing from a conversation with each other. Really, we were heading toward an internal conversation with ourselves about our own, personal notions of beauty, and how beauty related to sex.

"What about Laetitia Casta, that French model... she's all sex appeal." I suggested. I have always been smitten with that model. She has a 1940's pin-up look that I thought was interesting. Well, perhaps "interesting" is not the appropriate word. The two other attorneys nodded and mumbled their agreement. Henry stirred his straw in circles in the lemonade glass into which he stared down. I let my eyes lose focus as I digested my meal. The hostess walked over to our table, right behind Rick.

Rick, riled from this discussion, raised his voice as he launched into a thought. "Tell me you would not want to just sink your--"

I gave him a light kick under the table as the hostess walked over. We asked for the check and continued talking as the hostess left.

"Thank you," Rick said just after the hostess left.

"No problem," I responded. "And, as for whatever you said, I guarantee that I would not want to engage in whatever kinky sex act you were about to describe. I have ethics, my good man."

Rick was noted for telling us explicit stories of his sexual adventures. He was particularly noted for doing so at times and in manners that made no listener comfortable. Nevertheless, he was indignant at my joke.

"Oh madonn'," he said, borrowing an Italian phrase my boss often used, "tell me you don't like to do something that is remotely kinky?"

"I don't like kink."

"How can you not like kink?" Rick asked. He turned to Henry, "I bet you, deep down, that TPB is some sick sexual deviant. Dahmer, or something."

"Speaking of that," I said, ignoring his innuendo, "did you hear that what's-his-name... the preppy murderer, oh damn...... ah, Robert Chambers, has been paroled?"

"No," Rick answered, and then ignored my distracting response, "but seriously, what, do you have heads in your refrigerator or something? How can you not like kink?"

"I don't like kink. I'm pretty straightforward... maybe that's what's kinky about me." I answered.

"There's nothing wrong with kink," Rick stated, a bit defensively.

"Don't worry," Henry said, turning to Rick, his lips twitching as he tried to hide his smirk, "we accept you for who you are, even if you're banned from teaching grade school."

We got up to leave the table, finally accepting that we could not avoid going back to the office any longer.

"Damn, I bet Megan's Law really ruined dating for you," I said to Rick. Passing diners looked at us with a bit of confusion and horror.

"Dude, shut the fuck up." Rick laughed.

II

Rick, Henry and I are matrimonial attorneys. We may handle other matters related to families - domestic violence (mostly for Rick), kidnapping (mostly for me), corporate law (for Henry and, to a much lesser extent, me), adoption, premarital contracts, and, on a rare occasion, civil commitment - but we really do divorce. That means we deal with those issues that people fixate on until they manage to ensure that their lives fall apart.

That means we deal with sex.

Clients tell us their most personal stories that involve sex. Husband #1 had sex with a prostitute.[2] He was embarrassed, because he's a Russian Orthodox Christian, and did not want anyone knowing about his single past indiscretion while working overseas as an investment banker. Husband #1's involvement with a prostitute constituted six pages of handwritten notes by me, nine pages in a certification by his former wife, and four minutes of discussion by the Judge.

Husband #2 comes in for an initial client consultation. He tells me that his wife was horrible to him. She did drugs. She was verbally abusive. She beat the children. She was always like this, even before the marriage. His mother, there for moral support during the consultation, nods in agreement.

"I'm sorry," I ask, "this woman seems like she has done horrible things to you and your family. I will do my best to ensure that your interests are protected in the divorce, and that you retain custody of the children. That being said... if you don't mind me asking, why did you marry her?"

Husband #2 looks down, a somber face hardens into something even more mournful. I think for a second that he might start crying over the end of a marriage that lasted eight tumultuous years when he looks up at me, certain of his answer.

"She was a fucking acrobat, man!" He answers with conviction.

Husband #2's sweet, older mother nods in agreement. "Oh yes," she assents, "Husband #2 always said she was quite nimble in bed."

I nearly spit out my coffee as I hear this. I excuse myself under the pretense of finding some material to present to Husband #2. I close my office door, and try to let the humor of the last comment not affect me. Composure regained, I return to the conference room and listen to fifteen more minutes of horrifying stories about the wife's conduct towards her own children.

The first lesson of matrimonial law: sex makes us completely disregard our better judgment.

