|
|
Are You Feeling All Right
Stephen Marlowe
stephen-marlowe@uiowa.edu
03/03/02
Emic
emic.150m.com
emicsubmissions@hotmail.com
attention: Editor
The van hit me at about forty miles per hour. It rolled up the rear end of my Jag like the nose on a Boston Terrier. The frame is bent. The car is totaled. As a plaintiff’s attorney, I am a very busy man, and I have not yet had the time, nor the inclination, to buy another car. I may wait until the settlement comes in and pay cash for my next vehicle. Until then I’ll probably drive that goddamned Ford Fiesta, which is the only rental car the insurance company will pay for.
I specialize in auto-accident cases. I know what two tons of steel and inertia can do to the soft mortar of the human body. I know what paper and ink and wooden gavels can do to the flimsy buttresses of the human soul. Last year I billed almost $800,000 in hourly fees and garnered close to $2 million in contingency fees. I know, better than most, that bones can be converted to dollars. I know, better than most, that the soul is inevitably converted to dollars. It’s just a matter of time, circumstance, and price.
I have secured a lifetime income for men whose necks have been broken by the recklessness of shitfaced teenagers driving their fathers’ cars. I’m on the boards of several foundations. I contribute to AMFAR and Planned Parenthood. Although my time is very valuable, I give of it freely.
But I have also put elderly women out of their homes to satisfy colossal judgments on soft-tissue injury cases. There are things you have to do in this job. It’s a moral wash. For the evil I do, I do just as much good. At the end of the day, I’m at zero. If there is a God, He must see me as a neutral actor, deserving of no particular blessings or curses.
Which is why I’m amazed at my fate in the accident: I wasn’t harmed that I can tell, except for a cut on my forehead, which I have bandaged. Good health can only be considered a blessing. When my head bulls-eyed the steering wheel, it sounded like a honeydew melon being tested for ripeness. I was mindless for a moment, lost in a stinging void where the sensation of tumbling head over feet replaced my awareness of being seated. I remained conscious enough to hear the chattering tinkle of disintegrating glass, the crunch of a doomed three-thousand dollar bumper and the ominous groan of a bending frame.
My injuries should have been worse. My face should’ve been bruised. My neck should’ve been broken. My pelvis should’ve been shattered, like the remains of a window shattered by an errant baseball. I should not, even now, be able to stand.
I have seen it in pictures, in X-rays, MRI’s. I’ve heard it at deposition. I know how terrible these matters can be. But instead of being relieved to have survived, I was furious. Some idiot—at first I supposed a stock-checking orthopedist—had rear-ended me. Sometimes injuries aren’t evident at the outset and it takes a few days for them to show up. Soft tissue injuries and head traumas, especially, so at the very least I should have had the good sense to stay in the Jag until an ambulance arrived, but I didn’t.
My beautiful Jaguar was destroyed. The driver's side door opened grudgingly, with none of the greasy ease I was used to. It was warped by the crash and didn't want to open, so I leaned into it hard with my right side. I grabbed the top of the door frame and pulled myself out.
The Fed Ex minion sat in his van, breathing through his mouth, looking dumb. He was middle-aged and heavier than I thought he ought to be. I could read his lips through the window. O shit, o shit, o shit. I stomped back to the truck and slapped the driver’s side door with the palm of my hand.
"Hey! Dickhead!"
He stared straight ahead. I could smell fear. I felt like a Doberman.
"Hey!" Still no answer. I grabbed the door handle and slid the door to the side. I pulled him toward me by the collar on his jacket and screamed into his face. "The fuck’s your problem? Are you high? Have you been drinking? Are you insured? Do you realize you just hit a Jaguar? That car was a British import!"
He struggled against my grip, but it didn’t take much to bring him under control. Just a little slap. I pressed his face flat against the windshield. I aimed my index finger at my license plate. It held to the corner of the frame by one screw, swinging wildly.
"Moron! What does that say?"
He mumbled against the windshield. "Shmooyu."
"What?"
A little louder: "ISUEYOU."
