Flaming part 3

“I’ve been to the states before. Back in the 30’s me and some girlfriends took a ship across the Atlantic. Niagara Falls was lovely.”

“It is pretty cool. So were you on one of those giant boats, like the Queen Elizabeth?”

“Too right. Planes weren’t very useful back then.”

“I guess not, but that’s awesome. How long did it take?”

“Twas about two weeks on that ship and I was sick a couple of times.”

At various points Rose told us about other trips she’d taken to the European continent and the Carolinas, what life was like and how much it’d changed since the pre-Elvis days. She was also the one who introduced Dave and me to “Richard,” a newcomer. Some might describe him as cerebral, others, like the carpenter, might say he was a little ‘queer.’ From what I knew of him, Richard was a quiet Irishman from Belfast who never made it clear why he was in Brighton and always wore a knowing smirk. I had my theories on the reasons for both.

I like hearing my own voice, but I also genuinely enjoy hearing other peoples’ stories, as long as they’re interesting. Richard being so passive made it difficult to carry on any kind of lengthy conversation, which made his invitation more surprising a few days after we’d met.

“Top o’ the mornin’” [he didn’t say that, but it would’ve been awesome] “Whaddoo ya tink about seein’ the [some landmark]?”

Well, I could sit here and drink for free or I could go to some place I’ve never heard of with some dude I barely know.

“Sure, sounds good to me,” I answered for myself and Dave, “When should we go?”

“Half past eight on Saturday?”

“Awesome, we’ll be ready to roll.”

I was excited because it was a chance to see another part of England. It never crossed my mind that Richard had a hidden agenda, until I was speaking with the divorced carpenter later that night.

“Yeah, you know that Richard guy? Well he asked us if we wanted to go see [landmark], so that should be pretty cool.”

“Ay, poor lah. Yer so excited, but ye didna think about what ee wanted eh?”

“Not really, no. We figured he was just being nice,” I looked at Dave for reassurance that we’d made an unretarded decision, he shrugged. Asshole.

“Nah, lah. No one does nuthin’ fer free.”

And that’s when my mind started wandering as to what kind of fucked up plans this shady leprechaun had in mind. I was comforted by the fact that both Dave and I had fairly significant size advantages on him, but that doesn’t matter much if you’re drugged or the other guy has a machete.

“Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

-Hunter S. Thompson

Well, fuck it, I thought, the worst that can happen is I’m traumatized for life. I’ve had a good run. At 8:30 on Saturday, Richard already had a cab waiting out front for the trip. That’s not good. The three of us made awkward small talk, the kind you engage in when you’re trying to force a conversation with a woman you’re interested in, but you’ve used up your decent lines and are either too distracted by her V-neck shirt or you’re just fucking boring. It was stilted, awkward, and slow, with a lot of time spent looking out the windows.

To be fair to Richard, there was nothing sinister in his offer (that I know of), other than a request to help him with about forty travel bags he was taking to an airport three hours north-east of Brighton. To be unfair to him, he also made it readily apparent why he doesn’t speak much. If you’re bored talking with someone, there are certain phrases that can decapitate a conversation- “that reminds me of the time my cousin raped me,” “oh man, don’t get me started on the drama around my third abortion,” or “you wouldn’t think warts would be so itchy” are decent examples. The conversation’s over and the recipient is never the same.

Approximately fifteen kites were loudly flapping in the brutally cold wind. Why the fuck do people come out here? Both made conversations screaming contests and given Richard’s personality, I couldn’t hear 75% of what he said, so I reverted back to mirroring his responses and hoping he didn’t ask any questions that required a verbal answer. After about ten minutes of futilely standing there, I gave up on trying to talk to Richard or Dave. They both seemed to be able to hear each other, so they kept talking. I turned to watch the kites snake through the sky and the little kids chasing them relentlessly with their parents’ encouragement. Man, I’m gonna do the exact same thing when I have kids.

After a few minutes of watching kids run around like headless chickens, I returned to Dave and Richard. They were still talking animatedly, but for me it was like listening on a cellphone with shitty coverage, every fourth word was intelligible. Then, as if God himself wanted the phrase seared into my memory, the wind went silent, the kids shut up, and the kites paused in midair.

“The strangest thing is my pubes are red.”

And the wind picked up again, kids started screaming their stupid heads off, and the kites rippled furiously. I looked over at Dave, silently asking him did he just say that? I turned to Richard and gave him my best “what the fuck” look, but he was otherwise occupied staring into the blue sky, still wearing that knowing smirk. Dude, why? How is that relevant to anything you could possibly be talking about? Talking to Dave later that day didn’t clarify why Richard had said that.

Maybe he wanted to end the conversation, maybe he wanted to find out the color of Dave’s pubes, maybe he was socially awkward and believed that this was a normal point to bring up in a conversation with people he barely knew, or maybe he was just fucking with us. I didn’t see much humor in it and I’m arguably the funniest person you’re reading right now. If he was joking around it wouldn’t be the first time I didn’t get a ‘gay’ joke.

To be continued…

Flaming part 2

The bus station in Brighton is about a mile from my Uncle’s pub where my friend, Dave, and I would be staying in a room above the bar. I’d been to the area once, two years earlier, for a total of 24 hours, so I had no idea where to go and waved over a cab.

“Awwhite mate, whereya goin’?”

“Yeah, I’m alright. I need to go to the, uh, Iron Cross.”

“No prob, be there shawtly.”

