Spilled Milk

Growing up, my family didn't get along very well with our neighbors.  I'm not sure if they didn't like us, or we didn't like them.  It was probably a little of both.

"That bitch next door is waving at us again," my mom said, under her breath, while a rather pleasant-looking woman who lived across the street gave us a rather pleasant wave.  "Don't look at her."

Inevitably I looked at her and offered a half-hearted wave when my mother's back was turned.

"She always seemed nice to me," I replied.  I didn't actually have a basis for thinking the next-door neighbor was nice, except that she had lots of those ceramic gnomes on her lawn, which I thought made her yard appear warm and inviting.  We didn't have ceramic gnomes on our lawn, and as far I as I was concerned, our yard was all the poorer for it.

"Don't be so naive, Jonah.  She thinks who she is."

According to my mother, everyone in our neighborhood thought who they were, which was my mother's way of saying they were snobs.  Even the elderly couple who lived across the street thought who they were.  I didn't think that people who drove Yugos could be snobs, but I guess I was wrong.

"Never become like them, Jonah," my mom said, in her best second-grade teacher tone.  "You're nothing special.  Don't forget that."

For the most part, though, we didn't fight with our neighbors.  We just went our way, and they went theirs.  When they had block parties or yard sales, they carefully cordoned off our house from the festivities, for everyone's protection.  And though we did put out a pumpkin at Halloween and even bought some bags of candy, trick-or-treaters rarely knocked on our door; in fact, our house never even got egged, it was just perpetually ignored, as if we were a bunch of serial killers and not just a harmless mess.  I would have rather gotten egged, at least then we would have been part of the community.  Instead we were just outsiders, the flotsam and jetsam of Lincoln Park Road.

But generally, the arrangement worked well for everyone concerned.  Even if I didn't agree with my mother's assessment of the neighborhood, I at least appreciated her honesty.  The only thing I found more uncomfortable than open hostility was superficial pleasantries.  Fortunately, my family was highly proficient at the former and spectacularly inept at the latter, even when it came to our own internal communication.

"Good morning?  What's so fucking good about it?" my father replied once when I made the mistake of saying good morning on a not particularly good morning.  "No, really, I'm asking.  What's fucking good about today?"

I didn't know what to say, so I asked if I could have one of the donuts he was jamming behind the radiator in his office/bedroom/secret lair.  He passed me one under his jacket and instructed me not to tell my mother, while he stuffed four more in his briefcase.  To this day, instead of saying good morning to my co-workers, I just shove a box of Munchkins in their faces and shut my door.

Eventually, I grew accustomed to being the neighborhood lepers.  No one liked the Addams Family or the Munsters in their respective neighborhoods either, but they got along just fine.  In fact, they seemed to be the happiest family on the block; while the other cookie-cutters were attending school plays and having church picnics, the Addamses and the Munsters were partying like it was 1999.  I'd rather be a Munster than a Cleaver any day.

Unfortunately, we were not quite as self-sufficient as the Munsters, who appeared to have endless financial resources even though none of them actually worked.  When I graduated from elementary school, we quickly realized that the junior high school that I was about to attend was far enough from our house to make walking impractical (especially as it called for walking through the "bad" part of town, i.e., the only block in our town with an apartment building), but not far enough to qualify for free busing.  And while this did not cause much of a problem for the other kids in the neighborhood, whose families quickly formed that great stalwart of suburban America -- the "car pool" -- given that my parents had alienated most families within a 10-block radius, it left me without an available mode of transportation.

"I can just quit school," I suggested to my parents.  "I think I've gotten everything I'm going to get out of it."

"You think I'm going to let you make a mess of the house while we're at work?" my mother replied, expressing more concern for the cleanliness of the bathroom than my future education.  "We'll figure something out."

Their first solution was to drop me off at a friend's house who lived close to the school, where we could hang out and then walk to school together.  My friend Scott Feinbush lived right behind the school, so he was the ideal choice.  The arrangement worked out well for a few weeks; I would sit quietly in the basement while Scott got ready for school, and eventually he would join me downstairs and we would play Nintendo until it was time for school.  In fact, given Scott's seemingly normal family -- they actually said good morning to each other, and no one secretly stuffed donuts in their briefcases -- it was the first time I ever actually enjoyed my mornings.  Until one morning, when Scott's father found me staring out of the living room window, steadily glaring at the ninth-grade football players doing stomach crunches in the field behind the school.

"So, Jonah, do you have a girlfriend?"  He was fishing for something, but I was too young to understand what.  All I knew was that there was something interesting going on outside, and something inside was telling me to keep an eye on it.

"No, girls are totally gross," I replied, not taking my eyes off of the football players.  It was an innocent answer, considering I was only twelve years old, but an incriminating one nonetheless.  Of course, had it been a dozen fourteen-year-old cheerleaders doing stomach crunches, Scott's father probably would have chuckled, and maybe even pulled up a chair.  Instead, the next day, he informed my father that they couldn't drop me off at Scott's house anymore.

"It's just too hectic here in the morning."  His tone was polite, but his eyes were locked on mine, sending me a subtle message -- we don't want no sissies here.  Sissies have no place in a normal home.  Go back to your serial killer parents and gnome-free lawn.  "Have you thought about a taxi?"

My mother used to make me walk seven blocks to the closest pay phone when we needed to call 411 ("quarters don't grow on trees, Jonah"); there wasn't a chance in hell she was going to spring for a cab twice a day for the next three years.  Even if we had somehow hit the lottery, I doubt she would have gone in for such reckless spending.  

"That money is for your college education," she would have said.  "Million dollar bills don't grow on trees, Jonah."

So for a few days after being banished from Scott's happy, homophobic home, my parents actually drove me to school themselves.

"I hope you appreciate this, Jonah," my father said, as if getting his twelve-year-old son to school was a generous favor and not a legal responsibility.  "Your mother isn't the most pleasant person in the mornings."  Or afternoons, evenings, nights, weekdays, weekends, federal and state holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, or basically any day that ended in "day."  

Still, his warning was enough to give me pause, so the next morning I offered to jog to school.

"Look, I've got my sweatpants on already!" I noted enthusiastically while stretching my legs in the driveway.  It was pouring rain outside, but it felt invigorating, especially considering the alternative.  "I really could use the exercise, I'm feeling somewhat flabby these days."

My enthusiasm was not contagious.

"Get in the fucking car!"

Fortunately, over the years I had trained myself to leave my body whenever necessary, so while my parents bickered on Sunrise Highway about an overly expensive electric bill, I was enjoying a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice with my grandparents in Fort Lauderdale.  By the time I got to school, I was half-way to the beach.

"We'll pick you up at four-thirty," my father said while I generously applied SPF-45 in my mind.  "Don't be late."

I pointed out, as politely as possible, that school ends at three.

"Well, Jonah, the world doesn't revolve around you, you know," my mother replied.  "Your father and I have jobs and can't get here until then.  Unless you want us to lose our jobs.  Is that what you want?  Is it?  You want us to move into a shack?"

Considering that my mother often referred to our current house as a "tenement," "shack" actually sounded like an improvement.  Unfortunately, I never got the chance to find out how much of an improvement it would have been.

"The bus is going to pick you up at 7:45 tomorrow, Jonah," my father said, nonchalantly, later that evening at the dinner table.  I was too busy hiding what I believed to be criminally undercooked chicken in my napkin to fully register his comment.

"Did you say the bus?"  I asked, wrestling with one particularly pesky piece of half-chewed chicken that did not want to stay in my napkin.   For a moment I thought that maybe my parents had successfully blackmailed some school administrator into bending the rules for them. I was sure that I'd recently seen Mr. D'Amato, my happily married vice-principal, sharing a Reese's peanut butter cup sundae at Friendly's with someone who looked a lot like Mrs. Crespo, my happily married homeroom teacher. Maybe my parents had put that information to good use.  For a moment, I was actually proud of them.

"Yeah," he replied.  "It's some kind of special bus for kids with...special needs."

There are some, technically legal, but ultimately cruel and debilitating, decisions that parents can make which affect their children's lives forever.  Naming a boy "Jeeves" or a girl "Chastity."  Choosing to raise your boy as a girl, or vice versa.  Forcing an unwilling pre-pubescent boy to play team sports.  But more so than any of those nightmare scenarios, there is one choice that no parent should ever make, not even if it means the difference between life and death for their kid.  And my parents made that choice without a moment's hesitation.

They had put me on the short bus.  

Apparently, they had convinced my pediatrician to write a letter to the school board, explaining that I had such severe asthma that I could not possibly walk to school.  Since asthma is technically a physical handicap,  his letter bought me a one-way ticket to junior high school hell.  To this day I'm not sure where he came up with that diagnosis, especially considering only the day before I was fully prepared to jog to school in the pouring rain.  

"You can't!"  I cried out, arms flailing, in a rare moment of spontaneous emotion.  In my shock, I had completely forgotten about the half-eaten chicken that currently occupied my napkin.  A piece of dark meat landed on my mother's plate.

