Bowling

A squat rectangular table, flanked by low-slung wooden chairs padded with leather on the backrest, seat, and armrests.  Joseph and Jess, the first year associate, manned one side of the table.  Winters and Salisbury helmed the other.  The more senior attorneys were joking about Winters’s experience working in a bowling ball factory for an undergraduate summer.

“That’s not the best part,” Winters said, “at the end of the summer, they offered to make me a personalized and engraved bowling ball!”  Winters cackled while Salisbury howled.  Salisbury’s face flushed and his eyes watered.

“You, must, have, been, so, . . . , embarrassed!” Salisbury sputtered as his breath allowed.  “A bowling ball!” the last two words swimming in disdain.  “You should bring your personalized bowling ball out to the lanes some time!”  The laughing boiled over again at this joke

The laughing tapered and Winters was earnest, “I just told them.  I had no use for it.”

The Case

Joseph leaned forward in his rolling chair, peering intently at his computer screen.  He had developed a squint-nearsightedness from his computer habits.  His complexion was also suffering, his skin milky and pale.  Even his forearms, which had always been robust enough to sustain a faint tan in the winter months, were nearly translucent.  He had also become significantly doughier.  Although his dimensions were roughly the same, his composition was changing drastically-it would only be another year or two before the paunch became readily apparent.

Winters materialized behind him-busting him in the middle of reading his legal tabloid.  “Got time for a project, Huck?”  The trim, angular attorney smiled, baring his prominent incisors, daring Joseph to say no.  Winters’ cast a sharp glance at the computer screen, prodding Joseph to acquiesce.

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Good, this is a big one.  Insurance defense.”

Winters dropped an expandable file on the cluttered desk-the file was the width of two phonebooks.

“Come by my office tomorrow, when you’ve read the file.  We’ll chat.”

***

Defendant-insuree drove a black Lamborghini south down Main Street at 2:15 A.M., travelling at approximately 45 miles per hour, 20 miles per hour over the stated speed limit.  Plaintiff was stopped at the Maple Street red light facing south on Main behind a semi-truck, driven by Evans.  Defendant-insuree collided with Plaintiff’s BMW from the rear, pushing the BMW under the semi, collapsing the front end.  Plaintiff was pinned at the waist between the steering column and the driver’s seat.  Evans, unharmed, attempted to remove Plaintiff from the crushed vehicle.  Plaintiff bled to death at the scene.  Plaintiff’s estate now sues Defendant-insuree.  Defendant-insuree is insured Defendant-insurer, covering personal injuries to third parties up to $1 million.  Defendant-insuree is current on all premiums.

***

Joseph, after two cups of black, stepped up to Winters’ door-slightly ajar-and knocked as he timidly pushed it open.  “Busy?”

“Of course I’m busy, douche-bag.  It’s 8:30, I’ve been busy for hours.”

“…”

“Don’t just stand there like a huckleberry, sit down.  Stop wasting my time.”

“…”

“Well?”

“The IBA case, I read it.  It’s interesting.”

“What’s so interesting about it?”

“…”

“Look, Huck, this is a big case.  We are not going to pay this.  At least, we are not going to pay most of it.”

“Who’s going to pay it?”

“That’s for you to figure out, champ.  How about the driver?”

“We could probably allege comparative fault as an affirmative defense.  That way the driver would have to pay his share.”

“Now you’re thinking.  Make it so.”

***

Joseph, ablaze with knowledge, began drafting the answer to the plaintiff’s complaint, placing in all of the boilerplate legalese.  The doughy lawyer relished typing the allegation of comparative fault.  Soon he would be able to begin the memorandum supporting the allegation, to be used when the claim was disputed.  He spent the morning polishing the answer, checking and re-checking for typographical errors-intending to begin research on the memorandum after lunch.

At 11:55, Winters appeared behind him.  “No tabloids this time?”

“No, sir.  Just finishing up this answer.”

“Feeling pretty good about it?”

“Looks good from here.  I think we’ve got a good chance here.”

“Why?”

“Well.  If the truck driver hadn’t tried to remove the plaintiff from the car, he probably wouldn’t have bled to death.  The steering column was preventing him from losing too much blood.  If he had been left there until the EMS had arrived, he may have survived.”

“That’s great, Huck.  But you’re fucked.”

“I don’t think-”

“Don’t think, Huck.  Trust me.  You’re fucked.”

“…”

“…”

“Why?”

“Because the truck driver can’t pay shit; he filed Chapter 11 yesterday.”

“What?”

“He’s bankrupt, Huck.  Broke.  Penniless.  Doesn’t have a pot to piss in.  That son-of-a-bitch is in discharge; his assets are protected.”