We drove for a few minutes, Dave was trying to stay awake, the driver was having a conversation with an unintelligible, staticky voice through his CB radio, and I was trying to get my bearings. Okay, a terrible beach that’s mostly rocks. Wait, were those two guys holding hands? Jesus, the sand’s blowing all over the place? Why doesn’t any of this look familiar?

Walking into the dank atmosphere of the Iron Cross was unsettling considering the intensity of the sunshine outside and the fact that almost everyone went silent when we walked in. The Iron Cross’ clientele was combination of “Cheers” and Oliver Twist. I have very little similarity to either. Once my eyes had adjusted, I saw my uncle, introduced him and Lance to Dave. They introduced us to some of the regulars. Over the next week, I got to know the awkward, the funny, and the soul-crushingly depressed.

There was the mid-40s carpenter from the north of England (the farther away from London you travel, the harder it is to understand the British) who’d been divorced four times and asked me what the fuck I was doing in England and whether I planned on getting married ever.

“Well not anytime soon. I mean, I’m eighteen, there’s way too much stuff I wanna do first.”

“Fook dat mate, never git mahr-reed, lah. Livinin sin’s da way ta go.”

“Yeah dude, I’ll have to keep that in mind. I figure it’s a one-shot deal, marriage. If it doesn’t work out the first time; I’m gonna become an irredeemable whore.”

“Ay lah, dat’s goot.”

Humans are creatures of habit, so I always knew where to find people in the bar. At the opposite end of the room from the divorced carpenter was the most depressing relationship I’ve ever seen. The man, around sixty or so, was younger than his girlfriend by at least fifteen years. Like I said, who someone wants to bone is none of my business, but I was more perturbed by the fact that they were even alive.

Being British almost guarantees that you’ll have some sort issue with alcohol. I’m a morning person, so I’d go for a run, grab a quick breakfast, and shower. By the time I’d done all of that it was usually around 9am. Every day I’d see the couple in their dank little booth. He’d have a pint of Guinness and constantly order her double-vodka tonics. Before either of them was halfway done with one drink, he would be ordering another. I’d leave for a few hours (to find work or travel into London, which is about an hour by train) and return in the middle of the afternoon to see him leaning into her, usually trying to coerce more money out of her tiny, shaking hands. By this time, the bartender would usually force them to order some food before serving anymore drinks.

“We aren’t hungry mate, just a pint and vodka-tonic for the missus.”

“Sorry mate, you two’ve eaten nothin’ all day. You canna live off booze, mate.”

“Well fuck off then, give us….” And he’d proceed with his order. He’d inhale his food and immediately order another pint, while she would chicken-peck at hers for an excruciatingly long time until eventually half of it was gone. Then she’d go right back to nursing vodka-tonics until 10pm when they’d use each other as crutches to walk around the corner to the woman’s seafront home.

Like any couple, they had fights, which unsurprisingly occurred frequently at the Iron Cross. I’ve only seen my uncle get pissed off twice; one of these was when the guy started verbally berating this woman because she’d fallen over while holding her drink. The shattered glass caused undoubtedly flammable blood to spill all over the place. Considering her BAC and age, I assumed this could get serious quickly. Instead of helping her up, he was yelling at her.

“You stupid twat, lookit the mess you’ve made!”

The paramedics had been called and someone had given her towels. Being 18, in a foreign country, and a generally passive person, I was unsure what to do while standing at the end of the bar, crowded out from the bleeding old woman. Still watching, but not really hearing what was being said, I saw that the guy had also been pushed away from her and had now turned his lunacy to my uncle, who was behind the bar. What the fuck is going on? If that guy takes a swing at Bruce, I’m taking him down, I’ve got to do something.

Those thoughts were rendered unnecessary when I saw my uncle pull out some blunt object from behind the bar. Over the guy’s profanity ridden yelling, I could clearly hear my uncle say, “You’ve done enough fuckin’ damage tonight. She’s going to hospital and you’re going to Fuck. Off.” He emphasized the last two words by pointing the thick, stubby club into the guy’s chest.

With a “ahh, fuck this” the guy was gone.

The next day the couple was back in their booth. She had a couple of bandages and my uncle refused to talk to either of them, but other than that, everything was exactly the same. That same night, they had another fight, which led to the guy leaving the same way as before. She was left in her booth crying and shouting for the guy, but unable to stand up. Shaking his head, my uncle looked at me, “Can you help her home? It’s just round the corner. This is fucking ridiculous.”

As I helped her up and dragged her out of the pub, she kept blaming her poor motor skills on her age.

“Take it easy, I’m nearly eighty, me legs don’t work well.” Yeah, it has nothing to do with aggressively drinking for 13 hours a day..

Eventually I sherpa’d her to the front door and waited for her finish digging through her bag for the keys. Her spasms and bandages prolonged the wait, but eventually she managed to scoop them out. For some queer reason, she didn’t want help opening the door, despite having the accuracy of a blind epileptic being electrocuted. I didn’t want to wait all night for her to get inside, but I also didn’t want to leave her on her steps. Fucked up alcoholic or not, she was an elderly lady that needed some help, so I grabbed her shaking fist and guided the key into the knob.

She said, “Thanks love” and closed the door. I never saw her or the guy again. Though it’s not verifiable fact, the rumor was that she’d died at her home a couple of days later and the guy had disappeared, even though he wasn’t suspected of foul play (other than being a parasitic enabler).

Being quite the lady’s man, I met another lady at the pub who was the polar opposite. She sat by the window “to get some sun,” drank liquor I could barely stomach, and told hilarious, interesting stories. The only downside? “Rose” was a 96 year-old pensioner.

To be continued…

Flaming part 1

“He didn’t give you gay, did he?”