"Oh, I forgot, Jerry," my mother replied, putting the chicken back on my plate clearly intending for me to eat it.  "We're supposed to run every decision we make by Jonah.  Hey Jonah, your father is having a hernia operation next week, is that ok with you?"

After politely excusing myself from the table ("I hate you both!  I hope I die in my sleep!  I'm going to jump off the roof!"), I locked myself in my room to ponder how I could get out of this mess.  I was already pretty much the lowest man on the seventh-grade totem pole; this new revelation would shove me off the pole altogether, only to land in that abyss occupied by the mentally and/or physically handicapped, pre-pubescent petty criminals, and kids who eat paste.  Personally, I didn't judge any of them (except maybe the kids who eat paste, and only for gastrointestinal reasons), but I knew that I'd surely be judged along with them.  Amazingly enough, I had managed to get through the first few weeks of junior high without any lasting scars, and I was beginning to hope that maybe I'd be lucky and fade into the background for the next three years.  My parents had just killed that hope with their callous nature and a fraudulent doctor's note.

By bedtime, I had completely convinced myself that there were only two ways out -- death, or kidnapping.  I wasn't quite unstable enough to consider the former, though the latter held interesting possibilities.  Surely no kidnappers in the world were evil enough to put me through what my parents had in store for me.  And what if forcing me to ride the short bus was only the first step?  What if they next planned to dress me in short skirts and feather boas as some kind of political statement, or just for their own selfish amusement?  What if they decided to distribute baby pictures of me on the toilet to my classmates?  Or, worst of all, what if they both got jobs in my school, and I could never escape them again?  With kidnapping sounding more and more like a viable option, I drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming alternatively of carnivorous school buses and carnivorous parents.

The night was endless, and ended too soon.  Before I knew it, it was 7:45, and I was sitting on the stairs, waiting for my big yellow hearse.

"I won't go," I said to myself while I paced around the house.  Since my parents had already left for work and my sister for school, I had free reign to throw a complete and total hissy fit in every room in the house.  "I won't go, dammit!  And you can't make me!" I screamed at their picture on the mantle.  In a spastic, partially involuntary move, I swung my arms across the mantle and knocked their picture half-way across the living room where it shattered on the floor.  

"Shit!"

I rushed the broken frame over to the kitchen and swept the broken pieces of glass into the garbage can, cutting my finger in the interim.  I hastily wrapped the finger in a paper towel.  My mother didn't take kindly to broken things in her house, and she definitely didn't take kindly to blood, or any other foreign substance, on her floor.  In my house it was perfectly appropriate to cry over spilled milk.

Just as the blood started to clot, I heard a soft honk in the driveway.  My chariot had arrived.

I always assumed that it was called the "short bus" because the kids who rode on it were "short" on something -- intelligence, physical ability, social standing -- but I now realized that "short bus" was actually a descriptive title.  Willy Wonka could have used it to transport the oompa-loompas from oompa-loompa land.  The passengers seated inside were eye-level with my kitchen window, in all of their paste-eating glory.  They stared inside at me, while I stared out at them; one of us was in a cage, but I wasn't sure which one.

Suddenly I realized that I was not at all ready to go.  After replacing the picture on the mantle, sans glass frame (I hoped my mother wouldn't notice until she dusted the picture again, which bought me approximately 12 hours), I motioned to the bus driver to wait, all the while knowing that he would not wait for me.  The elementary school bus driver never waited more than five seconds.  In fact, if I wasn't outside my house at exactly 7:05AM, the driver wouldn't even stop, even if he saw me running outside and attempting to chase him down with my underdeveloped chicken legs.  One time I swear he gave me the finger as I ran after the bus; I considered filing a complaint, but decided against it when I realized that he was purposefully aiming for squirrels in the road.  I wasn't much bigger than a squirrel, and probably an easier target.

Of course, missing the short bus would have bought me one more day on the totem-pole, but the costs of missing the bus -- primarily, my mother's inevitably hostile reaction -- outweighed the benefits.  So I hastily choked down my waffles, while mouthing the words "hold on" to the bus driver, who I expected to mouth back "up yours."  To my surprise, though, the bus didn't honk repeatedly or pull away, nor did the bus driver make improper hand gestures at me.  He just sat there, patiently waiting, as the bus idled away happily in our driveway.

Finally, I managed to adequately organize myself, cleverly shifting the living room couch an inch to cover up the glaring red spot in the carpet, and made my way out to the bus, where I expected, at best, a surly cold shoulder and circus-like environment full of budding serial killers and social outcasts.

"Jonah!  We're so glad to have you!"

A short, middle-aged woman with curly hair and a huge smile greeted me at the bottom of the stairs.  She was wearing a bright yellow, "Don't Worry, Be Happy" t-shirt, a phrase that always lost its meaning on me, and a name-tag that said, "Hi!  My name is Doreen!  How are you today?"  

I stopped dead in my tracks, as I often do when confronted with blatant enthusiasm.

"Can I get a hug?"

I moved forward very slowly, as if approaching a rabid doberman.  She didn't seem to notice my reluctance, or if she did, she chose to ignore it.  Within moments she was pressing her large Happy bosom into my face, and I was choking for air.

"Now, do you have everything you need?  Have you forgotten anything?  We can wait, don't worry!"

I shook my head no, suddenly feeling very conspicuous standing in the driveway with Doreen and the short bus, especially since Doreen's bosom was still only a few inches from my forehead.

"Well, then, let's be off!"  Every word out of Doreen's mouth was like a wonderful announcement.   She could have been a television news reporter, if she had been more attractive.

I stepped onto the bus, with Doreen right behind me, carefully following each of my steps.  Her hands were directly under my arms, apparently ready to catch me if I fell backwards.  Maybe they hadn't told her the reason I was on the short bus -- maybe she thought I was a some sort of quasi-paraplegic.  It seemed unlikely that Doreen wasn't fully informed about the nature of her charges before the year began, though.  Otherwise, she could have been in for some unpleasant surprises.

"Guess what's wrong with this one, Doreen!" a malicious school administrator might have said, pointing at her list of passengers.   "I'll give you a hint.  He's missing an organ, but it's not the one you think!"

I shuffled past the driver, looking at my feet the whole time, but a hand reached out and grabbed my jacket.  

"Hey man!" a rough voice called out.

Here we go, I thought.  The school compensated for Doreen's enthusiasm by hiring a former prison guard -- or inmate -- as the bus driver.  Doreen would sing us lullabies while the driver hacked us into mulch with the pick axe.

When I looked up, though, I saw, not a hardened, ex-convict, but a man that could have been Mr. Rogers' stunt double, had Mr. Rogers' show involved any stunts more dangerous than the occasional trip to the foyer closet.

"I'm Ernie," he said, with a smile that rivaled Doreen's in substance and sincerity.  "Welcome to our little family."

Family?  I was still in the dark.  Was Doreen about to chastise Ernie about his weight, while Ernie embezzled Doreen's life savings?  I already had one family, and I wasn't sure I could handle another.

"Everyone, this is Jonah!"  I quickly took a seat behind Ernie, which was the closest to the door. I always tried to sit as close to a door as possible, in case of emergency.  Of course, I defined "emergency" rather broadly, to include terrorist attack, anaphylaxis, and random, unidentifiable insects buzzing around my head. 

"So Jonah, we have a tradition on our little bus," Doreen continued, while munching on a carrot stick and temporarily piquing my curiosity.  The only "traditions" on my last bus consisted of making spitballs, and shielding oneself from incoming spitballs.  "On your first day, you tell everyone one thing that makes you special, and the name of your favorite pet."

It seemed like an odd combination of questions to me -- give us a glimpse into your secret innermost life, oh, and do you have a dog?  But more importantly, I currently did not, nor had ever, had a pet.  But I didn't want to ruin Doreen's Happy day.  

"I've never sneezed in my life," I said -- truthfully --  "and um . . . my favorite pet's name is . . . Barney."  There are two kinds of lies -- ones you tell to make yourself happy, and ones you tell to make other people happy.  The latter is really just a form of verbal charity.

"Never sneezed before, eh?" Doreen said.

"Nope," I replied, prepared for an argument.  People often expressed skepticism about my sneeze-free existence.  Even my own grandparents didn't believe it, and if you can't sell something to your grandparents, you generally can't sell it at all.

"Well that's just wonderful!" Doreen exclaimed, as if I had just told her I won the lottery.  "Imagine!  Not having to sneeze!  The money you'd save on Kleenex alone!"

I settled back in my seat, glad to have pleased Doreen, and judging from the rear-view mirror, Ernie as well.  For the first time, I surveyed my fellow passengers.  Except for one boy who kept banging his head on the back of his seat in a steady, rhythmic motion, I didn't see any difference between the kids on this bus and the kids on the last one.  There was an even amount of boys and girls, no one was acting out or consuming anything unappetizing, and no one seemed to be missing any limbs -- at least, none that I could see.  I could have been riding on any big yellow school bus on Main Street, U.S.A., even if this particular bus was four feet smaller.