“Shit.”

“Shit is right.  You better figure something out.  It’s your ass, not mine.”

Five-thirty finally rolled around, and with it, Friday Bar-an open bar set up on the eighteenth floor.  Joseph locked his computer and scurried down.  At the bar, he quietly ordered a Maker’s Mark on the rocks and looked around for non-hostiles.  In the corner he saw two of the new first-years, looking wide-eyed, whispering behind their drinks.  Murphy, a mousy brunette, briefly met his eyes and looked away immediately.  It was enough.

Joseph shuffled over.  The women stopped talking and looked at him.  The mousy one offered first, “Hi, Jess Murphy.”

Her voice was disconcerting, too high pitched and windy.  Joseph reached to shake her extended hand, “Joseph Jacobson, we’ve met.  Several times, actually.”

“Oh my God!  I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be sorry, Jess.  He’s just a second-year in litigation.  He doesn’t mean anything to you.”

Jennifer Morrison, a powerful blonde-headed woman with a linebacker’s jaw and a ferret’s eyes, stared at him, arms crossed, seething aggressiveness.

“He doesn’t mean anything period.  Harry Winters,” Winters shook each of their hands briefly, “Ladies, let me do you a favor and get him out of here.”

Winters steered Joseph like a ventriloquist’s dummy, hand on the base of his neck-only squeezing lightly, but still squeezing.  Joseph allowed himself to be guided to a waspy old partner, J. Riley Salisbury.

“Jacobson, tell me about this case.  Winters tells me he put his crackerjack mentee on it, was gonna solve all our problems.”

Joseph looked solemnly at Winters, who was baring his smile.  “Well, what have you got?”

Joseph glanced at his cordovans before starting, “Well Mr. Salisbury, I think we’ve got a good chance of not having to pay.  I think we can allege comparative fault against the truck-driver.”

“The good Samaritan?” Salisbury’s sarcasm was potent and precise, “Winters already told me about him.  He’s broke.  What else have you got?”

“I know he’s broke, Mr. Salisbury.  But I don’t think that necessarily means that we can’t point the finger at him.”

Winters interjected, “There’s no money to collect.  There is no way that the judge will let the plaintiff recover from him: the bankruptcy statutes clearly protect him.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Joseph paused, noting that Winters’ tongue was flicking wildly around the point of his incisor.  He recanted a bit, “Not wrong about the bankruptcy statute, but … it’s just that I think we can still point the finger at him,” he paused looking to see if Winters was at all mollified-he was not.

“Go on, Jacobson,” Salisbury leaned forward hungrily.

“Well, the bankruptcy statute protects him from judgment,” emphasizing the last word, “not from fault.”

Winters with menace, “Where does the plaintiff get the money from?”

“He doesn’t get the money.  When the court adopted comparative fault, it inherently put the risk of insolvency on the plaintiff.”

Winters paused, “and you’ve got a case that says this?”

“No, not exactly.  But it’s pretty clear from the dicta in several cases.”

“Pretty clear?” Winters was laughing.  Short.  Distinct.  Monosyllabic.  “You are going to fall flat on your face, Huck.”

“Now, hold it there, Winters.  I think Jacobson might be on to something.  Run down this rabbit-trail, Jacobson.  Write up a brief in support of the defense.  Give it directly to me, Monday morning.”

Winters stiffly walked away, heading toward Morrison.  Jacobson moved on to more important people.  Joseph put down his half-finished drink, by now too watered down anyhow, and headed back up to his office to work on the brief.

***

“Jacobson, my boy!” Salisbury strode in to Joseph’s office to clap him on the shoulder, “brilliant work!”

“How’s that, sir?”

“Comparative fault, it’s a winner.  The judge heard the motion today.  He ruled in our favor.  The plaintiff was so scared that a jury would put the blame on the Samaritan, they settled for one hundred thousand dollars.  All your work, my boy.  I simply copied and pasted.  What are you doing tonight?  I’ll tell you what you’re doing tonight.  My house.  Dinner.  I’ll call my wife.  Bring a lady.  See you at seven.  You’re going places my boy, you’ll see.  You just earned your bonus this year.”