Sex made thousands of Greeks die on the shores outside of Troy. Sex made marine guards outside the U.S. Embassy to the Soviet Union give up the identities of secret agents.[3] Sex created the Profumo Scandal that toppled a British Parliamentarian and gave the Soviets a mole inside MI-6. Sex made FBI counterintelligence agent Robert Hanssen work for the Russians so he could spend tens of thousands of dollars on a local stripper. Sex killed the operatic character Carmen. Sex made our last president risk his career through perjury. Sex nearly imprisoned Senator Kennedy. Sex has made the Catholic Church the subject of countless late night television jokes. Sex permanently scarred thousands of victims of rape and molestation. Sex killed Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman. Sex killed JonBenet Ramsey and the Black Dahlia. Sex makes us talk about these stories for years and years after they have long since concluded.

Assuming, as I have above, that sex is one of those primordial driving forces that motivates us toward action, it amazes me how many are motivated to such dark, horrific action. It's as though the justification for sex as a motivator - love, the desire to procreate, or physical pleasure - has been lost, and some are left only with the motivation itself, churning and driving them toward some dark, cruel interaction with others, some they once thought they loved, others they never knew or met before. When that interaction occurs...

Others, just as sad, focus so intently on the sexual act that they become repulsed by it, and walk away from all of its motivations as well. They reject love, their family, and joy in the arms of another, and become cold, unforgiving individuals, wrapped up in a pinched, angry ball of irritability. Their husbands or wives eventually leave them. They fill their children with distorted images of what a relationship "should" be, and, if they are single, they find themselves incapable of developing a relationship. Their obsession is no less real, and only slightly less destructive (if at all), than those who cannot focus on anything but obtaining pleasure from that grand realm we call sex.

Then, in the happy middle of this sexual spectrum[4], is the rest of us. Sex motivates us to fall in love, to raise children, to write passionate love poetry, to paint, to buy flowers, to declare, in an obnoxious and irritating fashion, the glories of our respective loves, and become generally well-rounded individuals, not distracted by the motivator, always heading to that final goal: love, children, and/or pleasure. The rest of us... well, I do not see this group in my office very often.

III

A lot of times, I think about writing stories about what I deal with here at work. I would love to address, if only to vent and let the issues escape me, the sex-related events of work. Then, I think back to a quote I always found interesting.

" We train young men to drop fire on people. But their commanders won't allow them to write fuck on their airplanes because it's obscene! " ( Colonel Kurtz ) Apocalypse Now

Coppola, when he had Brando utter that strange little line, truly understood our culture. Violence, with all of its horrors, is more acceptable to American culture than sex, whether it be a positive or negative issue associated with sex. People always talk about how Socrates died. People rarely think about what Socrates said about sex and love. Sex is taboo. Even cutting off someone's ear is more acceptable than depicting sex, even when the latter is far more cartoonish and unbelievable than the former.

Thus, we have a culture that has a 51% divorce rate. Flip a coin. Chances are just as good that, one day, you will see me or someone like me. Since I do not come cheap, maybe now is a good time to think about why you - the whole collective, cultural "you" - need me so much, even though this culture pretty much universally reviles me and every other matrimonial attorney out there.[5]

Like I discussed above... sex is only the motivator. The motivations are distinct from the motivator, and may not actually need the motivator to occur. Love need not require sex. Children... well, children pretty much require sex... but you could adopt. Pleasure comes in so many myriad forms that sex is but one limited aspect of it. For example, I am convinced my father obtains more pleasure from hearing the crack of a bat at a Mets game than most of my friends obtain from, well, you get the picture.

Why? Well, though I would never be so crass or disrespectful as to discuss it with him, I suspect my father has gotten over whatever obsessions with sex that he may have had when he was a young man. He's 54 years old now. My father knows what he was motivated about and what he loves: my mother, being a father, and baseball. I'm pretty sure that's in order of importance, although baseball may take precedent over my brother and I, at least in October.[6] Sex is a lot like warfare tactics. You do it for a reason. If you forget why you use the tactics you engage in during war, you are never going to obtain your objective. If you forget why sex is your motivator, you end up retaining me.

Personally, I would rather lose a war.

Footnotes
1. Apologies and much gratitude to the late, great writer Raymond Carver, whose collection of short stories, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love inspired this title. Please do go read his work, especially his final collection of stories, Where I'm Calling From. Published just before Carver succumbed to cancer, this book remains the most amazing collection of short stories I have ever read. If that's no great justification for you, think about it this way: you waste your time reading these blogs, what's the harm in wasting a few hours reading actual published works.

2. 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."

3. The Soviets, perhaps better than any other nation that practiced espionage, understood the power of sex as a motivator.

4. Please don't be offended about this discussion of sex. This, if you are interested at all in what sort of law I do, is what I do. I deal with sex and all its repercussions. I deal with other things too, but somehow it always seems to come back to this.

5. I litigate and try to stop domestic violence, and I end unhappy situations. I become a social enemy. Hitmen and vicious killers like Al Capone are made into legends. Go figure.