And then I realized, there was one significant difference between this bus and the last one.  The kids on this bus didn't appear to be in a constant state of war.  Apparently the good-will Doreen and Ernie fostered was infectious -- I even spotted a smile or two.  No one seemed out of place, there were no spitballs flying, and squirrels moved in front of the bus's path with impunity.  Even the head-banger was bouncing in such a steady manner, he could have been dancing along to his favorite song, even if he wasn't actually listening to music.

I was apparently the last pick-up for the bus, because we were already lumbering towards the school.  Ernie didn't appear to be in much of a hurry; if there was even a glimmer of a possibility that a traffic light was about to turn red, he would slow down to a crawl, the result of which was that we basically stopped at every traffic light between my house and the school.  At one point, some kids on bikes passed us, shouting some offensive epitaphs at the bus, but no one seemed to notice.  Everyone just went on smiling and bouncing.  It seemed that nothing could possibly disturb the Short Bus Family.

All the while, Doreen -- who I decided would have made a better flight attendant than television reporter -- made the rounds up and down the aisles, munching on carrot sticks and occasionally offering one to the kids.  Most of them declined, though the head bouncer had already had three.  All that bouncing must have worked up an appetite.

"Oh dear," Doreen said, approaching my seat.  "What happened to your finger, Jonah?"

During the course of my short bus initiation, I had forgotten all about my bloody finger, which was still wrapped in a paper towel.

"I cut myself."

"On what?"  Doreen reached out to examine the cut, which was deeper than I had thought.

"A picture frame."

"Oh dear," she repeated.  "That doesn't look good at all."  Doreen reached under her seat and pulled out a large first-aid kit.  She began gently dabbing the cut with an alcohol swab.

"You know, I have a son about your age," she said, trying to take my mind off of the burning sensation that was now running up my hand.  "He cuts himself on things all the time."

But when your son cuts himself, I doubt your first concern is whether he bled on the rug,

"Oh."

"He never took care of his cuts either," she said, already unwrapping a bandage.  "But then I bought a box of Bart Simpson band-aids, and now I think he cuts himself on purpose just to get one!"

Suddenly, I was jealous of Doreen's son, even if he was mutilating himself just to paste a cartoon image to his body.

"Maybe I'll bring some of those band-aids on the bus tomorrow," she said, apparently picking up on my growing envy.  "Just in case."  She winked at me, as if I was about to join her son in self-mutilation for personal gain.  But still, the offer was sweet, sweet enough to make me wonder what it would be like to have a mother who didn't fly off the handle because of spilled milk and broken picture frames.  Doreen offered me another carrot.  This time around, I took one.  

We approached the school at our customary snail's pace.  A bunch of kids were congregated outside the main entrance.  It seemed like they were just waiting for us, waiting to pounce on the fresh, tender, socially unaccepted meat that the Short Bus always provided.  And even though nothing about my physical appearance screamed "Short Bus" -- except perhaps for my non-matching red sweatsuit that my mother had laid out for me that morning -- I knew it didn't matter to them whether I looked like I belonged on the Short Bus; the fact was, I was on the Short Bus, and that was enough for them.  Gimpiness is in the eye of the beholder.

I watched as each of my fellow passengers disembarked the bus, fearing for their, and my own, safety.  But despite the throngs of juvenile delinquents anxiously anticipating their arrival, they didn't seem phased at all.  They walked off the bus with their heads held high (well, except for the kid whose head was still bouncing up and down), oblivious to their impending doom.  They were either totally courageous, or totally stupid -- or perhaps an unhealthy mix of both.  And sure enough, one by one they were quickly surrounded by the future of the American penal system, and as far as I could tell, swallowed whole.

Suddenly I tasted remnants of burnt waffle make their way back up to my mouth.  Maybe I could stay on the bus all day.  Maybe we could set up a makeshift classroom in between the seats.  I was sure I could learn more from Ernie and Doreen in one day than I would learn from my bitter, frumpy math teacher all year.

"Doreen..."  There was wisdom in those eyes, for sure.  I was about to propose my plan to her -- perhaps selling her with an offer to cut myself with her cuticle scissors -- when she kneeled down next to my seat and whispered:

"You want us to drop you off at the back entrance, don't you?"

I nodded, almost imperceptibly.  I didn't want Doreen to think I was looking down on her, or on the Short Bus family; and in fact, I wasn't.  I just didn't want to get stuffed in my locker.  I was getting too tall to fit, and another afternoon in there could have stunted my growth.

"Sure," she said, ruffling my hair.  "Ernie, shake a tail feather."

Thirty seconds later, Ernie let me off at the school's back entrance.  

"We'll pick you up here after school, too," Doreen said, anticipating my next question.  As the bus pulled away, I gave an enthusiastic wave, and Doreen waved back, with both hands.

"Have a great day, Jonah!"  A great day.  An adult hadn't told me to have a great day since my last visit to the dental hygienist.

Another thirty seconds later, I joined Scott in the main foyer.

"Hey, sorry you can't come over in the mornings anymore," Scott said.  I had wondered what excuse Scott's parents had given him for banishing me from their home -- I figured it must have included a lot of subtle innuendo and Liberace references -- but I didn't care anymore.  I had my own family now.  The Short Bus family.  And any fears I had that my first morning was merely an anomaly were immediately put to rest that afternoon, when Ernie and Doreen led the bus in a spirited game of I Spy.

"I spy a mailbox!"

"I spy a fire hydrant!"

I spy a satisfied customer.

That night after dinner, my mother noticed an appreciable spring my step as I swept the floor with unprecedented enthusiasm.

"You're doing that too fast, Jonah," she said, eyeing me curiously.  "You're going to scrape the enamel."

But I didn't care.  If she kicked me out of the house, I would just go live with Doreen and Ernie.  I doubted that they were married -- they got along too well for that -- but they could share custody.  Because really, it wasn't such a big leap between shuttling me to and from school and being a full-time parent.  In fact, it was a step further than my parents were ever willing to go.

The next few weeks flew by.  I spent my nights looking forward to the mornings, and my days looking forward to the afternoons.  Riding on the short bus became the highlight of my day.  But curiously, the other passengers didn't seem to appreciate their unique, enviable transportation situation; in fact, none of them seemed particularly interested in getting to know Doreen or Ernie at all, except for the occasional sharing of a carrot and I Spy game.

No matter.  That just left more of their attention for me.  

"So my parents had the biggest fight last night," I told Doreen one morning -- probably lots of mornings -- while munching on a carrot stick.  "I had to go to my special hiding place in the basement to get away.  Luckily, I left cookies there from the last fight, so I had a snack waiting for me."

"My mother told me that I have to play a sport this year," I told Ernie, ignoring a brewing argument between the paraplegics in the back seats that Doreen had gone to referee.  "I told her I'd rather eat a dung beetle.  She said that could be arranged.  I don't think she was joking, either."

"I saw my dad packing a bunch of boxes in his office yesterday," I told them both, admiring Ernie's #1 Dad coffee mug on the dashboard.  "He didn't see me, though.  I don't know why he's packing.  Maybe he's giving stuff to the homeless, but I don't think the homeless need a fax machine."

Doreen and Ernie didn't usually say much in response, nor did I expect or need them to.  They just sat and listened to the problem of the day, as loved ones do for each other, because they are loved ones, and that's enough for them.  Occasionally, after I relayed some traumatic event that had occurred the evening or weekend before, Ernie had to pull the bus over while I caught my breath outside the bus.  But no one seemed to mind.  Families understand.

It wasn't all complaints, though.  Sometimes I just sought some much-needed parental advice.

"Do these sweatpants match this sweatshirt?"  

"What gets chocolate milk out of suede?"

"Will I go blind if I sit too close to the television?"

Not that I spent all my time talking about me.  I was also very interested in Doreen and Ernie's lives.

"Wow, so your daughter is a lawyer?" I asked Ernie, who had just shared that proud fact with me.  "I want to be a lawyer, too.  Actually, my mom wants me to be a lawyer.  I'd rather be an actor, or a statistician, or maybe a telemarketer.  Then I'd get to work from home.  Except I'd want my own home, with my own telephone line.  I asked my dad for a telephone line, but he said no, and he got really mad when I called him at work to rehearse my telemarketing technique.  Hey, can I practice on you?  What are your phone numbers, by the way?"

"Um, we don't share our phone numbers with students, Jonah," Ernie replied, with a sidelong glance to Doreen.  "School policy."

"Oh, of course," I replied, nodding knowingly.  "Well, I also thought about being a tree doctor.  What are your home addresses?  Do you have any sick ficuses?"

As I grew closer to my short bus family, the already tenuous relationships I had with my actual family became even more strained.  I simply had no need for them anymore, except for shelter and the occasional meal (and even Doreen's carrots were starting to fill that void).  It was only logical; they never seemed to have much need for me, either.  They were too busy stuffing donuts in their briefcases and cleaning blood out of the rug and shouting about who forgot to vacuum the carpet and tearing each other's hair out to notice.