- Homer (The Simpsons)

“Miami is a terrible place for lesbians,” the short-haired girl sitting across from me explained, “All the women on the scene are just doing it for show, you know?”

“Really?” I replied through a hazy, beer-induced fog. My brain was debating whether to dump my Sam Adams Cherry Wheat or finish it.

This beer takes likes shit; it’s like cough syrup was dumped into a homeless guy’s mouth and then he spit it into the bottle.

Yeah, but you paid for it. Remember what Hank Hill said, “I have never poured out beer, not even to put out a grass fire.” You’re going to puss out because it’s raping your mouth in a bad way? You sir, are a homo.

“…there are all sorts of gay clubs, but nothing for lesbians…”

Hey, suck my balls, brain! It was only $3 and I’m now praising most major deities that I didn’t eat dinner because this shit’s going to make me throw up. And that’s way more embarrassing that my brain silently questioning my sexuality…

“The only ones down here are lipstick lesbians,” she continued.

I started to reply, “But those are…” I wanted to end with ‘the best kind,’ but the non-adversarial half of my brain kept my mouth in check, barely. You can’t say that shit here. You just met these people. How awkward is it gonna be if you make a joke and everyone hates it and subsequently, you? Sexuality is one of those all-or-nothing areas of conversation; just like race or orphan-punching jokes, people will either love your ‘opinion’ or they’ll hate it. Not everyone likes that shit. You don’t understand a lot of lawyer humor, but it’s a two-way street, they’re not gonna think you’re funny either. Isn’t it about time you start growing up?

“…and that’s one of the reasons I’m moving up to New York.”

“Oh…cool…that makes sense,” I hadn’t been paying attention, but at the time agreement seemed the most logical response; like laughing along with others even though you can’t hear one word they’re saying.

I chugged the beer, figuring that choking it down in one gulp is the equivalent to pulling off a band-aid. This’ll only hurt a little, just get it over with. As I was walking to get another drink, preferably something that didn’t induce dry-heaves, I realized two things.

One, that I’ve spent a significant amount of my life in two meccas for gay dudes: Miami (every guy on South Beach is gay, this is not debatable) and Brighton (known as the San Francisco of England).

Two, I don’t have any close friends that are gay. It’s plausible that I come off as homophobic for two reasons: I still call my friends ‘fag’ or ‘homo’ and I don’t like being touched by anyone. Regarding the former, I figure that such name-calling is so commonplace that they border on nicknames. The same applies to race: the name of my Wii character is “beAner,” an Italian friend used to have a giant “Whopper” poster on the wall, and another is still referred to as “the crazy African.” I once told a gay friend I know to “stop being so gay.” He laughed. When it comes to name-calling/insulting someone, I believe that none of the people I hang out with really care because if they did, I probably wouldn’t want to be around them for very long due to their inclination to make something as inconsequential as the race of another person such a big deal.

The complete opposite is true when it comes to physical contact; a handshake is more than enough. A friend kept putting his arm around me while we were playing pool and I threatened to break the cue on his back and then stab him in the head with the splinters. The only exception to my ‘no physical contact’ rule is the ‘hot chicks’ category (under which The Wife qualifies), but even then, I’m not entirely comfortable having people near me. My personal space is about the size of Madagascar.

Despite my conservative upbringing and unnatural distaste for human contact, I’m pretty ambivalent towards the homosexual crowd. Most of the people I’ve known that have ‘come out’ are pretty obvious from the first time I met them and the things I hate about gay couples are the same things I hate about straight ones (public affection, dramatic fights in public places, and bitching). I don’t know whether I’m open-minded or just lacking in principles due to laziness, but my belief is that who someone wants to bone is None of My Business.

My first memorable trip to England (not including the time I went at the age of three) lasted about ten days. After a week we were driving south (from Liverpool) to see my uncle for a couple of days prior to flying back home. As we approached the Brighton city limits, my mom started preparing us (I’m the oldest, sixteen at the time) for our visit to Uncle “Bruce’s” house:

“We’re going to see your Uncle Bruce and his, um, well his…special friend.”

‘Special friend’ what does that mean? Is his friend retarded? Does he work for the circus…is he blind?

My uncle’s special friend “Lance” was definitely the homemaker in the relationship. I was disappointed because a blind retard who works for the circus is way more interesting than a gay school teacher. Once we’d settled into our hotel, I asked my mom, “So what’s the big deal? I thought Uncle Bruce’s special friend would be way more special.” Clearly, I hadn’t been paying enough attention in Sunday school to know that my uncle and his…dear God, boyfriend, were disturbing on multiple levels.

In addition to being nonplussed to the gay lifestyle, I try to live a life that will allow me to look back in a few decades and say “that was interesting.” This means that when someone offers me the chance to gain a new experience, I’ll say “yes” (as long as there’s no plundering of my butthole involved, man’s gotta have boundaries), which leads to some entertaining and/or disturbing stories.

Priorities part 2

I remember reading somewhere (see Rudius Media) about how black women are the only ones to get their money’s worth out of trips to a salon. White girls pay $60 for the “stylist” to cut 1/12^th of an inch off and dye the hair “morning sunrise” blonde, a cataclysmic change from the woman’s natural “afternoon delight.” But black women get fourteen different colors squeezed on and then coordinate it to resemble the Battle of Thermopylae, in Wizard of Oz Technicolor fashion.