6. "Hey Dad?"
"Mmm-hmm?"
"I don't think Flounder [my affectionate {honest} nickname for my brother] is feeling too good."
"Is he bleeding?"
"No"
"Okay, the game will be over in four innings. He'll be fine."

updated 7/31/03 - removed initials, inserted pseudonyms

good fortune in the storm

Friday was one of those strange days where, if I were Taoist, I would suspect that I had attained a harmonic state with the universe. Fortunately, I am not a Taoist. I am a gambler. Friday was the day of the Middlesex County Bar Association Benefit at Monmouth Park, a local horse track (for those into horse racing, Monmouth Park hosted War Emblem on Saturday).

I have never been to the track before, despite the fact that I live but a few miles away from it. When I was younger, there was an implicit but well-understood ban in my family on gambling. My father, a former member of the IRS prosecution team for the Third Circuit and acting administrative law judge, made it clear that there were two things he would not tolerate under his roof: gambling and crime. I understand why (both generally are related to the organized crime world of New Jersey... and therefore are related to his then professional nemesis; nowadays, he only deals with corporations). Thus, I never walked into a casino or took part in gambling until last spring, when I first went to Atlantic City. After that first night at the blackjack tables, it was clear that I had the bug. With the bug, unfortunately, came a complete lack of knowledge about the "how" of gambling.

Thus, I walked into the air-conditioned boxes rented by the Bar Association with "easy mark" stamped on my forehead. Unfortunately for Monmouth Park, the easy mark made up for his gambling sense with an eye for statistics.

At 1:00 PM, I made my first bet. It was a silly $2.00 bet that a middle-ranked horse would "show" (apparently, a horse shows when it comes in first, second, or third place; a horse wins, obviously, when it comes in first place; a horse "places" when it comes in second place). I won a whopping $3.10. Hmm, I thought. This clearly is not going to cut it if I want to actually care about the race.

Fortunately, by 1:15, Patricia, a senior associate, pulled me aside and explained the complex bets. There were trifectas: you have to pick the correct first, second, and third place horses. Then there were exactas. With exactas, you could pick three horses to win, place, or show, but you only needed to be correct about two of them. Unlike trifectas, you could pick exactas "in the box," thereby avoiding the question of the order of the three horses. I did a mental calculation. If I picked three out of a maximum of nine horses to win (i.e., made three win bets), I needed to be correct approximately 33% of the time. However, I could only win one bet each time, thereby guaranteeing a loss, overall. However, if I had to pick three horses, and have two of them win, my odds decreased to 22%, but my winnings increased, usually, by at least 33%. Thus, exactas had moderate risk with high returns (just like the stock market, eh? well, except for the positive returns...). With trifectas, I had a purely statistical odds (not counting information about the horses), of about 4%. However, the returns were approximately 90-130%. The risks were extreme, as were the rewards. I immediately decided against making trifecta bets. I also figured that, with the availability of information in the racing guides, I increased my odds to somewhere near 24-26%. I felt comfortable. My odds at winning each exacta bet were somewhere between 17-21% greater than the odds of getting my score on the LSAT. I have this theory. Once I beat the odds of something difficult that I've done in the past, I feel comfortable with a bet.

Now, this isn't exactly a well-thought-out theory, but I'm sticking to it.

I put a $24 bet down in the second race. I then walked over to the bar (nothing better than professional functions with open bars), and ordered a gin and tonic. After taking my first sip of the drink, I glanced up at the "odds" board. The race was already over. I won $185.

After the fourth race, I was up $230. By the sixth, I was up $270. By the ninth race, I had won $310, all through sticking to my little statistical method. Not bad, I thought. Maybe I should give up law and become a professional gambler, as in "Rounders." I quickly dismissed that thought. Clearly, I realized, the day had slipped from the grasp of the natural, rational world.

The tenth race was being set up. Trackhands moved the gates to the turf in front of the clubhouse, and jockeys could be seen calming their horses just off to the left of the gate. I walked over to Christopher, the senior partner on the team. Like everyone else on the team, he had noticed my bizarre string of good luck.

"What's your pick on the tenth race?" he asked.

"The valet," I said as I slid on my blazer and unbuttoned the top button on my shirt (it was getting stuffy in there). "It's been fun, but I think it's time to walk away."