"I saw my dad packing more boxes today," I said to Doreen one morning.  The boxes were really piling up in his office, and he didn't even seem to be hiding them anymore.  "What do you think it means?"

"Jonah, I'm tired today."  So I turned to Ernie, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  "Ernie's tired today, too," Doreen continued.

"Oh, ok."  I settled back into my seat, determined to keep quiet for the rest of the ride.  Everyone can be tired once in a while.  Even good parents like Doreen and Ernie.  Still, I thought that they might benefit from a little distraction, so after a few minutes I found myself describing my family's latest trip to Niagara Falls, an excursion that almost saw my father go over the falls without a barrel.  Half-way through the story, Doreen closed her eyes and laid her head against the window.  

Doreen and Ernie only seemed to get more and more tired as the days went by.  The I Spy games and afternoon snacks quickly dwindled, as did their traditional morning greetings.  In fact, the whole short bus atmosphere changed.  The head-banger, who so often had provided a calm rhythmic undertone to our rides, began sitting motionless.  The paraplegics neither fought nor talked, and the autistic kids talked even less than they already did.  Doreen even stopped wearing her Don't Worry, Be Happy t-shirt.  Which, to me, meant that she was either worried, or unhappy.  I grew concerned at Doreen and Ernie's apparently deteriorating physical state.  I decided to be proactive, and siphoned some of my parents' coffee one morning into a styrofoam cup in an attempt to reenergize them.

"Oh, thanks," Doreen said, as I handed her a lukewarm cup of black coffee.  "I don't drink coffee though," she said, tossing the cup into the trash bag at the front of the bus.  Ernie's cup followed soon thereafter.

"But you need coffee to start your day right," I protested.  "At least, that's what my mom says, although my dad says she's crazy, he always says she's crazy, sometimes he yells it really loud and I'm sure the neighbors can hear, last month one of them called the police . . ."

"Jonah, I have a horrible headache today," Doreen almost shouted.  "Can we just sit in peace, please?  In fact, I think we need to be quieter from here on out.  I just can't . . . we can't . . .  It's too much . . ."  Doreen placed her head in her hands, and the carrot sticks in her lap fell to the floor.  Ernie and I stooped to help Doreen pick up them up.

"I'll pick them up," she snapped at us.

"I'm sorry," Ernie replied, sheepishly.  

"I'm sorry, too," I added.  It seemed, though, that it was too late for apologies.  Somewhere along the way, I had single-handedly transformed the short bus family into my real family.  I had always thought that my parents were the cause of all my problems, but maybe I was the cause of theirs.

Determined to undo whatever harm I had already done, I begged Scott to ask his parents if I could come over in the mornings again.  A few days later, Scott's mother called mine, and said I was welcome back in their house.  My mother was hesitant to send me back to Scott's house again -- "I think those Feinbushes might think who they are" -- but she eventually relented.

"I didn't like you riding that bus anyways," she said.  "It's full of retards."

I never said good-bye to Doreen or Ernie, or any of the other short bus passengers.  It seemed better that way.  I missed the carrot sticks and I Spy games for a while, but then I rediscovered the varsity soccer team practicing outside of Scott's house, and those memories quickly took a backseat to repeated abdominal exercises and mesh shorts.  Still, when my parents fought, or my sister cried herself to sleep, or the cops swung by on a Saturday night for coffee and a restraining order, I noticed an absence where I had never noticed one before.  

And by the time my father moved out the following summer, I knew, finally, that both of my families had been just an illusion.

Chapter Two

Hi everyone,

Here is chapter two of the novel (if you haven't read chapter one, I posted that a few weeks ago), which I have tentatively titled, "Blind Justice".  I know I've lost some readers in my attempts to branch out, perhaps because people read this blog for the autobiographical entries, or perhaps because I haven't proactively marketed the recent entries out of the awareness that (1) they are unlike my previous stuff, (2) they are frackin' long, and (3) they could probably use some significant editing (these are all fresh out of my brain, for what that's worth).  But I will keep posting chapters, as long as I feel comfortable doing so.

Also this goes without saying (then why say it?), but the "Jonah" character is fictional :) (though for those of you repeat customers, you may see some similarities).  And also it goes without saying that the "opinions" of the characters are not necessarily those of the author :)

Anyway I hope you enjoy it.  I've tried to work in some humor among the intense subject-matter too, both for all of you and for my own sanity.

-JKH

PS My next story will be a return to old form.  I need a break from the novel format, which I find significantly more taxing than the personal stories...maybe because I'm just so much more comfortable talking about myself than other (fictional) people...

************

“Hey Jonah, I gotta go, I’m running really late!”  

Jonah learned quickly after they first met that Peter always ran at least thirty minutes late, and that was on a good day. For Jonah, cleanliness was next to godliness was next to punctuality, and so this relatively small flaw almost ended their relationship in the beginning.

“You embarrassed me tonight,” Jonah scolded Peter, after he showed up an hour late to a law school function, their fourth date. “You showed no respect for me whatsoever.” Having just begun law school, Jonah of course used the biggest words possible at all times. If a word had less than three syllables, it wasn’t worth saying.

Jonah’s tone would have been enough to make any reasonable homosexual run for the door – and indeed, it had made many a reasonable homosexual do so in the past. But instead of running, Peter simply reminded Jonah that he had just spent three hours listening to a lecture on habeas corpus (which he repeatedly pronounced “corpses”), while he tried to wash the red wine out of his shirt. During dinner, an overly eager professor, all brains and all thumbs, had spilled his drink all over Peter’s favorite shirt.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Peter said, smiling graciously. “It’s just an old shirt.”

Slowly, Jonah and Peter came to an understanding, as couples do when they have no other choice. Jonah learned that, indeed, the world would not stop if he missed the opening credits of a movie, while Peter learned that time existed independently of his schedule. And when they moved in together, Jonah pushed all the clocks in the apartment forward a half-hour, which often resulted in Jonah being half an hour early for work. It was a small price to pay, though, for a man who would donate his favorite shirt for habeas corpses.

Peter ran down the stairs, past their new beagle Daisy (who he gave a quick kiss), past Jonah (who he gave a quick kiss), and out the front door, into the darkling Washington, D.C. evening. Realizing that Peter was already gone before he could say good-bye, Jonah shot up instantly from behind his laptop. Before he met Peter, Jonah never shot up instantly for anyone, anything, ever. It was rare enough for him to come out from behind his laptop at all. But that was before.

“Peter!” Jonah shouted after him, as he ran down the front stairs. Peter stopped and looked up towards Jonah, shivering under the thin cloth of his waiter’s uniform.

“Don’t go to work tonight,” Jonah said, picking up Daisy and shoving her face in his, floppy ears and all. “Daisy misses you.”

“I miss you too, Daisy,” he said, flicking Daisy’s floppy ears, then flicking Jonah’s. “I won’t be late. It’s a Senate function, they never last long. Now, put a bunch of House members in a room together, and you might as well call the paddy wagon right now.”

Peter loved using words like “paddy wagon,” “bee’s knees,” and “gasser” in everyday language. 

“Oldies but goodies,” he’d say to Jonah, with a silly grin. “Just like you.”

“I’ll be back around eleven.” And then he kissed Jonah, and he kissed Daisy, and he bounced down the stairs, happy to be going out, happy to be coming home.

Of course, he never came home. Twenty minutes later, the world was on fire. And by eleven that night, that long, eternal night that ended only by necessity and not by demand, Jonah and Daisy were standing in line at the morgue, behind dozens of others, in front of dozens more, waiting to identify the body of the man who finally got Jonah out from behind his laptop.

****************

Jonah woke up to the sounds of Monday morning in New York City, which were essentially the sounds of New Year’s Eve anywhere else.

“Yo dude, I’m so fuckin’ wasted!” shouted one joyful reveler from the street below, who was coming out of the aptly named Ship of Fools Bar and Tavern, conveniently located on the first floor of Jonah's building.

Unable to trek to the city on less than a week’s notice to find an apartment before moving there, Jonah relied on his sister to search for him, a favor that he would have to repay for years to come. She found a comparatively expensive, relatively nice, completely liveable space five floors above Second Avenue, with high ceilings, lovely loft space, and a kitchen apparently built for dwarves.

“I know the kitchen is small,” Laura said, when Jonah got his first look at the apartment. “But check out the exposed brick walls! You’re so lucky!”

Jonah figured that he was paying about eighty bucks per brick for his wonderful luck. But he kept that little observation to himself; he was grateful for Laura’s help, as he had always been since the day their father had threatened to drive them up a tree on the way to Cape Cod, and Laura had shielded him from the onslaught in the backseat. Growing up in a constant state of war, Laura acted as a human shield, even when she was not personally in the crossfire. And now that Laura had devoted her life to social work – a noble cause, but an uneconomical one – Jonah was constantly vigilant to make sure that he did not flaunt his choice of career – potentially ignoble, but not necessarily in a financial sense.