"That’s right," I said and let him go. I could hear sirens in the distance. "See you in court." The Fed Ex guy trembled, bit his lower lip, eyes trimmed with red circles. My chest heaved. I paced while the sirens grew louder. My license plate, still swinging, finally disconnected. It rang a hollow note when it hit the ground.
As an officer of the court, I’m a very busy man. Things like the routine maintenance and adjustment of household appliances often get pushed back while I attend to pressing legal matters. For example, I’ve been taking lukewarm showers for months. However, I had a few spare seconds yesterday morning to raise the temperature of the water in my pipes. I crept into the basement, turned the knob on the hot-water heater three-quarters of the way to the left, then started back up the stairs. But I stopped on the third step after I heard a sound like the rustle of maple leaves turning over to feel the rain.
When I looked behind the furnace, I found a shaman crouching between the furnace grate and the rear of the hot-water heater. He rubbed his hands together, held them out for a moment at the blue flames in the furnace, then adjusted his grass skirt. He had gibbous-moon bone through his nose and a necklace made from what appeared to be the teeth of a large animal. His presence came as something of a shock, as I am not used to having animist clergymen in my cellar.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I’m trying to get warm," he said.
Sometimes a precise response to a general question can stun the inquisitor, and this situation was such a case. I was so shocked that I was unable to formulate a more incisive line of questioning, so I left it at that, fully intending to return later with a more effective direct examination. But it would have to wait until then, because all I could think of in the moment was that he was entirely correct. It was warmer near the furnace.
"Okay then. Are you going to stick around?"
"Probably."
"I have to go to work," I said. "Oral arguments today. Ed’s first time without training wheels."
"Good luck," said the shaman.
"Thanks," I walked back up the stairs to bandage my head and get ready for work.
Ed is just out of law school, a junior associate on partner-track. He’s just behind me, and in the right kind of light, I can see reflections on the wall ahead from all the knives he’s got poised to sink between my shoulder blades. In spite of his duplicitous behavior toward me, I’ve been assigned as his mentor. I do not like Ed. He wears seersucker suits and white buck-shoes, all without irony. He drives a boring old Accord. If we were in high school, I’d kick his ass in front of his woman. But we’re older now, more civilized.
When I got to work, I said, "Ed, earlier this week I was rear-ended by a Fed Ex truck."
"I know." He said.
"I want you to call and threaten Fed Ex. You’ll represent me in the case and receive a fee, of course."
"Okay. What do you want me to say?"
"The usual. We have evidence the driver was intoxicate, whatever. Then call the driver himself and put the fear of Me into him. Remind him about the Boyd case."
The Boyd case was in the papers last year. I’d gotten $1.5m from a drunk driver. In order to meet the judgment, we attached his 401(k)’s, sold both his houses, put a lien on his yacht and auctioned his champion Malamute show dog on Ebay. He had two cars, but they were American. If we’d sold them we’d have been doing him a favor.
Ed looked unenthusiastic but he agreed. When he nodded and said, "Okay," I realized that something was wrong with his voice.
"What’s wrong?" I asked.
"I have a cold. I thought you might do the arguments."
"No," I said. My temper stirred. "You don’t have a cold. What you have is an argument in front of the appellate court in one hour, which you will make, and which you will win."
"In this condition?" He pointed at his nose.
"Mmmhmm," I nodded. "Pain is the essence of law. Now please. Stop being such a pussy and get out of my office. Go see if Pauline has any Sudafed in her desk."
I pointed at the door. Ed slithered away with a box of Kleenex in one hand and his briefcase under his arm. Let him pester Pauline, our office manager, I thought. I didn’t have time for his sophomoric worry-warting. This is The Law. This is serious. Let Pauline babysit him. Pauline is older, leather faced, and a smoker. She wears blue cowboy boots and likes the Green Bay Packers, but she has very large breasts, which I have always liked to stare at. Pauline drives a Ford Mustang, the offensiveness of which is so clearly evident that it needn’t be discussed here.
My phone rang. It was the shaman.
"Where’s your remote?" He asked.
"Oh, up from the basement, huh?"