We said our goodbyes, and I declined a dinner invitation to McLoone's, a beautiful restaurant overlooking the Shrewsbury River and the Atlantic Ocean. I then drove over to the Monmouth Mall to drop off my final roll of film from Las Vegas (I know, it's been weeks, but I'm a slacker). After an obligatory ten minutes of lusting over the lenses on display at Ritz Camera, I wandered the mall, waiting for my film to develop. I passed the Victoria's Secret, careful to avert my eyes (sorry, 12 years of Catholic upbringing means I can't even look at lingerie ad without some fear of getting caught), and the watch shop, also careful to avert my eyes (no sense blowing my winnings on a new watch). As I passed the Macy's, I heard someone call my name.

I turned around... this tall, raven-haired woman is looking at me with an intent, quizzical gaze. Oh shit... I recognize her... what was her name, what was her name, what was her name? Oh god, don't let me blank out!

"TPB?" She asked again.

The neurons made one last attempt at firing... please, I promise, no more heavy drinking... and connect. "... Helen?"

It was Helen. I had last seen her during my one year of attendance at The Ranney School, an insanely overpriced prep school (think of St. Albans, then turn it down a notch, and you have Ranney). Good lord, I haven't seen her since seventh grade.

I start doing the mental notations that I do with potential clients as we reacquainted ourselves.

"God, it's been... twelve years, how have you been?" I asked. Left Hand: No wedding band/engagement ring. Height: 5'10". Thin.

She was well. She had finished her degree in graphic arts, gotten the acting bug, and moved out to L.A. for a couple of years. Amber eyes. Color Contacts? They seem almost too vivid to be natural.

I told her the basic story I tell people that haven't seen me since I returned to New Jersey from law school.

"Moved to Boston in 1994. I studied at BC. Thought about sticking up there, but got bored. I got the politics bug, and had some connections down in DC. Once I got into Georgetown, I knew I had to give it a shot. Did three years of law school. One year as a staffer in the senate. My boss didn't get reelected, so I came back north, by then fully sick of D.C."

"And now you're back in Monmouth County?" She asked.

"Well, I live here. I ended up working all over the state."

She and I walked outside as we continued talking. She told me about how L.A. hadn't panned out, at least for the time being. I told her how I had gotten fed up with working in the big cities - I spent one summer in NYC - and enjoyed doing the small town litigation in New Jersey. She isn't checking her watch. She's not bored. All right, maybe I'm not the complete troll I think I am.

The dreaded question came: "So what kind of law do you practice?"

I could feel the tension lines around my eyes crease. Sucking in a breath, I answered "Family Law," and waited for the usual questions about how it is that I can take part in what I do, and whether I hate doing immoral work, etc.

The questions never came. She showed some awareness of family law, and was genuinely interested. Okay, today is all screwed up, karma-wise. Clearly, I have appeased whatever Fates are monitoring me.

We ended up talking for an hour, before she noticed that she had to go back to her job (she works for a perfume/make-up company affiliated with Macy's). As I walked her back to her desk, she paused.

"You know what? We should have drinks sometime. We should catch up. Why don't you give me your card?" she stated, matter-of-factly, as though it were natural to utter such a thing to a reclusive, anti-social lawyer.

Fortunately, the neurotic part of my brain had been fried by an afternoon of gambling and drinking gin. It decided that it was no longer affiliated with the rest of me, and sailed high above, as though my angst was the cameraman to this cheap Swingers remake.

"Absolutely," I heard myself say. "In fact, let me get your card. We definitely should get together." Okay, clearly luck dictates that the ceiling must collapse, striking me dead, before this works out. Too much good fortune in one day.

She smiled slyly after we exchanged business cards, sliding mine into her pants pocket. Okay, either she "loses" my card, or I completely fuck up the call to her, but this shouldn't work out. That was far too easy. I didn't even stammer once...

She asked for a hug (!), during which I swear I heard someone singing Irving Berlin's "Cheek to Cheek."

...Heaven, I'm in heaven
And the cares that hung around me through the week
Seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak
When we're out together dancing (swinging) cheek to cheek...

Walking back to Ritz Camera, I noticed I could still smell a trace of her perfume from the hug. Passing shoppers could hear me doing my best, unintentional Homer Simpson impression ever as I stumbled. "Mmm... pretty."

After my hour of deep smit, I drove - refreshed and remarkably sober - to Sandy Hook National Recreation Area. I took a few pictures of the sand dunes and the ridge that comprises Atlantic Highlands (so named due to the fact that it is the highest point of the Atlantic Seaboard, from Canada to Mexico). Finally, I noticed that I was hungry. Amber, a local Red Bank girl I often hang out with, had agreed to go to dinner with me, but had, since the early afternoon, failed to return my calls. I decided to pack up my equipment and grab dinner (it was nearly 7) in Red Bank.