“It’s great, Laur,” Jonah said, somewhat sincerely, though simultaneously terrified at the price tag, which would have been eminently manageable in his previous job but now came perilously close to extravagance. After graduating law school, Jonah stuck around DC for a few years, having decided to take the road most traveled and joining a prominent, once white-shoe, now raging liberal law firm steps from the White House. He spent three years in document review hell, stuffing his checking account full of cash as fast as he could, only pausing every once in a while to walk Daisy, or visit the cemetery (usually with Daisy in tow). But he wasn’t there only for the money. After eighteen hours reviewing random e-mails and business prospectus, he rarely had the time or energy to devote to mourning. He might not be able to stop the dreams, but conscious memories were no match for a corporate merger.

A few months earlier, though, Jonah’s dreams started creeping back into his waking life, and suddenly, the eighteen-hour days were replaced by eighteen-hour nightmares. Eventually, Jonah couldn’t separate the reality from the fantasy, and his priorities shifted, until the camel’s back had no choice but to break.

“Jonah, we need you to fly to Cleveland this weekend,” a partner instructed him during their weekly, here’s-how-we’re-going-to-screw-you-over-this-week meeting. Apparently a large pharmaceutical manufacturer was purchasing a small cereal manufacturer. But it was Jonah’s four-year anniversary that weekend – Jonah had planned something special this time, and Peter would be upset if he missed it. So he told the powers-that-be that he could not go to Cleveland that weekend, that the client would have to find someone else to write a memo about the legality of lacing frosted flakes with anti-depressants.

Because law firms are the passive aggressive sharks of the corporate world, Jonah was not fired. Instead, his reviews steadily declined over the next few months, until he was told, in completely uncertain terms, that his reclining office chair would look much better in his next-door neighbor’s office.

Jonah thought briefly about bringing in a folding chair and just sticking it out until they changed the locks on his office door, but it never came to that. A few days later, he received a call from an unexpected prospective employer.

“Hello, may I speak to Jonah Haslap, please? This is Judge Campbell P. Mentrose.” Fortunately, the voice was deep and gruff and unfamiliar – otherwise, Jonah might have thought it was one of his friends playing a prank. They weren’t above crank phone calls, either. Jonah once spent ten minutes searching the firm’s internal directory for I.P. Freely before slamming the phone down to hysterical laughter on the other end of the line.

“Yes, this is Jonah Haslap.” A million questions ran through his head at the same time. Should he have said, “Yes, Your Honor?” Or “Yes, Judge”? Would the judge be offended by his answer? 

Maybe he should have followed up with, “what can I do for you?” Or would that be presumptuous, as if little Jonah Haslap could do anything for such a big important person as Judge Campbell P. Mentrose?

And most importantly – why the hell was he calling?

“Mr. Haslap, I’m looking for a fourth clerk for my chambers here in Manhattan,” he replied, clearing his throat for the third time during their thirty-second conversation. Jonah had the sense that Judge Mentrose had seen his share of battle, courtroom and otherwise. “Would you be interested?”

At that moment, Jonah’s next-door neighbor passed by slowly in front of his door, looking seductively at Jonah’s office chair.

“Definitely.”

“Excellent.” There was some rustling in the background. “You live in DC now, right? Well, the federal government is not as generous as law firms, so you’ll have to pay your own moving expenses, but I promise to take you out for a drink at Forlini’s when you get here.”
Forlini’s? Drink? Moving expenses??

“Um, Your Honor,” Jonah stammered, glad he didn’t forget his judicial etiquette this time. 

“Don’t you want to interview me first?”

“You come highly recommended,” the judge replied, unphased but clearly unwilling to pursue the issue any further. “And please none of that Your Honor crap. My wife heard someone call me Your Honor outside of the courtroom once and basically slapped me back to the Stone Age. She keeps me in line.” Jonah knew what it was like to have someone around to keep you in line, and how easy it was to fall out of line when they were gone.

“So, Mr. Haslap, will I see you Monday?” Also known as, six days from now.
Jonah looked around at his office. There was nothing in it, except useless documents from useless mergers between useless corporations. He didn’t even have a picture of Peter anywhere. He didn’t want anyone at work to ask him about Peter, or any facet of his personal life for that matter, and moreover, he didn’t want Peter to see what had become of his life – pushing papers around a desk eighteen hours a day so that someone in a Park Avenue penthouse could move to a larger penthouse on a higher floor.

Not that working eighteen hours a day made much of a dent in his social life. Most of Jonah’s friends moved away after graduation, while a fresh crop of eager idealists flooded into the city for the ritual sacrifice that measured life in terms of dollar signs. When Jonah was not at work – a rare occasion – his days generally revolved around walking the dog, cleaning the apartment, and when he was feeling especially adventurous, venturing out to the Mall to watch happy couples and patriotic children try to guess the height of the Washington Monument.

Washington, DC was a life once well lived, but now outlived.

“Yes, Your Hon…I mean, sir. You will.”

Jonah was already composing his farewell email to the firm in his head, a tradition that each departing associate engaged in before leaving for greener pastures. Most of the emails consisted of empty gratitude and emptier platitudes, with an occasional undercurrent of recrimination. Jonah was planning to thank his assistant, while working in polite words for “crapfest” and “fascist death trap.”

“Judge,” Jonah paused, uncertain whether he should continue to question this odd and amazing bit of good fortune. But his inquisitiveness got the better of him. “How did you get my resume?”

“Jonah,” the Judge replied, clearing his throat one last time. “The legal world is small. At least, the one that everyone wants to be a part of. Just be happy that you, dear boy, are a part of it.”

It was a complete evasion, but there wasn’t much Jonah could do about it. When God closes a door, he opens a ventilating shaft.

And that was that. It had to be the easiest clerkship application process in the history of time. Most people spend weeks preparing their applications, agonizing over whether their resume looked better in eleven or eleven-point-five size font. Jonah didn’t even have to pay for the cost of a stamp.

After a quick meeting with his supervising partner, Jonah went back to his office, poured a large cup of hot coffee on his treasured office chair, thereby ruining it for eternity, and took the rest of the day off. He’d have to spend most of the next few days packing up his office and his life – there was a good deal of overlap between the two – but this afternoon was for the past, not the future.

************

“I have some news,” Jonah said, softly, picking at some grass under his feet. He was still wearing his suit. Sitting on the grass would probably leave some stains on his pants, but he didn’t care. It was the kind of thing he used to care about, but not anymore.

“It’s a great opportunity.” Jonah felt like he was letting him down, even though he knew that was impossible. He could never let him down. Not then, and especially not now.

“I think Daisy will love it too.” He cleared a little brush off of the front of the stone, frustrated that the caretakers were so lax in their duties lately. Although Jonah imagined that the job was relatively thankless – the residents were notoriously tightlipped – someone had to do it, and if you decided that person should be you, then you should do the job well. The residents might not know the difference, but the visitors do.

After the attacks, the responsibility fell to Jonah to make all the necessary “arrangements,” as if organizing a funeral was a simple business transaction. Of course, Peter had not made any arrangements himself – even if he had lived till an age when arrangements were the norm and not the exception, Peter wouldn’t have done so – and Peter’s parents were too distraught to be much help. So for several days after the attacks, while the rest of the world was glued to their television sets, consoling themselves with empty words of ignorant politicians, Jonah was scoping out cemeteries in the DC-metropolitan area. He finally settled on one a few miles outside of DC in Northern Virginia, within walking distance to the Metro (Peter would not have wanted to be very far from the city, nor would he have wanted to spend eternity in Maryland), but remote enough so that neighborhood vandals wouldn’t be tempted to declare their love for each other on the tombstones.

The casket and stone decision was slightly more difficult. Peter was both simple and extravagant at the same time, the only difference being his attention span for a certain type of product. He would buy an inordinately expensive talking garbage can, but at the same time he only owned two pairs of shoes, because, for some reason Jonah was never able to get out of him, he hated having his feet measured at shoe stores. Jonah finally settled on a mid-level casket and top-of-the-line tombstone. It made sense, really. Only a handful of people would ever see the casket, but the stone was a long-term investment.

Peter’s parents flew in for a few days, and made life as difficult for Jonah as they possibly could. They didn’t intend to, of course; they had always liked Jonah, and Jonah had liked them. But they had just lost their only son, and even when they were fully functional they were barely able to keep themselves together. Jonah wondered how they had managed to raise three children without a plan, a steady paycheck, or a clue. Somehow, though, it worked, even if it meant that they could barely afford the plane tickets to their son’s funeral.

But in any event, Jonah didn’t mind handling – and paying for – everything himself. When all the arrangements were done, there was nothing let to do but mourn, and there would be plenty of time for that in the days and years to come. Some people procrastinate on projects and deadlines, but the smart ones procrastinate on pain.