"Yep. I can’t find the clicker."
I don’t know," I said. "Have you checked between the couch cushions?"
"Yeah," he said. "It’s not there. I found some change, though."
"Sometimes I leave it in the bathroom."
"The bathroom? Why?"
"I don’t know. I just carry it around sometimes and it ends up in rooms where there’s no stereo or TV. What are you doing, anyway?"
"I’m about to listen to some music."
"Okay," I said. "There are a few Coronas in the ‘fridge."
"Any limes?" He asked.
I told him no.
"That’s too bad," said the shaman. "Missy called."
"Did she leave a message?"
"Yeah, she wants you to call her."
"Thanks."
I hung up the phone. I leaned forward and untied my black wing-tips. I wiggled my toes, then slipped the shoes off under my desk. It felt good to have my toes out.
I called Missy. She works on the sixth floor.
"Hello?"
"This little piggy went to market," I said. "This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had roast beef. This little piggy had none. This little piggy cried wee wee wee, all the way home."
"Oh my gosh," she said. "I didn’t know it was you at first. You sound different. Are you feeling all right?"
I giggled. "I’m wiggling my piggies."
"I can tell." I could hear her smiling.
"I got your message."
"You did?"
"Right. What do you want? Lunch?"
"—I didn’t—"
"How does Thai sound?"
"I think it would be great. But—"
"I’ll have it arranged. Just meet me here?"
"Okay, but—"
"Great. Listen, I’ve got orals. Got to go."
I don’t think I’ll be able to find anyone better than Missy. Missy is a successful CPA. She has her own money. She drives a Lexus. That makes me less suspicious of her motives, but these days, really, who can you trust? Nobody. The whole world is crazy.
Missy has a great rack, a cute ass and she likes Led Zeppelin. But she’s been on me about getting married. She mentions it every time we’re together. It drives me crazy. I was almost thankful for the accident. Now, when she brings it up, I can say, "Not now, baby. It’s a bad time. What, with the wreck and all."
What can she say to that? Nothing. But she still wants to take the next step, after which I’m afraid I’ll find she’s standing on my throat. Missy feels like we’ve gotten "stale" as a couple and that we need to "challenge ourselves" and "grow." That sounds like infomercial Mars & Venus bullshit to me, but I understand the sentiment. My quarrel is with her phrasing: I would’ve said its time to shit or get off the pot. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in variety. I think we might need a change, too. Just not necessarily one sanctioned by Church & State.
It’s not just the money that makes me nervous, either. It’s that lately women everywhere seem to want me. Why—here in the red flush of my prime—would I settle down with one woman? Even a woman like Missy, who knows the words to D’yer M’ker by heart and whose bottom is as round as a Granny Smith apple? Take Pauline for instance: she’s been paying extra attention to me since the accident. She comes by every morning to check on me. "Are you feeling all right?" she asks. I’m irresistible because I survived a trauma that would’ve destroyed lesser men. I must be projecting an aura of immortality.
"You all right?" Asked Ed, as we walked to the courthouse
"Yeah. Why?"
"Forgetting anything?" He shook his head sadly.
"I don’t believe so." I didn’t like his tone. But then I never like his tone.
"What I mean is shoes," He rubbed his shiny nose with a tissue, "You don’t have any shoes." Ed pointed at my feet. He was right. I had forgotten my shoes under the desk. I was wearing only gold-toe socks. They were nice socks, top-of-the-line, but hardly appropriate attire for court.
"Shit," I said.
"I’m serious. Are you okay?" Ed was sincere, concerned.
"I’m fine. I must have zoned out while preparing."
There wasn’t time to go back to the office. We still had two blocks to walk and oral arguments were set to begin in fifteen minutes. A cell phone rang. Both Ed and I reached for our pockets. It was my phone, even though Ed made a big production of unfolding his and putting it to his ear. He must have been embarrassed, because he went so far with the charade as to pretend to talk into his cell phone. Wishful thinking on his part. Nobody calls Ed. I hope he gets ear cancer.
"Hello," I asked.
"What’s up?" said the shaman.