The Mentor

The mentor, Harry Winters, glided into the room-possibly riding the current of his own arrogance.  An I-dare-you smile graced his sharply pointed face: slightly biting his lip, as he raised one corner of his mouth, revealing a pointed canine tooth, he appeared distinctly wolfish.  His sharp features were further accented by the lustrous black hair thrown back and secured firmly with gel, revealing a sharp widow’s peak

The Decline and Fall

The father lay unconscious on a rust-colored pillow of blood and dust, having descended from demi-god to martyr.  The felled culprit lay beside, solemn and still.  The air was laden with musky diesel exhaust and the tangy smell of sap from freshly-hewn trees.  The mishap would strip him of many things-ultimately, his life-but his stubbornness could not be counted among them.  He would recount mistakes neither on the part of the cat operator nor the man who dismissed safety-caging as a needless expense-particularly since he was both of those men.

Though he would lose a taste for many things in his dwindling years, he would acquire a taste for painkillers, which he would seemingly never be able to keep in stock.  His power over the two boys was not diminished by his virtual confinement to his recliner-alternately tricking and intimidating them, particularly the youngest.  The oldest boy would stay out of range, but circle around him like a stray dog, both in admiration and hatred.  The youngest was unaware of the boundaries set out by the declining patriarch.  This transgression was forgiven: the father knew that the boy would have plenty of time to struggle with such issues.

The Day After

Rube slept through most of the next day.  When he finally stirred, he left the trailer wordlessly.  In the truck, Rube’s eyes kept glancing to the wallet and watch on the dash.  He turned on the radio, southern rock blared from the speakers.  Rube winced at the wailing guitars but made no adjustment.  The truck turned off the main drag onto a narrow gravel road that wound back through the woods, every fifty feet dotted with a trailer.

He pulled the truck over a patch of yellow grass in front a dingy unit, even by the neighbors’ standards.  Watch and wallet in hand, he walked up to the trailer and opened the flimsy door and let himself in.  The trailer was musky with the smell of faded cat urine and old food.  Jaymie was curled up on the couch under a pink blanket, embroidered with the word “Princess.”  She still had her make up on from the previous night and her hair was contorted from sleep and day-old hairspray.

Rube started, “You saw.  Last night.”

“Yeah, what the fuck was that?  Why’d you whup that guy so bad?”

“I don’t know.  I guess just bein’ laid off and hammered, I snapped at him.”

Jaymie looked at him softly, “What you gonna do?”

“I don’t know, maybe go back up north for a little while.  You know who that guy was last night?”

“No, but Burt knowed his brother, or somethin’ like that.”

Rube laid set the watch and wallet on the table, “Well, make sure he gets this back.  I don’t know what I meant by taking it.”

“All right.”

“I mean it.  You make sure he gets it back.  Don’t let nobody talk you into doin’ somethin’ different.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

Laid Off

Joey heard the aggressive rumbling of the truck as it pulled up the gravel drive.  The door slamming home, the stomping of work boots, and then Rube burst into the trailer.  He looked unsteadily and angrily at Joey lounging on the couch.

“Get your shit.  We’re goin’ out.”

Joey stirred lazily.  “What for?”

“Just get your shoes on.  Let’s go.”

Joey slipped on his tennis shoes and paced to the car, hand in pocket, head to the ground.  He sat quietly as Rube started the truck and put it into gear.  Rube’s breath smelled of whiskey and his face was red.  Rube was jittery when he lit a smoke.  He drove, eyes and mouth tight, frequently taking small puffs from the Marlboro.  Rube steered the truck into the Cantina’s parking lot and shut down the engine.  He exited wordlessly, slamming the door.  Without looking back he pushed through the worn oak door, light glinting off of the swinging faux-porthole.

Joey shuffled into the Cantina pensively, eyes darting for a glimpse of his brother.  In a rear corner, he saw a crowd of bristly men and questionable women, his brother in the middle.  He wandered up, acknowledged by eye-contact, animosity variable.  One of them mumbled, “Pink shirt.”  An observation, not a question.

Rube handed him a wide-rimmed shot glass, filled to the top with amber whiskey.  “Drink.”  He caught the whiskey’s pungent scent just as he threw the shot back.  A little cough.  A few giggles.  Rube, “Another.”  Another.  Rube slid out two cigarettes, laid one on the sticky table, indicated that Joey should take it, lit the other, and drew in a deep hit.  Joey lit the cigarette.

Rube finally looked at his brother, eyes bleary and determined.  “I’m laid off.”

Joey stood, smoking.  Rube continued assertively, “They layin’ off all the toolmakers.  They can get work cheaper from the Chinese.”

Rube’s face flushed.  Inflamed, he went on, “They gonna see.  They’ll see when the crap that comes back is no good.  They’ll see.”

Rube tossed back two more shots in a row.  He lit another cigarette and lifted a full shot glass as another-possibly drunker-man, burly-bearded and red-faced, barreled into him.  The man looked at Rube ferociously, clearly unsure of where Rube had come from, “Watch it, fucknuts.”