“Chantelle,” a Dunkin Donuts employee I talk with occasionally, fits into the latter category. One week she looks like she’s wearing a rainbow on her head and the next it’s patterned after a bumblebee’s ass. I’m not naysaying, I am easily entertained and quickly distracted by shiny things, like others’ craniums. I was remarking on her impressively colored skull when The Wife informed me that it was a wig. Finding this out was like learning (at the tender age of 15) that Santa Claus isn’t real. A little piece of child-like wonder is savagely crippled by machete-wielding reality. What the fuck?

I had no idea. I don’t spend much time thinking about women’s hair, but it’s admittedly weird knowing that the woman pouring my coffee potentially shaves her head on purpose (the times I’d talked to Chantelle, she’d never mentioned being sick, she just seemed to like variety). Due to my inability to handle things calmly (in my head), I started wondering if I knew anymore women with haircuts like Samuel L. Jackson.

Not that I’d ever use the information (and you shouldn’t either…because it’s bad), but I’ve learned a lot about theft. First, move to a large city because so much serious shit takes place that non-violent crimes are generally sped through. Secondly, if you must steal, do so from big chain stores because they’re not going to pay an employee to sit in a court room instead of a cash register, which means they’re less likely to send a witness to court when you inevitably get caught because you’re too slow or greedy.

Such was the case of “Janet,” the woman with gay pride parade-like hair, who stole $12 of meat. I’ll be honest; I seldom have the urge to head-butt women, but I was tempted a few times during my thirty minutes of ‘working’ with Janet, a middle-aged woman who sweated profusely, smelled like a migrant worker, and refused to pay attention. Reading the arrest form, Janet’s one statement was her explanation for stealing the meat: to “feed her kids.” Feeding children is something I’m mostly in favor of, so I was excited that we had good news to tell her.

“This woman’s unreal. I just told Janet that we should set this case for trial, but she wants to take the plea,” the Attorney said as he collapsed into his chair.

I’d only been working for a few days and I knew less than nothing about criminal law (now I’m approaching the level of knowing nothing), so I asked what seemed like an unobvious question, “What’s so bad about that?”

“When you steal shit from any of these chain stores, they’re not going to send people to court unless the amount that’s been stolen is way more than it costs to pay the employee to be here all day.”

“That makes sense. Where’d she steal from? Oh _______, they’re pretty big…and she only stole $12 worth? They’ll never show up for that, eh?”

“I told her there’s like a 99% chance they won’t show and that even if they do, we can take the plea at trial or fight it. This is basically win-win for her…if she listened.”

“Man that sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.”

“It is, but you can’t force someone to do anything. That’s kind of illegal,” the Attorney explained.

“Yeah, you should’ve used air quotes for ‘illegal,’ then I could’ve punched you in the head.”

“Anyway, Janet has some other shit to take care of in Judge _____’s court room. After she takes this plea can you take her up there and explain to the PD what needs to take place.”

[Attorney then proceeded to tell me what needed to happen; I remembered it all, but only understood about 25% of it.]

********

The Wife does this entertaining hip-shaking, bouncing movement; it’s a combination of impatient toe-tapping and dancing to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” Unless I’m in an especially foul mood, watching her makes me smile. Janet was doing something similar, but it was in no way cute. One reason was that she was in a court room. Another was that she was at least 35 years old. Third, I’m trying to explain to her what she needs to do in order to avoid paying a ton of fine and also going to jail.

As she rocked out to the song heard only in her head, I noticed that she kept putting her right hand to her right temple, like a shitty actor in a headache ad. When she dropped her hand a few seconds later, I saw why. The glue on her wig must’ve dissolved under a constant barrage of salty sweat, so the area above her temple started to curl up like it was reaching for the sky.

Geez, maybe she is struggling for money, she can’t even afford decent glue or tape or whatever she uses, I thought. Then I looked at her hands. Each fingernail had a different tiny design expertly applied with the centerpiece of the nail being brilliant looking “diamond.” The Asian lady that made these clearly had talent and the hand control of a sniper. Each nail could’ve told a story: this is Bobby the UnicornàBobby is on top of a mountainàBobby jumps over a rainbow to another mountain topàFin.

After simplifying Janet’s goal for the day into three easy steps and repeating them approximately 1,200 times, I sent Janet on her way, hoping she’d take care of the other issues. The Attorney and I were walking back to the office when he asked if I’d gotten her squared away:

“Yeah, I did. I mean, I think I did. Who knows, she refused to look me in the eye or give any response that hinted at comprehension. I gave her all the contact info and pointed out the exact person she had to talk to…did you see her nails?”

“Yeah, those were pretty hardcore.”

“I thought it was funny that her excuse for stealing meat was to ‘feed her kids,’ but somehow she scrounges up enough money to get the Sistine Chapel painted on her hands.”

“Seriously, it’s ridiculous. I asked one of the clerks about these nail salons and she said it’s not cheap; most of these women spend a few hundred bucks a month on that shit. Their kids have to eat Kirkland brand food every day, but mom’s got a month’s rent worth of work on her fucking fingernails.”

“That’s one of the most retarded and depressing things I’ve ever heard. When I was in there I wanted to slap her so she’d pay attention,” I confessed, “but now it feels more principled. Like whack! Wake up and take care of your kids!”

“Oh it’s tempting, but what can you do? Some people have fucked up priorities.”

Priorities part 1

“Mr. Madison, what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

-Principal (Billy Madison)

When I first told people that I was going to law school, the most common reply was, “oh, so you’re gonna become one of them.” I wasn’t sure what that meant since my interactions with lawyers have been fortunately brief (I talked to one when I was in court for a ticket involving an off-duty cop where I was clearly the one at fault and I knew a few whose kids I coached). The only other information I had was via www.philalawyer.net. I wasn’t satisfied with the job I had and wanted to see what else there was to do in this world since Plan A (world-famous soccer player) and Plan B (world-famous rock star and/or porn star) weren’t working out. I analyzed my skill set and figured that law was a decent avenue to wander down. I had no idea whether I was going to live up to the less-than-reputable image of lawyers.