"I forgot my shoes at the office."
"That’s odd. Are your feet cold?"
"They weren’t." I cornered my eyes at Ed, who was still jabbering at his imaginary caller. "Until somebody mentioned it."
"Listen," said the shaman, "do you mind if I hunt some of these squirrels here in the back yard? I thought I might kill them and mix their blood with rum as an offering to the ancestors. It’s just a thing I do in the mornings. Its okay to tell me no if you’re not comfortable."
"No," I said. "Go right ahead. Those squirrels drive me crazy. Just don’t get any on the rug."
"Don’t worry. I’ll be outside anyway. I’ll need a small fire. Where do you keep the rum?"
"Above the stove."
"Next to the spices?"
"No, on the other side. With the other liquor."
"Gotcha. Thanks."
"Sure."
Oral arguments are a bore. Essentially, they’re a ritual in which three dour, constipated senior citizens in black bathrobes ask inane questions to which they already have the answers. By the time an oral argument is conducted, especially at the appellate level, the judges (or their clerks) have already decided the case based upon the briefs, which for most matters are submitted months earlier. Younger lawyers, and masochists, argue at the appellate level. Not me, baby.
When we got to court, Ed screwed everything up. I could hear the air bouncing off a thin film of snot behind his uvula. He stood and cleared his throat. His salutation sounded terrible: "Your Hockers. Pay it blease the cork."
They interrupted immediately. Judges are like sharks. They can smell blood in the water.
"Counselor, what’s wrong with you?"
"I have a cold," he admitted.
"Then why isn’t co-counsel making your arguments?"
"I don’t know," he said. Then I had to argue for Ed. They were pissed. He was relieved.
"Counselor," they said to me. "Your time for argument will be shortened by two minutes based on your inconsideration. This court’s time is valuable."
I nodded. "Begin," they said.
I stood behind the table and leaned forward on the tips of my fingers. "May it please the court: j’mapelle Futuristic Funky Ringmaster Jesus, and I represent Petitioner in the matter Oooka vs. Booka. Your honors, the facts are as these: the lower court’s chakras are misaligned. Clearly, had they not been snorting Peruvian flake and courting fat young Filipino boys in chambers, they’d have noticed that their decision, as written, contradicts every element of precedent in our positivist legal tradition; and also the positivist legal traditions of several Arab sheikdoms. Petitioner’s right to due process as guaranteed by the fifth and fourteenth amendments of both our state and federal constitutions are violated by the lower court, to wit—"
I could tell by the looks on the faces of Ed and the judges that they were impressed.
"—his right to have the kundalini serpent awakened by freaky nookie was violated by the denial of a jury trial in this matter. Further, in his brief, Respondent routinely uses "supposably" instead of "supposedly." This alone should lead the court to dismiss this matter in favor of Petitioner, with prejudice. Finally, your honors, I assert that Respondent’s counsel, along with Henry Kissinger and the President of these United States of America, conspired to burn a hole in the back of my garage, from which they could take the mason jars full of chow-chow I have canned for the coming winter. Thank you."
The judges were flabbergasted, but they still managed to fire off some questions. Ed was cowed by my oratorical prowess. He lowered his head. That’s why I’m the mentor, Ed.
"Counselor, you can’t be serious," they said.
"But I am," I responded. They always try to get you to admit you’re wrong. They’re usually pretty rude about it, too. I walked around from behind the table and stood in front of them. When you’re challenging authority, it helps to make yourself a little vulnerable.
"Counselor," they asked. "Where are your shoes?"
My feet were so cold I’d forgotten I was unshod. They were numb, but the reminder of my lack of quality footwear revived the pain of cold. I removed my jacket and rolled up my shirtsleeves. I stared at them and flared my nostrils.
"Oooka-Booka," I pulled my bandage above my hairline and showed them the orange-diamond lesion from the accident. I raised my right knee high and stomped, to get the blood flowing, then I did the same with my left. "Shaka-Shaka Wu-Tang."