Rube’s eyes widened, “Fucknuts?”

Freshly unemployed and inebriated, he threw a looping fist that crashed into the man’s face, dropping him to the floor.  Jobo, the enormous Polynesian bouncer, being used to such things, responded immediately and tossed both men out the front door.  Joey followed pensively.  The victim of the knockout punch writhed on top of the gravel, unsure of how he had gotten there.  Rube mounted him immediately, pummeling his face until it was crimson.  Joey tried to pull his brother off but was easily tossed aside.  He sat and watched as his brother dismounted.  Rube stooped over the man, whispering threats that were unheard.  He grabbed the man’s limp arm and removed his watch.  Then he rolled the poor sack over and took his wallet.  Rube stood up and turned to walk away, but hesitated.  He turned back around and slowly unzipped his fly.  He took his member in one hand and drenched the man’s head and shoulders before zipping up and walking away.  “Come on, we got to get the fuck out of here.”

The Hilljack’s Tragedy

His tragedy comes from his displacement.  This country’s move toward elitism and esoterism leaves him an outcast.

The elite deride simple pleasure-simple foods, simple games, simple needs.  The elitist is concerned only with things that are exotic or expensive.  The elitist only finds value in that which is most readily and efficiently monetized.  To him, a dollar is more than a unit of currency, it is a unit of value.

The elitist alternately ignores and belittles the hilljack.  For this the hilljack is fortunate, because it is nothing compare to what the elitist does to those on the upper cusp of the middle class.  He tries to shame them into joining his ranks.  He tries to addict the to money, to crave it and what it can buy.  He indoctrinates them: he teaches them the art of monetary valuation.  He-of course-is of great value, having a tremendous amount of wealth.

The hilljack doesn’t give a damn.  Unfortunately, the elitists influence is great, and this country has a great history of kowtowing to the elitist’s whims.  As such, it is the hilljack who must go fight this country’s battles, yet it is his job that is sent overseas.

The Dignity of the Hilljack

He is universally ridiculed.  The lampooning flies under the radar are the P.C. Gestapo.  He is outdated, unsophisticated, and unimpressed.  His rough edges refuse to be sanded.

 His plights are many-caused by equal parts environment and ignorance.  He is forgotten by this country: it is his jobs that are sent overseas to the lowest bidder.  His education is one of the hands not one of theory.  With those hands, he clings unflinchingly to his values-hard work and independence.  If those values are encroached, those fists will be thrown.

 Undistracted by the temptation of a more comfortable life, he forges on.  He doesn’t stop to think; he doesn’t stop to question; he just keeps moving forward.  He is a doer, not a thinker.  He is not stupid, but he does not pause to reflect when there are things that need to be done.

 Things that need to be done.  When times are hardest-for example, when a man is stripped of his livelihood-more things need to be done that in any other time.  And it is because of this that you can never strip him of his dignity: you can only give him more to do.

The Arrival

The tree trunk ripped through the bulldozer’s cab without so much as a whistle, crushing the skull of the driver.  Father would survive the accident, but it marked the beginning of his diminution as a human being.  From that point on, he wouldn’t live so much as deteriorate.  The remaining few years of his life would be marked by reconstructive surgery, drug addiction, and divorce.

This was a time before America became so litigious, be even had it been today, there would have been nobody to sue, nobody else to blame.  Father owned the ‘dozer; he owned the fledgling company; he drove the dozer recklessly; he decided against installing a safety cage.  It was his own negligence that made him a martyr.  It was his own negligence that made him nothing at all.

***

A. stepped off the plane, his eyes betraying vague confusion.  He tramped through the tiny airport, a small duffle bag slung from his shoulder and slapping against his butt as he walked.  Finally exiting the secured zone, he saw no familiar face so he continued past the baggage claim and out into the hot Piedmont day.  Rube’s red truck idled in the loading zone, smooth and impatient.  Joey tossed his duffle in the bed and hopped into the passenger side.

“How ya’ been?” Rube’s voice almost as sandpapery as the pepper-and-salt stubble on his face.

“Doin’ well.”

Rube lit a Marlboro and put the truck in gear.  A. popped in a hoss for the trip.  The cab’s silence was occasionally punctuated when Joey would spit into an empty Mountain Dew bottle that he had found rolling around on the floor.

“You spit too much,” Rube criticized, “Look like a pussy.”

For the next thirty-five minutes, Joey stopped spitting altogether, swallowing only when the saliva build-up became unbearable.  After arriving at Rube’s trailer, Joey went straight to the bathroom and vomited quietly until his stomach stopped aching.