“Your mother called me last week.” She called at least once a week, just to check in. And unlike Jonah’s own mother – for whom “checking in” meant more questions like, “have you paid back your law school loans yet” and “when are you getting married? Yes, I know you’re gay, but gay people get married too, in some countries at least” – Peter’s mother really was just checking in. They wouldn’t talk about anything too serious, the weather, movies they had recently seen, how home-made vodka was actually superior to store-bought – but the subtext was always there. Peter was always there. Jonah suspected that if Peter’s mother didn’t check in once in a while, she might check out altogether.

As usual, though, Peter didn’t want to talk about his parents. It was too hard, and there was too much silence to fill. So Jonah moved on.

“My father threw his back out.” That happened at least twice a month. “And my mother’s colitis is acting up again.” That happened at least three times a month. “Oh, you should have seen the birthday gift she sent to Daisy, I swear, it had to be more expensive than the one she bought for me last year. I think she might be giving up on grandkids at this point, so I guess all that extra money has to go somewhere.”

An elderly woman walked by, dressed in black, leaning on a wooden cane. She nodded in Jonah’s direction, and hobbled on. Jonah wondered for a moment who she was mourning, or considering her advanced age, who she wasn’t mourning.

“I know Peter wasn’t a particularly religious person,” the minister had said during the graveside eulogy. Of course, the minister didn’t know anything of the kind – he had asked Jonah some questions before the ceremony a few minutes before the ceremony, to “get a fuller picture of who Peter was,” while he sipped a steaming coffee and surveyed the crowd.

“Did he believe in Jesus?”

“No,” Jonah replied, but quickly corrected himself. “At least, I don’t think he did.”

“I see,” the minister replied, blowing his nose into a used napkin. “But he believed in God?”

“I don’t know.” It was true. Peter didn’t like to talk about those kinds of things. Too serious, too uncertain, too irrelevant.

The tenor of the conversation with the minister (who was chosen simply on account of his availability) left Jonah uncomfortable. Would the minister make inappropriate comments, or would he refuse to deliver a proper eulogy, because Peter did not accept the body and blood of Jesus Christ? Jonah had simply trusted in the professionalism of clergymen, but blind faith is often undermined by cold reality.

“But whatever he believed, it doesn’t matter anymore.” Why, Jonah wondered. Because he’s in hell right now? Because he was a soulless, godless, homosexual sinner? Because half of his body is still fifty feet under the Potomac, where it belongs?

“Because he is at peace.”

Jonah would have given the minister an extra tip, if he thought that kind of thing was proper.

A tree next to Peter’s tombstone was beginning to sprout a few leaves. It was only late February, but the past week had been unseasonably warm, so the tree was fooled into thinking it was already Spring. Soon enough, the weather would turn back, and the tree would suffer for its optimism. But for a brief moment, it would flourish, and be reborn.

Jonah glanced at the stones next to Peter’s, both of which were marked by large marble crosses. The woman to Peter’s left had lived until seventy-eight. The man to Peter’s right had lived till ninety-three. Peter brought the median age of the neighborhood down considerably. Jonah pictured the three of them sharing a cocktail and a cigarette, six feet under. If anyone could make decomposition fun, it was Peter.

“I’ll visit as often as I can.” Jonah had spoiled Peter with attention over the previous four years. He spent all major holidays, and most minor ones, sitting in that spot, along with at least two or three Sundays a month. In the beginning, he would bring a friend or two to help pass the time, but Jonah quickly realized that he didn’t need, or want, anyone else there. Except sometimes he brought Daisy, which Peter really enjoyed, even though he had only known her for a few days while he was alive. Jonah would have brought her to visit more often, but dogs aren’t allowed on the Metro, and he was certain one of these times the Metro police would realize that Daisy was not actually a guide dog for the blind.

And anyway, even having Daisy around got in the way of his visits. Most of the time, Jonah spent the visit recounting his day, picking a weed or two that had grown over the stone, always cognizant of the fact that he was, in reality, talking to the emptiness between the blades of grass. But once in a while, Jonah lost himself there among the blades, and he briefly occupied a world that was more than just sore backs and colitis, eighteen-hour days and jealous colleagues. It was a world he had only known for a moment, at least in the grand scheme of things, but in that moment he had lived with both eyes open, instead of one always on the clock. 

Jonah’s cell phone rang, jostling him back into the present tense. It was his supervising partner, probably wondering where he ran off to after their meeting. Jonah stood up and brushed some dirt off his pants, ready once again to keep one eye on the clock. Before leaving, he placed a few rocks on the tombstone, adding to the pile that he had left during previous visits. He was the only one who ever added to the pile. They never seemed to blow away, even in a storm, even the pebbles.

Jonah leaned down, and ran his finger up and down Peter’s name. Beloved son, grandson, brother, and friend. Beloved protector. How many people had Peter tried to save on his subway car, before the smoke became too thick to breathe?

“I just think it’s something I should do.”

I love you.

“It’s something I need to do.”

But I’m not ready to join you.

*******

And so, six days later – six conflicted, “am I making the right choice?” and “what if X, what if Y” days later – Jonah found himself lying in his fifth-floor walk-up with exposed brick walls looming above him, and drunk frat boys looming below. The dream left him unnerved, as usual. Just one time he wanted Peter to stay home that December evening. Just once he didn’t want to be helpless. Then he could give up the dream. Then he’d never need to dream again.
Jonah got out of bed and opened his shades. He looked into the street, onto an increasingly familiar dialogue.

“Hey bro, wanna hit an after-hours party?”

“I can’t dude, I got work in an hour.” The diligent working frat boy then promptly puked into a well-placed pile of trash in front of Jonah’s building.

Jonah pulled the shades closed again, determined not to allow the inebriated, yet vaguely attractive, frat boys distract him from following his new morning routine. In fact, his new morning routine wasn’t much different from his old morning routine, except he didn’t spend twenty minutes standing in front of a mirror, trying to screw up enough courage to face another day of meaningless responsibilities. For now, at least, dread had been replaced by something else. Not excitement, exactly – a true lawyer is rarely excited about work, thought they often lie and say they are – but nervous anticipation.

After dressing, shaving, and combing his hair for the sixteenth time, Jonah realized he was running thirty minutes early. It was a habit he had never quite kicked, and one he didn’t particularly want to lose. So by the time Laura arrived at his apartment – they decided to institute a morning coffee tradition – Jonah was already on his third cup.

“You look so professional.” It was quite possible that Jonah’s sister had never actually seen him in a formal suit before. Or at least, not since his Bar Mitzvah fifteen years earlier, and Jonah imagined he didn’t look very professional in that. Cute, maybe, but not professional.

In the two hours since he woke up, the drunk frat boys and winos had handed Second Avenue over to the suit and tie set (though there was some overlap between the groups). The local Starbucks – as in, the closest Starbucks in a two-block radius – was filled with men and women rushing to work, none of whom had time to hold the door open, say excuse me, or indeed, obey any laws of etiquette. Jonah had to throw a few elbows just to get a Mochafrappucino. Only the first in many elbows that must be thrown on a typical Manhattan day.

“Did you talk to mom yesterday?”

“Four times,” Jonah replied, in between sips of his excessively hot beverage. Everything in New York has to be excessively something. “Eleven, two, six-thirty, and ten o’clock.” Ever since Jonah’s mom had gotten a cell phone the calls had increased exponentially. Apparently, there was a downside to unlimited nights and weekends.

“Yeah, she’s been hounding me too. She basically threatened to commit suicide unless we go out there for dinner this weekend.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

Jonah watched the customers hurry into the store and back out to the street at a dizzying pace, as if their lives depended on making the 8:32AM subway, instead of the 8:33. He noticed a stray string hanging from his jacket sleeve. He pulled on it, which of course only made it worse. The more he pulled at it, the longer it grew.

“Do you have any scissors?”

Laura handed him a pair of cuticle scissors, which he immediately put to good use, and deposited the extraneous string in his empty coffee cup.

“Hey, what was the name of that judge you’re working for again?”

“Mentrose. Campbell Mentrose.”

Jonah noticed more than a few attractive yuppie types rushing by outside the window. He hadn’t dated since Peter died, and didn’t have any plans to start now. But the brain and the body often receive conflicting signals, and occasionally the latter wins out.

“I thought so,” Laura said, taking a newspaper out of her bag. “Your judge has been assigned to the Salaam case.”

Laura handed Jonah a copy of the Daily News. The front page of the paper featured a large split-frame picture; on the left side was a notorious basketball coach who had driven the beloved Knicks into the ground, and on the right side was Salaam. Under the split-frame was the caption, “Who Do You Hate More? New Yorkers React To Pure Evil.”

The story, continued on the following page, recounted the procedural history of the case (in layperson’s terms, of course – this was the Daily News), including a brief recap of Judge Glassman’s murder the previous week (still unsolved, but widely attributed to Salaam’s followers), and the salacious facts surrounding the previous judge’s recusal.

“Is the Salaam case cursed?” the article wondered aloud. “New Yorkers – and, indeed, the world – now waits with baited breath to see whether a similar fate befalls Judge Mentrose.” As if Jonah’s new employer was already a marked man.