I packed my camera case, stowed in the back of my (shitty) Mercury Sable, and drove up the highway, heading inland along the Navesink River. As I left Sandy Hook, I thought, just for a split second, that I had seen a bolt of lightning crash down on the hills of Atlantic Highlands. Scanning the clouds that had been forming, I did not notice another one, and eventually worked my way back to the small city I had grown to love. I parked my car, just as the first raindrops of the evening began to fall, behind the sheltered porch of The Dublin House, my favorite non-Boston Irish pub. I was about to head in for a traditional pub dinner, when I thought about the day. I had those winnings burning a hole in my pocket, and I wanted to spend some of them. I turned, and headed in the opposite direction.

Down by the docks of the Navesink Sailing and Yacht Club and the local boat yards, just eighty feet from the Navesink River's murky flow, was "The Olde Union House." The restaurant was built in the late 17th Century as a wealthy individual's home. I could not fathom a guess as to when this home along the river became a restaurant, but I had been coming here, off and on, for a couple of years. The owner, Patty, and her husband, Nate, were friendly, and knew exactly when to appear with a fresh drink for myself or a date. On top of that, Nate was quietly one of the best chefs in the area. So, I thought I would splurge and enjoy a nice meal there before the usual Friday evening foolishness. I walked the bustling brick sidewalks of Red Bank, avoiding most of the increasingly frequent raindrops. I was content, and enjoying the occasional wave I gave to those pedestrians I recognized.

Half an hour later, I was just starting a meal of julienned chicken with pine nuts, sun-dried tomatoes, and a light pasta when I looked through the dining room window at the now torrential rain. The wind picked up, and I noticed the rain's trajectory change from vertical to diagonal. P laughed as my eyes widened. "You're not going anywhere for a while, kiddo."

"Jesus, no kidding." I breathed.

"That means," she said as she walked over to my table, "that it's time for another drink."

Fate - and friendly restauranteurs - conspire to make me an alcoholic.

I laughed and agreed, and then returned to attacking my meal with gusto. It was a great day, and I have no reason to finish my night anywhere but home after the meal, I thought. End well, and on a full stomach. Patty dropped off another gin. Although, I damn well better end with a few espressos before I get back into my car.

At 8:30, the rain paused for a second, and I looked up. The meal was almost over, and I could hear a wedding party in the next room enjoying boisterous times. Suddenly, the wind and rain returned, with violent, nearly rapacious force. The building visibly shook as the wind struck it. I stood up, shocked, and strained to look through the dining room window. The rain was now moving horizontally across the path of the street.

"Jesus," Patty said, "this is one hell of ..."

Thunder cut off the last words of her sentence, and the power went out. I walked to the picture windows that lined the river. Outside, I could see that a telephone pole had snapped. The power lines rested on a tree a few feet down the riverbank from us. Looking at the other buildings in view from the windows, I could see that only the nearby hospital had power.

"Isn't this supposed to be a good omen?" I faintly heard a wedding guest ask.

At 9:30, and without power, the restaurant had become unbearably hot. Even with the rain, it was still in the high eighties. I sat at the bar. On one side of me, a priest (from the wedding party) told stories of his days as an Army chaplain in Vietnam. On the other side a few bridesmaids nervously went over the readings they were giving at the wedding. In the middle, I nursed my (fourth) gin and tonic, and read my book on modern war zones (The Hunter, The Hammer, and Heaven).

At 10:30, I finally escaped. Amber called, stating that she was trapped at No Ordinary Joe's, a far-too-cutely-named coffee house up the hill from The Olde Union House. I paid my tab, now exorbitant from the five drinks I had ordered, and looked for an exit not likely on the same line as the downed power wire. Finally, I noticed a back entrance that led down to what was probably an unloading bay. I ran onto the metal staircase that led from the exit, hoping desperately to avoid being completely soaked. I slid, Navy-style, down the metal rungs (one of the many lessons my seafaring grandfather gave me), and hopped over onto another stairwell, leading up to a covered path between two other restaurants. From there, I made it out to Front Street, where I could regard the carnage.

Every tree on Front and Broad Streets in Red Bank had been uprooted or shattered. Cars were crushed under the heavier ones. Branches had broken off from trees and launched like arrows through the plate glass storefronts that lined the streets. Car alarms sounded throughout the city.

No street lamp was lit, and it was a new moon that night. Darkness, cloud cover, and rain were the backdrop to the police cars and fire trucks that frantically sped through the streets, seeking out one electrical fire after another. Apparently the heavens do not approve of my good fortune today, I thought. Lighting a cigarette, I stepped over a fallen maple tree, and trotted down Broad Street.

updated 7/31/03 - removed initials, replaced with pseudonyms

just before the storm

originally published on Oct. 13, 2002.