Ed did not speak to me on our walk back to the office. Instead, he stared straight
ahead, his mouth shut. He’d never seen me argue before. Now he was speechless. My argument dumbfounded the court and made even the bailiffs nervous. Now they know that when it’s game-time, big-daddy comes to play.
There was a partner’s meeting during lunch. I’m sure they were discussing my impending partnership. They invited Ed in near the end of the meeting. I winked at him as he walked past my office. "Give a good word," I yelled. He must not have heard me, because he didn’t answer.
I ordered the Thai food. Missy would be coming up any minute from her office on the sixth floor, swishing through the door in that way of hers, smiling wide enough to charm the dots off a ladybug. I couldn’t wait to see her. When she arrived, Pauline was with her. Missy was wearing a little pink skirt-outfit, the one I like, the one suggestive of Jackie Onassis. I think it’s Prada. She looked concerned. She gets a cute wrinkle on her forehead when she’s being thoughtful. It made me want to pat her bottom.
"How has your day been?" She asked.
"Stellar," I grinned and clapped my hands. "Yours?"
"Fine."
They sat in the red wing-back chairs across from my desk. Pauline said, " I was glad to see it when Missy arrived, because perhaps with her here you’ll feel more comfortable."
"I myself was concerned that this might be a little awkward."
"Oh?" asked Pauline.
"Yes. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time."
The Thai delivery boy walked in with the food. He was wearing a red nylon jacket and baseball cap. He stopped, looked at us, then looked at a clipboard.
"You order?" He asked.
"Yes," I said. "Just put it over there on the table." I pointed at the table-for-four where I met with clients. He carried the grease soaked bag across the room. I walked over to my beige filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. I pulled my 35mm camera from inside, then shut it.
"Now. Young man."
"Yes. It will be $18. Plus any gratuity." He hesitated before mentioning the tip, which I found endearing.
"Of course there will be a gratuity. Do you have any other deliveries?"
"No. You were last."
"There’s a large tip in store for you, then."
"Yes?"
"All you have to do is take some pictures."
I tossed him the camera. I took off my white oxford shirt and rolled up my pants legs to my calves. I removed my socks and tossed them into my desk-chair. Pauline put her hands on the arms of the chair and leaned forward. Missy stopped looked even more concerned.
"What on earth are you doing?" she asked.
"Yes." Said Pauline. "This is exactly the kind of thing, the reason—"
"I don’t want either of you to think
me untoward," I held my hands out and forward. "But
I’ve imagined this exact moment a thousand times." I
closed my eyes. Then I motioned to the delivery-boy to shut the
door. "Missy, we’ve been together for a couple of years
now."
"Uh-huh," she agreed, seemingly unable to close her
mouth.
I snapped my fingers. "Picture!" I heard the shutter snap. The flashbulb hissed.
"And you’ve been complaining lately that things between us have gotten stale, right?"
"I hardly think this is the time." Said Missy. Pauline was as poised as a cheetah.
I held my hand out at Pauline. "Missy, look at Pauline." She did. "Pauline is a middle-aged, divorced coke-dabbler with a mid-quality boob-job and a barely sublimated desire to act-out on her lesbian fantasies. Not that she’s exclusively homosexual—no, no—don’t get me wrong; she’s been after me for some time, too. I just don’t see why we can’t kill three birds with one stone. Missy, you’re bored. Pauline, you’re horny for me and Missy. Why not?"
I pulled my zipper tab south and pulled my penis through the open flap. I let it hang between my legs. I do believe the head of it touched my ink blotter, but don’t draw any conclusions from that. It was an on-day. The delivery-boy snapped another photo.
"Shall we?" I said. They seemed hesitant. They needed some encouragement. So I added, rhetorically: "Dear Penthouse…"
I put my penis back inside my pants after they fled. It was obvious that Missy and Pauline had intended to surprise me with menage a trois, but apparently, I ruined the surprise by broaching the subject too soon. Women prefer seduction and subtlety, and these days I find myself unable to muster the will to affect either. The only person happy with the outcome of the situation was the Thai delivery-boy, who garnered a $40 tip. I can’t wait to get those pictures developed. He asked for doubles, but I don’t think I’ll send him any. $40 was adequate for his services.