The image that’s conjured up when people refer to “them” grew clearer as I spent more time within the legal community. Slicked-back hair, a wall of cologne, cufflinks that cost more than an engagement ring, and expensive suits that cover a shallow, soulless man. The general consensus is that criminal defense lawyers get raging hard-ons from setting pedophiles, murderers, and drug-dealers free. You can picture the ‘scumbag’ giving his client a hug as the defendant is free to burn down historical monuments, drown puppies, and not pay his taxes; all while wearing women’s clothing. Their fix is fucking justice “prison style.” People that have this mindset generally tend to also believe that if you’re arrested you must’ve done something wrong.

Neither of the last two sentences is completely true. There are a lot of creepy lawyers, just like there are a lot of disturbing mechanics, accountants, and reverends. Additionally, there are a lot of people who get arrested for being in the wrong area, having the wrong color skin, or, in one case, driving too slowly on a residential street.

Most defense attorneys aren’t looking to put murderers back on the streets or help minorities sell acid-laced Snickers to kids. They’re holding the prosecution to its burden of proof. If the defendant’s innocent, well, fuck it try and get ‘em off. If he’s guilty, the goal’s to stop the prosecutors, and occasionally the court, from railroading him into an unnecessarily harsh penalty.

Two guys come to mind when I think of these scenarios. First, there was the teenager who’d been hanging out with friends in a less-than-savory area (also known as his neighborhood) when one was arrested for unknown reasons. The teenager asked the cop, “What the fuck you doin’? We ain’t doin’ shit.” Not the most polite language to use, but not illegal. He was visibly anxious in court and couldn’t even sit down while he was waiting for his turn in front of the judge. He’d only had one run-in with the authorities when he was about 15, nothing serious, just being an idiot kid who thought he was invincible. But this, this was serious. The prosecutors were talking community service, fines, and the start of his rap sheet for talking shit to a cop.

Basically, offensive words towards a police officer isn’t a criminal offense. This doesn’t mean you should go talk shit to cops because chances are you’ll still get your ass kicked and generally your life’s a lot easier if you’re on good terms with The Law. The second guy didn’t have an attorney and was primarily looking to prune his record. In court, there’s a lot of activity buzzing as the bureaucracy machine starts spinning, so you don’t get much time to focus on anything for more than sixty seconds. During a down period I heard behind me:

“How da fuck am I s’posed ta make a betta life if I got this shit from ten years ago man?” A guy who looked remarkably like Snoop Dogg with dreads asked the bailiff as the bailiff walked by (they’re arguably the busiest people in the courtroom).

Snoop looked over at me.

“Dude, I don’t know what to say. I understand what you’re trying to do, but legally we can’t really help you and the state doesn’t have to be lenient or even reasonable.” I shrugged while looking towards the prosecutors.

“No shit. Dis is fucked up though; I wuz se’enteen when got in trouble. How’m I s’posed ta git a job.”

“Not much we can do; you’re best bet is to talk to [pointing out the most laid-back of the four prosecutors across from us] and explain what you’re trying to do. Take your time, don’t be cussing and shit; be patient. I can’t promise you anything, but right now that’s really your only option. The judge can’t really help and the others don’t really care.”

“Aight, cool.”

“Yeah dude, good luck,” I said, turning my attention back to the tasks at hand.

I have no idea whether Snoop’s issue was resolved, but I saw him a few weeks later and he was in a good mood with an inspiring grin on his face. I hope he was able to work out a deal and go legit, but he was there for legal advice, which doesn’t bode well.

Some people make it easy to be an advocate and work to put them in the best situation possible. Others are dicks, I would’ve handcuffed you and pushed you down the stairs as well, purely on principle, or irreparably dumb. I’ve tried convincing myself that I’m a heartless bastard, but the truth is, I enjoy helping people. Whether it was coaching or now helping out the PDs; I want to be part of a process that makes someone a better person. I’d like to think I’m relatively sensitive and compassionate to peoples’ situations, but there are only so many times you can explain the most basic concepts (think 2+2=4, but in legal terms) before you say “fuck this” under your breath and walk away or keep your desire to punch someone in the throat at bay by taking it out on your cat or cabana boy later that day.

After gladly helping a couple of people that really seemed to be trying to stay out of trouble, I was confronted with someone seemingly incapable of using either logic or basic communication skills.

To be continued…

Happy Hour

I’ve never been a big fan of happy hours. I like beer and hanging out, but after sitting in an office all day, fighting my brain’s urging to “get the fuck out of here,” I don’t want to pay for inferior alcohol and tip someone for half a second of work. I’d rather spend my time at home playing video games, reading or watching South Park.[1]

Other than bringing in more money for bars and preventing people from leaving for their families or empty apartments, there’s another reason for happy hours and why so many people flock to them. 99% of jobs suck balls and people want to unwind as soon as possible; cigarettes are frowned upon, which leaves one option (other than heroin): alcohol. The problem with decompressing from another week (or day, depending on your ability to compartmentalize) is that the process usually involves bitching to someone else about what made you clench your ass-cheeks for nine hours straight.

Strangely, this applies to law school happy hours as well. The reason it’s strange that students decompress in a similar manner is because we’re all going through the exact same thing. We all have the same professors, classes and time constraints. The problem at law school happy hours is that once everyone’s exhausted their academic complaints, uncomfortable, awkward silences hang in the air like a balloon with a picture of your mom naked.