There was also a short editorial bemoaning the selection of Judge Mentrose as the presiding judge in the case.

“Of course, the selection of federal judges is done by a lottery system, but the terrorists couldn’t have asked for a better outcome in this case,” the editor wrote, spittle almost jumping off the page. “Judge Mentrose, a Clinton appointee, is a notorious proponent of criminal rights,” hard-liners often use the words “criminal” and “defendant” interchangeably, “and you can almost hear the wheels of justice grinding to a halt at the court today, only inches from where so many lives ground to a halt six years ago.”

In the flurry of activity, Jonah had completely missed the news. It was a rare lapse, and Jonah was now paying for it through an intense tightening of his bowels.

“Wow,” Laura said, putting the paper back in her bag and gathering her things. “That’s great. Though a little scary, you know? After what happened to the last guy?”

Needless worrying, Jonah thought. But he didn’t say it. Maybe he didn’t believe it himself.

“Honey, do you want to lose that finger?”

Jonah looked down at his hand, and realized that he had been tying the piece of string that he come off his jacket around his finger for the past several minutes. The finger was beginning to show signs of trauma. Jonah immediately unraveled the string and put it back in his coffee cup.

Laura and Jonah parted ways at the 86th Street subway station. She was going further uptown, to help people who had recently been released from prison, while Jonah was going downtown, to help put them there.

Jonah squeezed himself onto the next excessively crowded subway, inhaling deeply and contorting his body in circus-freak like positions so that his face came within half an inch of the metal bar hanging down over his head. The woman sitting in front of him gave an annoyed grunt when he inadvertently but necessarily jammed his bag into her chest, and a baby carriage behind him was violently jostled when the man next to Jonah realized he almost missed his stop and bolted for the closing doors. It’s every man, woman, and infant for himself in the urban jungle, Jonah thought. No one forces you to live here. There’s plenty of room to breathe in West Virginia.

It seemed that everyone around Jonah had a copy of the Daily News, with Salaam’s face (and the face of the disgruntled basketball star) staring through him as they hurtled downtown at a seemingly dangerous speed. His bowels still had not unclenched since the coffee shop, though it was unclear at this point whether the continued tightness was due to the news, or to the inhumane conditions of the subway car. Either way, he’d be glad when the trip was over. One down, only several hundred to go.

About half the subway exited at Grand Central Station, along with half of the staring Salaams. Jonah relaxed a bit, and was even able to find a few inches of space to sit toward the end of the car. But then he noticed a man sitting across from him, and the anxiety flooded back. The man was dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, and he was carrying a small backpack. He sat quietly staring into space, no different from the dozens of other passengers surrounding him. There was nothing threatening about the man, except the color of his skin. Not dark enough to be black, not light enough to be white. And he wasn’t Latino, or Asian, or a Pacific Islander. No, Jonah knew well enough where this man was from, because men who looked just like him had been captured on Afghani battlefields, or in Iraqi safehouses, or Miami condominiums. Men who looked just like him had been featured on cable news networks, in tabloids and during emergency announcements from the White House. Men who looked just like him had strapped bombs to their bodies and blasted themselves into pieces. Men who looked just like him had murdered Peter, on his way to a boring Senate function, minding his own business, not planning for the rest of his life and not knowing his life was about to end.

And now, the fate of one particular man who looked just like him was, at least partially, in Jonah’s hands.

Of course, the man sitting across from Jonah did not look just like Salaam, any more than Jonah looked just like any other white guy on the number four train.  Even as Jonah silently indicted an innocent man for an imaginable crime, his ACLU membership card burned in his pocket.  And for a moment, he tried to look at the man without preconceptions, without the past, with fresh eyes.  But the eyes looking back at him were only Salaam's.

Jonah moved nervously in his seat, while the man fidgeted with something inside his backpack. Probably on his way to work, Jonah thought. Maybe his family was still back home, and he was sending them weekly checks to ensure his children’s future. Or maybe he grew up in this country, and could trace his roots back far further than Jonah could trace his own. And maybe this man, like Peter, would have struggled to his last breath to save as many people as he could.

Or maybe the bag had a bomb, and any second this man would press a button strategically located underneath his sweatshirt, and Jonah and all his fellow passengers would be buried in half a casket. 

Jonah got off at the next stop, for reasons no one would ever know but him.  Besides, the next subway would be along soon enough, and better safe than sorry.

PS I Love You

Remember, this is just the first chapter of a novel -- it's not meant to be a stand alone piece.  I have a vision, don't worry.  In fact, I'm having one now.  I'm seeing you, sitting by the fire with a nice cup of cocoa, beginning a journey with me, a wonderful, engaging journey from which you will return a better person than you left.

Or, I'm seeing you sitting by your computer Monday morning, picking your nose and trying to endure the monotony.

Either way is fine with me.

Chapter One

Happy New Year all!  Before you get too excited, the following post is not a traditional "Jonah K. Haslap" tome.  It is, instead, the first chapter of a novel -- a legal "thriller", if you will -- that I've been working on.  I debated whether to share it, considering that you probably read this site more for my shameless self-introspection than anything else, and don't worry, I haven't lost the desire to shame myself more in the near future.  But I'd also like to write a novel as well, something that I can publish without fear of my mother suing me for libel.  So I hope you enjoy this first chapter of an as-of-yet untitled novel, at least, for what it's worth at the moment.

-JKH 

******************************

The boxes arrived in Judge Steven P. Glassman’s chambers on Friday afternoon, just before 5PM. There were at least a dozen of them, labeled with various legal terms that marked several years of investigation. Autopsy 12/28/04. Grand jury minutes 10/4/05. Deposition 2/12/06. Witness interview 4/27/07. They were sealed tight with several layers of tape; it took a clerk twenty minutes just to open one box. The judge was surprised that the boxes didn’t come with a Masterlock.

“Leave them,” Judge Glassman instructed, as the clerk started removing briefs from the first box. “They can wait until Monday.”

But the judge knew that the case that had just arrived at his doorstep could not wait until Monday. The last judge on the case had resigned on the eve of trial, after the New York Times uncovered photographs of his dalliances with several underage escorts. Judge Glassman knew the previous judge well, and was not surprised by the revelation – the man had a curious fascination with Blaire from the Facts of Life – though he was shocked by how quickly the judge had resigned. Federal judges are appointed for life, so it usually takes more than a few scandalous photographs to get them out. Recently CNN had run an expose on a judge in Las Vegas who had been issuing rulings based on advice he received through the Psychic Friends Network, behavior which might befit a president and his wife, but which was most unbecoming in a jurist. The judge vowed to remain on the bench until the stars were in their correct alignment.

Judge Glassman went back to his office, and left his clerks to debate over who would be responsible for the case.

“Wow, I can’t believe we got the case,” the judge heard one of the clerks say excitedly from the other room. It must have been the Columbia clerk, who was the designated emotional basketcase of the group. After considering standard qualifications like grades and recommendations, the judge looked for diversity in his clerks. Not in terms of law school, of course – there were only a handful of (top) law schools from which Judge Glassman selected his clerks. Other law schools might contain diamonds in the rough, but the judge lacked both the patience and the energy to find them. And the judge didn’t care much about ordinary indicators of diversity like sexual orientation and race; what mattered most to the judge was personality.  An African-American Muslim lesbian from Pakistan could be just as pleasant, or just as objectionable, as a heterosexual white male from Alabama. Good breeding isn’t in the blood; it’s in the behavior.

Despite the immense amount of work the next few months would entail, each one of the four were jockeying for the assignment. Personally, Judge Glassman preferred anyone but the Yale graduate, who would spend too many hours needlessly intellectualizing the simplest issue, and require constant monitoring as a result. The Yale clerk was best-suited for the complex and non-time-sensitive cases; she was an academic powerhouse, but a practical nightmare.

But even though he had his own preference, he thought it best to leave the decision to the clerks themselves. This was, after all, the case of the year – maybe even of the decade, or the century. If he chose one of them over the others, he would be playing favorites, and even if he wasn’t always even-keeled, Judge Glassman was always fair-minded. In his opinion, there weren’t enough fair-minded judges on the bench. Despite the lifetime tenure, politics and personality too often got in the way. Of course, the most biased judges were often the most brilliant, and they used their brilliance to mask their agendas, both on the right and on the left.

Judge Glassman saw through the pretense of many on his colleagues, though, and he had little patience for dishonesty in any form. The lawyers who appeared before him knew that, and also knew his penchant for scathing criticism.

“Counsel, next time you appear before me, I’d like you to bring your law school diploma, because I’m not entirely sure you actually graduated,” he reprimanded a government attorney, after the attorney had missed a filing deadline. “Did you graduate, counselor?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I graduated,” the attorney replied, meekly. “From Harvard.”

“Oh, from Harvard,” Judge Glassman said, sneering at the attorney’s name-dropping, which annoyed the judge even more than tardiness. “I wouldn’t share that with too many people, Mr. Prosecutor. Harvard has enough troubles these days.”