I ate. The shaman called on my office phone a few minutes after I began, so my lonesomeness was not total.
"How are things?"
"Weird day. I think I just pissed Missy off pretty bad."
"Oh yeah?"
"Missy and Pauline were in here together trying to involve moi in a little menage a trois, if you get my meaning."
"I do," said the shaman. "I’m a francophone."
"Good. Then you understand."
"That little vixen. I could tell she was up to mischief by the tone of her voice when she called here this morning."
"It didn’t turn out. I think I rushed it a little bit."
"Yeah?"
"But I’m sick of games.
"Love is a game. Life is a game. You roll the dice."
"Well, yeah. But a menage a trois is lust, isn’t it? Why not just admit that and get down to business? That’s what I always say. No games."
"Women don’t think that way. Not usually."
"I am reminded of that as I eat by myself."
The shaman laughed. "What did you do that was so awful?"
"I showed them my pecker."
"That’s definitely a forward move. A little hasty, perhaps. Timing is everything."
"I see that in retrospect. At least it was an on-day."
"You want your member to appear noble when you show it to potential lovers."
"That’s what I thought."
"Should I rustle up some dinner here, or wait on you?"
"I’m eating now," I said. "You should probably go ahead without me. I won’t be hungry again until breakfast. There are some ribs in a doggie bag in the crisper."
"I’ll warm them in the microwave."
"I usually put them in for three and a half minutes."
"I’ll do that. What are you eating?"
"Thai."
"A little spicy for me," he said.
"I expect I’ll be home in about an hour or so," I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin.
"If you’re eating Thai, you should do us both a favor and pick up some Gas-X."
"Good thinking," I said through a mouthful of rice. I hung up. The receiver was slathered with rice and tomatoes. I grabbed a handful of baby-corn and pushed it into my mouth. I chewed but didn’t swallow. I added a handful of rice. I felt the juice fill my mouth, leak out the corners and bleed down my chin. I rubbed the grease and oil, still hot from the wok, into the skin of my face. My face tingled under the heat. The sting of alive. I belched. I think it was the best meal I’ve ever had.
The shaman sat on my couch, arms outstretched on either side, his feet on my coffee table, smoking a Dunhill Torpedo. It was very funny how the smoke roiled from his nose down the yellow slopes of the bone piercing his nostrils.
"This is a good cigar," he said. He sipped Glenlivet from a rocks glass.
"Dunhills are nice," I agreed. "They use a Connecticut wrapper and a Dominican filler. Good mix."
"We can get Cubans back home."
"How are they?"
"Little harsher than you’d expect. Very satisfying, though. Like a meal."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"What’s with the grass skirt?"
"I’m a shaman. That’s what we wear."
"Will you stop doing that?" I asked, infuriated at the consistent simplicity of his answers.
"Doing what?" he asked around the huge 44 gauge Churchill.
"This morning. What are you doing back there? You say because it’s warm. Now, ‘I’m a shaman. That’s what we wear.’ Why so coy?"
"You’re not asking the questions correctly," He said.
"I’m a lawyer. It’s my job to ask questions correctly."
"Correctly ask them," said the shaman. "Did you ever think you might not be as good at it as you think you are? I think you’re too comfortable. You’re a lawyer by habit. I think your habits have been holding you back."
"I billed almost three mil last year."
"And The Backstreet Boys sold ten million albums."
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," he said. "Perhaps the question is why aren’t you wearing a grass skirt?"
"Why would I wear a grass skirt? That’s ludicrous."
"Because all you really want to do is get funky."
"That’s true." I reflected. "But you have to pay your dues. Life ain’t no disco."