I’ve only been to a few law school functions. I like the majority of my classmates and assume they don’t hate me (which is based on absolutely nothing), but bitching about the same thing gets old. The problem is that school is so all-consuming that there are usually no alternative discussions taking place.

The exception is if there’s a guest of honor. I’ve seen people actually refuse drinks or nurse one to the point where the condensation from the melting ice started running down their hands and soaking their sleeves because they wanted to stay ‘sharp’ while the judge, professor, or rain-making lawyer was around. Dude, this is a happy hour, I’m pretty sure they’re expecting you to drink. Maybe it’s a decent strategy, staying sharp, because you’re never the last one to laugh (or worse, not laugh) at a dignitary’s joke or express how impressed you are by another war story. You notice when he/she’s leaving, so (hopefully) you’re the last face they see.

But when there are twenty other legal types looking for a clerkship or summer job, the atmosphere grows awkward (again), tense, uncomfortable. Generally, those in law aren’t the most gregarious of people, so watching them watch each other to make sure they’re following the right social cues, holding the right drink, and laughing and smiling enough to be recognized, but not noticed,[2] is interesting. Should I try and get closer? If I do he might look past me, but if I don’t I can’t hear anything he’s saying and I’m the last one to react. What if I can’t squeeze in and I lose my place? Then what? I’ll never get the chance to work at _____ & ________. Dammit, I have to piss so badly, but I don’t want to lose this spot; I am so close. Oh shit, he said something profound; I better nod my head ‘knowingly.’

I don’t begrudge networking, it’s how you get ahead in life; I understand the need to meet those who are higher up life’s ladder. But once the Honorable ______ leaves, law school events devolve awkwardly. Some people start drinking and end up having a face-rapingly good time, some wait fifteen minutes[3] before leaving, and others continue to be audience members in different circles.

Lawyer functions are a bit different. Not everyone is trying to get face time with the stars. Some naysay, some mingle with everyone, and some are in their own world. Once the honored guest leaves everyone visibly relaxes. Like when that first drop of liquor cascades down your throat, your shoulders relax, your stomach settles, and your mind slows to a more leisured pace. The brain stops processing emails, phone messages, and sticky-notes and starts focusing on the waitress’ physics-defying body or the Sportscenter highlights flashing above the bartender’s head. Everyone opens up, smiles rarely leave faces, and conversations sprint away from work.

********

“I swear to God if this story isn’t funny I’ll punch you in the throat,” I said smiling, balling my beer-less hand into a fist.

“Okay, okay,” Darren said as he leaned back, “but maybe I shouldn’t tell this story since it’s not that great.”

“Well you can’t back out now asshole; you’ve built it up so much after saying ‘this is really funny.’ God help you, I’m closing my eyes and swinging Mexican-style if you don’t tell this story,” I say half-jokingly.[4]

The cute girl down the hall thinks it’s funny. Nice, at least one person has a similar sense of humor. This all started as a way to pass the time. I wanted to meet Judge ­­­­­_____ because I’d been to his courtroom and it’d always been entertaining, but he was surrounded by lawyers who needed to be on good terms with him and law school interns who wanted to make connections. Part of me was in the latter group; I figure that knowing a judge can’t really hurt your legal career, but primarily I wanted to tell him that his courtroom was a nice change of pace from the formality-plagued one I was in.

After soaking my brain in Corona (even a half-Mexican has to go old school sometimes and Corona’s a better option than that donkey sweat, Heineken) and making various threats towards coworkers and people much smaller than me, I saw that the Judge was leaving. One of the plusses of working in an area indoctrinated with Latin culture is that people feel obligated to say goodbye to everyone. Sweet, moral obligation is my ticket to meeting the judge.

After going through people he knew, the judge came to me. Was I complimentary and charming without being an ass-kisser? Of course not, that would be reasonable and show some semblance of maturity. Instead, as he looked at me I gave him an awkward no-teeth-showing smile,[5] reached out my hand, and said, “Judge _______, you don’t know me, but I’ve been to your courtroom a few times…it’s pretty entertaining. Hopefully, I’ll be stopping by again.”

He laughed and didn’t punch me in the face, which is a plus.

---

[1] If you own the DVDs, turn on the commentaries. They’re only a few minutes long, but they make every episode way more fucking awesome.

[2] Being noticed is generally bad, unless it’s for helping an old lady across the street. You only want to be recognized so that when you meet a dignitary again, he/she remembers seeing you, but not in a specific way. This way, when you meet again and you’re wearing your best suit; you have a chance to make a good ‘real’ first impression. Hence the fight be the last one seen.

[3] It’s important to stay a few minutes later, just in case the guest returns for a forgotten coat and thusly provides an opportunity for more face time.

[4] Mexicans close their eyes, but due to their average height being just above a shopping cart, they generally swing for the crotch.

[5] See http://www.scottsdalegroup.com/about.htm

Slingblade

“I don't rightly know. I just kinda woke up a-holding it.”

- Karl (Slingblade)

In the movie Slingblade, no one ever verifies that Billy Bob Thornton’s character “Karl” is technically retarded. It’s possible he’s just stunted from an inadequate upbringing. He’s definitely simple, awkward, and makes a punchable face throughout the movie, but he also excels at his job, develops viable relationships, recognizes right from wrong, and knows his actions have consequences, which is more than I can say for a lot of people.