"Pay your dues," laughed the shaman. He leaned forward and grabbed the hem of my rolled up pants-leg. "That’s a cliché. What you really mean is that instead of clubbing your adversaries on the head, stealing their women and eating their hearts to gain potency you work ninety hours per week at a job you hate where you harass your adversaries to death with little pieces of paper and then steal their bank accounts. You do this to make money, with which you buy beautiful suits." He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, letting his fingers slide over the fabric. "Italian suits, it would appear. You hope to meet women who will want to remove the beautiful suits and make love to you. Your desires are made complicated, wrapped in ritual. I came to tell you these things, and if you have ears, hear them." He waved his finger at me. "Life is happening now. Be mindful. Be naked. Do not give ninety hours of pain in change for four hours of pleasure. Do not hang a suit of linen between want and get. Be a crazy dumbsaint. This is what I came to tell you."
"Where from?" I asked. "Where are you from?"
"Zambia." He said. "Japan. Papua New Guinea. Luxembourg. All over, really."
"How did you get here?"
"United Airlines."
"You want another Scotch?" I asked him, feeling defeated. I was thankful I’d never had to depose a shaman and that Americans are raised on Perry Mason reruns. Americans always answer the question they think you’ve asked instead of the one you really did.
The next morning I heard Missy on the machine saying she was worried about me, that some people were coming to visit, and that I might go somewhere with them for a few of days. Her voice was thin, terse and hard. That’s the danger with menage a trois’. When they go wrong, they go way wrong. I’m not inclined to travel, but if Missy’s friends come by I’ll listen to what they have to say. I’m reasonable. I’m an attorney, after all.
When I finally stirred at about 10 am, I was on the white leather couch, buck-naked. My head was still bandaged. The shaman and I finished a whole gallon of Glenlivet last night and, sometime around 4 am, he found some shoe polish, food coloring and old watercolor paints in the basement. He painted various esoteric designs on my chest, stomach, legs, face and buttocks. While in the basement he found the ISUEYOU plate from the Jag, tied a loop with rope through the hole in each corner and made a necklace for me to wear. We lit a candle on the coffee table and marched around it in a circuit for about half an hour, then we smoked some more cigars. We were drunk. I was breathless and happy.
I woke to the heavy odor of the shaman frying bacon in the kitchen. He was humming as shamans will, making a throaty sound that was at one time both catchy and frightening. "Do you have any cumin?" he yelled.
"Why do you need cumin?"
"It’s a very versatile spice. You can always use cumin—oh, here it is," I heard the cabinet shut. "Forget it. I found it."
The phone rang. It was Pauline. I wondered if she’d opted for the newer surgery where they use the belly button to insert the implants, or whether she got the old Earl Scheib job with the big vertical scar. Last night, the shaman called them porn-tits. He’s a pretty funny guy once you get to know him.
"I’m calling on behalf of the partners," she said in monotone. "They have decided to promote Ed to senior associate. As you know, that’s the position you were in line for. Given your behavior lately, the partners thought it best to hold off on your progression. You’re being placed on indefinite sabbatical while you get things straightened out. Also, you should know, the bar association and the ethics board have become involved. The appellate court was extremely concerned. If there is anything that’s been causing this late behavior, you should let us know. Our policy here is to facilitate treatment in lieu of discharge, and the ethics board has a similar policy. It’s really in your best—"
"Hey Pauline," I interrupted. "Do you have any sensitivity left in your breasts? Are they numb? I hear that sometimes after the surgery they get gristly and you lose feeling in them. Any truth to that?
"What?"
"Nothing." I said. "Forget it."
"You should clear out your office on Monday. We’ll have security meet you in the lobby."
"Don’t bother. Do whatever you want with my stuff. And tell Ed not to file against Fed Ex or the driver."
"This is serious. You need help."
"No," I said. The license plate rope hung around my neck, the plate lay on my chest. I ran my fingers over the raised lettering. I scratched my head at the hairline, just above the bandage. "Give all my things to whomever. Take them yourself if you want them. Tell Ed to settle immediately, minimum amount. Let the poor bastards off the hook. I think they did me a favor."
"Your’re not all right." She said.
The shaman stood over me with a belt of juicy bacon dangling from his brown fingers. I nodded gratefully, took it from his hand and rubbed the greasy strip on my lips. Then I ate it, and it tasted wonderful.
"Fuck it, Pauline." I said. "I feel just fine."
###
B17 Feb 2000
F18 Feb 2000