Before moving here I was toying with the idea of reducing my car insurance to only liability. My thought process was that I’m going to be poor and my porn star career has yet to take off,[1] so I might as well cut expenses where I can. Reducing the amount of “Energy” Vitamin Water and instant oatmeal I consume isn’t really an option. Originally, I wanted to buy a motorcycle since the weather here ranges from ‘summer’ to ‘rainy.’ Then we moved.

The combination of the elderly, immigrants from countries where traffic laws are non-existent,[2] and the fact that people seem to be unable to operate a steering wheel without a cellphone attached to their face means that driving even the shortest distances is at best a mild annoyance. At worst it’s a frightening display of idiocy, bumper cars, self-entitlement, ignorance, and rage. Having spent the better part of ten months playing real-life Frogger driving to school, I’ve decided against the motorcycle.

My first day in a courtroom did little to make me question that decision.

********

“Today we’re in front of Judge ____ and she’ll probably kick us off a bunch of cases,” my assigned attorney said as we waited for the morning van in hopes of avoiding the misery of Miami’s early morning humidity and the frequent tiny battles for sidewalk space.[3]

“M’okay, sounds good to me,” I wasn’t sure what else to say. I’ve only had a year of law school and most of that was spent looking up utterly foreign words. This means that I’m actually less useful than a paralegal because the attorneys expected me to know what takes place at a voir dire or even what it is. I had to ask another intern for a definition,[4] which he supplied along with a look somewhere in between contempt and pity.

It was my first day as an intern at the Public Defender’s. I’d survived morning rush hour, managed to find parking that didn’t cost double digits yet still kept me within ten miles of the offices, and even managed to provide a bland introduction to the other summer interns before we were split up. Being a government organization, nothing took place quickly, but prior to the end of the day I did manage to meet my attorney. Within a few minutes we were mocking each other’s respective decisions to relocate to south Florida and discussing the pros (mildly cheaper) and cons (terrible smells, terrible people, transferring, potential rapes) of public transportation. After awhile, I asked him if he needed any help with “research or something” and he said,

“No dude, but be here around eight and then we’ll head over and you can meet some characters.”

The first hour in court went along uneventfully as, to his credit; my attorney explained some of the acronyms and how to look up info in the database. As we’re huddled over a file, a guy starts trying to whisper to the attorney about his problem, but given that his whisper is a subtle as a rocket launch, the bailiff ‘shooshes’ him. Attorney turns to me,

“Can you go talk to this guy and find out what his problem is?”

“Um…yeah, I guess so.”

Reluctantly, I signaled for the guy to follow me into the hallway. It’s not that I mind helping people, it’s that I have no idea what I’m doing:

“Alright…so what were you trying to tell the PD?”

“It’s just…I, I don’t understand…why am I here?”

This guy kept winking his right eye, which was unsettling. It was like he had an eyelash in there, but his hands were unusable.

“Well according to your file, you have a DUI and probation violation…felony probation.”

“Yes, but I want to get it removed. I shouldn’t go to jail because this was before the probation.”

“Well, I’m not really a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure that’s bad. What do you mean you want it removed?

“This, this happened some other time. I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“Dude there’s no way you got a DUI for nothing.”[5]

“I mean I was drinking, but so what? I don’t want this to violate my probation.”

“Explain the timeline. What happened first?”

He explained his situation poorly five times, each one different from the first.

“What?” I asked him again. As he was about to spout explanation six and I was resisting the urge to find the damn eyelash myself, Attorney opened the door and signaled me back in:

“Dude what took so long?”

“That guy says his DUI happened before his probation, but every time he tried to explain it, his story changed, so who knows?”

“This is actually number four so it doesn’t really matter when it happened because he’s going to jail today.”[6] Oh man, that sucks…wait, no it doesn’t. Fuck that guy. Everyone makes mistakes; it’s arguably a rite of passage for people to get a DUI, the second one means you’re an idiot, but the third and fourth mean you’re homicidal/suicidal. It’s like repeatedly poking a monkey and then acting surprised when it throws shit at you because you never figured out that actions have consequences. I watched that guy as he stared on in all his blinking astonishment that the state would seek and the judge would award jail time.

I leaned over to Attorney as the judge went through her standard procedures, “So how do you defend a guy like that? Not like morally, who cares about that, but like from a legal standpoint?”

“You can’t really. I mean all I could say was, ‘but judge, he still has his license,’ though I’m pretty sure that pissed her off even more.”

“If that guy wasn’t going to jail he could still technically drive,” I asked no one as I leaned into my chair. Fuck me, to get four DUIs, he must’ve been driving drunk on a nearly weekly basis. I don’t even want to drive anymore.

---

[1] Primarily, due to the Woman’s many completely “unjustified” objections.

[2] See all of Central and South America.

[3] Miami’s the only city where people actually get offended that you might want them to be mildly accommodating. Turning sideways in a narrow hall or, god forbid, trying to switch lanes, is the equivalent of asking them if they mind that you pissed on their grandma.

[4] Jury selection.

[5] Not entirely true, I’ve met some people that got pulled over initially for some…tacky actions.

[6] Florida isn’t very lenient with drunk drivers and that guy did indeed go to jail. Apparently, he was apprehended near an exit, though it’s unclear whether he was trying to sneak out or not. I’d like to think he was and he just blinked at the officers, “I didn’t do nothing.”

Deaf

I don’t have any bad experiences involving people named “Richard.” Most of the guys I’ve met with that name have been nice, if unremarkable, people. But for some reason, Richard seems to be the ideal name for a pedophile or equally disturbing felon and I have no idea why. It certainly has nothing to do with the first Richard I ever met…

Growing up in a relatively rural part of Southern California, the yellow and brown landscape was full of hills and rattlesnakes. My friends and I would take our Target-bought Huffys (Huffies?) past the abandoned cars, the tire swing, and the decrepit one-bedroom house that was full of bullet holes and a beehive the size of a fridge, out to an old dirtbike track that had jumps, berms, and clearly dangerous rain-made crevices. I don’t know about my friends because they weren’t nearly as imaginative as me, but I pretended to be Cru Jones from the movie Rad.

As is typical with preteen kids and their limited worldviews, anything new was automatically intriguing, until a newer something came along to tell us it was retarded. One day, as we’re flying off jumps exceeding 6 miles-an-hour, someone new showed up. His bike was sleeker, shinier, and all-around better than ours in every way. The bike kicked ass and therefore, so did its rider. I’ll call him “Richard” because that’s his name and I think remembering the name of someone you haven’t seen in almost two decades is pretty effing commendable. He pronounced it, “Rih-chod.” He and his Patrick Roy-style haircut were awesome.

Don’t laugh. If you laugh, he’ll never let you try his bike.

“Richard, cool man, do you live around here?”

“Ya, I lib ober dare,” he said pointing in the general direction of all of our houses. At least he doesn’t live in that creepy trailer-park/retirement community the other way.

It turns out he lived right across the street from my friend; in the house that never had any vegetation growing around it and was abandoned on a monthly basis. His dad had all the big toys one would expect the Marlboro Man of the 90’s to have, including a riding lawnmower, which was significant due to having nothing to mow. There was all sorts of random cool crap sitting in Richard’s garage, but his dad kind weirded everyone out when he was around (which wasn’t often), so we mainly stayed away from his house and Richard seemed to prefer doing the same.

Aside from all of the cool machinery in and around his house, Richard was also kind of crazy. When it came to attempting potentially limb-shattering stunts, I was slow to volunteer. My friend’s voice of self-preservation was a little quieter and with enough hypocritical calls of ‘pussy’ and ‘little girl’ he’d eventually convince himself to attempt a clearly bad idea. Richard, we soon learned, either ignored that voice or couldn’t hear it. He was literally deaf, which I didn’t learn until I asked him the same question four times without reply because his back was to me and he couldn’t read my lips.

Obviously, we assumed there was something ‘off’ because of the way he spoke, but he had a hearing aid. According to Richard, it only worked for really loud noises, like a car-horn or his dad yelling. If his back was to you and you screamed, at least half the time he’d turn around. This revelation led to a variety of tests: like turning Metallica’s Black album on as high as possible to the point where all of us were squinting from the noise and Richard would smile or speaking as fast as possible to see if he could read your lips (speaking with an accent was also difficult for him to decipher). Another revelation was that he hated bass. The smile on his face would disappear immediately when the bass was turned up.

But back to Richard being kind of crazy. Once the guys who had real dirtbikes rediscovered the track, it was difficult and dangerous to pedal around the area, so we ended up going farther into the dead vegetation, past old water towers and more abandoned cars. Eventually we found a much shorter track that had 90-degree jumps and far fewer ravines. We met one of the guys who’d build it and he said the jumps were made like that so he could practice because he wanted to go pro. I don’t think the X-games existed at the time, so I don’t know what he was going to be a professional at, but I digress. The builder would easily get 10 feet of air, about twice as much as me, off of jumps and occasionally try something cool. I would focus on not crashing.

I don’t know about you, but back in the day when we still used swings, going back and forth would get boring, so we’d build up momentum and try to see who could hurl themselves the farthest. Worst-case scenario you ended up with sand in your cracks. Best-case, you had bragging rights for 24 hours. Naturally, this competition extended to jumping bikes.

The track was basically a giant oval with four jumps in the middle, two one side and two on the other. The jumps were two in a row about 10 or 15 feet away from each other. Our goal was to jump from one to the other or, ideally, beyond. The physics made it clear that this goal wasn’t really possible. We all tried a few times, falling embarrassingly short as we basically went straight up in the air, which resulted in some scrapes and sore crotches.

Richard was not to be denied though. We tried to talk him out of it, mouthing our words slowly to make sure he understood, but he was going to clear the jump or be hilariously hurt in the process. Starting as far away from the jump as he could, Richard pedaled faster than I’d ever seen anyone pedal before. He was like a non-Mexican, deaf Speedy Gonzales…on a bike. He hit the jump at full speed and it was glorious. Right up to the point where he realized he wasn’t going to make it. His failure was confirmed to as he began his initial descent from about 15 feet in the air. That’s when he let go of his handlebars. Then his feet separated from the pedals and the bike started its descent a little quicker than Richard.

To be fair, he made it much farther than any of us. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t make it far enough to avoid smacking right into the front of the next jump, which was the equivalent of hurling himself into a wall as fast as his little deaf legs could pedal him. The biggest problem for Richard was that his bike hit first, so there was a little bit of a rebound and his bike hit him before his body made contact with the ground. The impact looked and sounded painful as we went down to check on him. He was moaning and writhing as we tried to hold him still so we could ask him questions about where it hurt. Being a resilient little bastard, he was fine about 10 minutes later, which was phenomenal considering how intimate his bike-seat had become with him and was back out riding the next day, though he never did try to clear that jump again.

Sadly, he moved about two months later and none of us ever heard from him again (though there was an unsubstantiated rumor that he was around for one random day). I’d like to think he’s still being awesome, trying crazy things, and hating the sound of bass, but who knows? I’ve yet to see him on the news for “playing doctor,” so at least that’s a good start.