A few years back, someone had posted a sign in front of Judge Glassman’s courtroom, saying “Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.” His deputy was about to throw it out, but the judge rescued it just in time and hung it over his desk. It wasn’t an insult; it was a badge of honor.

The judge sat at his desk, listening to the clerks’ bickering in the other room. Besides the sign, his office was a cluttered with memorabilia from various important moments in his life. A souvenir from his trip to the Galapagos. A Mickey Mouse hat one of his clerk’s had brought him from Disneyworld. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of non-fiction books on multiple topics, all of which had piqued the judge’s interest at some time or another, usually in connection with a pending lawsuit. There was even a bag of sexual lubricants in one corner, from a trademark infringement case in which the makers of a certain dairy product sued the lubricants’ manufacturer, claiming that consumers might confuse the products due to their similar slogans, labels, and consistency. The judge found in favor of the manufacturer, concluding that it was unlikely that a reasonable consumer would spread a sexual lubricant on a piece of toast.

But the most noticeable feature of his office was the dozens of pictures that lined the walls, most of them of himself with all of his past clerks and every president since Johnson. Most judges only had pictures of themselves with the president who appointed them; you could almost predict their rulings by the pictures they had in their chambers. But Judge Glassman smiled next to Reagan and Carter, Nixon and Clinton, Johnson and Bush (both father and son). His favorite was the one with Nixon. Shortly before that picture was taken, Nixon had been subpoenaed in the Watergate scandal.

“Can’t you do something about that?” Nixon asked the judge, just before the flash went off. He wasn’t smiling.

From his desk, the judge could see the boxes sitting in the foyer. Hundreds of little pieces of paper, thousands – maybe millions – of words like “heretofore” and “forthwith,” all holding the fate of the most reviled man in America. Of course, in the public’s mind, his fate had been sealed years ago, the moment the bombs went off. Judge Glassman could still smell that moment. It’s the smell that sticks with you, years later. Eventually the debris is cleared, the bodies are buried, and the buildings are replaced with bigger and better ones, symbols that a bomb can destroy our homes but not our spirits. But in fact, the judge thought, our spirits do break, just a little, every time a body is buried. And all the uplifting songs and primetime specials and burnings in effigy can’t replace what can’t be replaced.

The judge realized he had been staring at the boxes for several minutes, and redirected his attention to his rapidly filling e-mail inbox. No time for thoughts of the past now. He – the entire country – had spent enough time in the past. Judge Glassman was determined not to oversee a trial haunted by ghosts and personal torment. They attacked us because our system works, he thought. It’ll work again. He would see to it.

The NYU clerk knocked. He was usually the spokesperson for the group. Probably because he had the biggest mouth, and the least shame.

“Judge, we decided that Allison would be the primary clerk on the case,” NYU said. The judge sighed, resigned to working closely with the Yale one over the next few months. He wasn’t surprised that Yale won. Her pleasing nature ended where her competitive nature began. Yale Law School had done away with grades years ago, ostensibly for purely academic reasons, but the judge suspected that the school had no choice – if Yale students had to compete for grades, the violent crime rate on Yale’s campus would skyrocket.

“We also decided that, considering the amount of work entailed in this litigation” – NYU always talked like a legal brief with legs – “we would take turns helping Allison out with any overflow. We hope and trust that this is an acceptable arrangement to your honor.”
Ah, of course. Everyone wants a piece of the pie. Yes, NYU, it is an acceptable arrangement to this honorable jurist. Also, an acceptable arrangement would include you not kissing my 76-year-old butt at every turn.

“That’s fine, John, thanks.”

NYU went back into the clerks’ office, and was likely already exaggerating his encounter with the judge.

“The judge seemed reluctant to consent to our proposal; however, I explicated the benefits of permitting each of us to contribute to this historic prosecution, and eventually, he relented.”
Still, even if NYU annoyed him at times, the judge appreciated his by-the-book approach to the profession. The judge longed for the days of bow-ties and procedure, wing-tips and rules. There were too many liberties being taken these days. Liberties were for politicians, not for judges. Judges are supposed to keep politicians in check, and not the other way around.

An unopened New York Times lay on the judge’s desk. The day had been so hectic, he had not had the opportunity to even glance at it. The call from the Court Executive had come early in the day.

“Steven, I thought I should let you know, your name came out of the wheel,” the Clerk of the Court informed him. The judge didn’t particularly appreciate being called “Steven” during working hours, but he had known the Clerk of the Court since their law school days, and asking an old friend to call him Your Honor seemed a little too harsh, even for the judge. Still, it would be nice if he did it voluntarily. It’s like receiving a compliment after you asked for it; it never feels the same when you have to ask for it.

“You’ve been assigned to the Saalam case.”

It wasn’t welcome news, at first. Judge Glassman had recently assumed senior status, and he was looking forward to slowing down a bit. Not retiring completely, of course. His wife would never consent to that. Judges (indeed, most lawyers) usually work until their final breath. Not necessarily because they like it, but because it’s all they – and their spouses, families, pets – know. After five or six decades of eating at the same dinner table once a week at most, it was best to keep it that way. Why spoil a successful marriage right before the finish line? There would be plenty of time to catch up, in the next life.

But even more than the late nights and missed box seats that the case would bring, the judge was uncomfortable with its notoriety. Ever since the government had arrested Salaam, not a day had gone by without his name appearing somewhere in the newspapers. Even before he was arrested, the name Salaam had become synonymous with pure evil, a development carefully cultivated by the prosecutors, even before a shred of evidence had been presented against him. 

And everyone shared in the glory when Salaam was finally captured, not in a cave in Afghanistan or a safe house in an Iranian village, but in a modest, split-level house in Miami. The current president had not been elected so much on his own record as Salaam’s.

Yet though the notoriety was unwelcome, it was nothing new to the judge. A few years earlier, he had presided over the trial of a serial killer who had allegedly murdered a dozen small children in ways so horrendous that even the Daily News, a publication not known for its restraint, refused to report the details. After the trial was over, the judge was giving a lecture at Columbia Law School when he was asked how he remained objective in the face of gruesome testimony by the victims’ families, as they described the mangled remains of their children.

“When a defendant enters my courtroom, he is no longer a human being,” the judge answered. 

“He is a hypothetical on a law school exam. The victims, too. They are only words on a piece of paper.”

“But, judge,” the student continued, noticeably uncomfortable with the judge’s response. “Isn’t compassion part of justice?”

“Compassion in the law, yes,” the judge replied, in a measured tone. “But personal compassion, like personal condemnation, has no place in the criminal justice system.”

And Judge Glassman honestly believed that. He believed it when the jury acquitted the defendant – who the judge was certain had committed the crimes. He believed it when his son-in-law was convicted of securities fraud, and he believed it when his own granddaughter was arrested for shoplifting.

And even when he watched the bodies fly through the air as explosions rocked the street beneath his chambers, even when his wife called him hysterical because she hadn’t heard from him in hours, even when there were lines down the block at the city morgue, filled with people who were hoping that somehow, their father had missed the train to work that day, or their daughter had been one of a handful of survivors on the number 6 train, or their husband was lying unconscious at St. Vincent’s and not dead on a slab, he believed it.

Judge Glassman could preside over this case, and he could preside over it fairly. He was perhaps the only person who could.

“You can decline the assignment, you know” the Clerk said, referring to a perk of the judge’s senior status. Before he assumed senior status, the judge wondered if there were numerous, secret perks to being a senior judge. Maybe a separate cafeteria that served filet mignon, or a special elevator with ornate chandeliers, or a secret handshake. But none of those hopes had come to fruition. Another sign that the judicial system, like the country, does not respect its elders.

“No, Daniel, thank you. I’ll take it.” The judge glanced at his calendar, and realized that taking the Salaam case would mean postponing his summer vacation, which was fine with him. The first time he visited the Grand Canyon, he was struck by its awesome beauty, by how an empty valley can be as magnificent as a majestic mountain. The eighteenth time he visited it, he was struck only by the cost of bottled water at their hotel.

“You know, they may have to give you a security detail, like they did for Michael,” the Clerk continued, referring to the secret service agents assigned to Judge Michael Mukasey during the World Trade Center trial, after Judge Mukasey had received numerous death threats. How many death threats would he have to receive before he received his own “security detail,” the judge wondered. Is there a chart somewhere that dictates how many death threats each judge must receive before they are entitled to protection? A slightly competitive part of Judge Glassman wondered whether he would have to receive more or less than Mukasey.

“As long as I don’t have to feed and clothe them,” the judge replied.

“I’m serious, Steven. This isn’t a typical trial.”

No shit, the judge wanted to say. Judge Glassman generally disliked using expletives, which he regarded as lazy argumentation, but sometimes one just fit the situation.

“You’ll be a target.”

“A target for who?” the judge asked, unconvinced that a group of international terrorists would expend the time and energy to take him out. Besides, if he kept eating the chicken marsala they served in the courthouse cafeteria, nature might do the job for them.

“Don’t worry about me,” the judge continued, signaling for his assistant to help him get this guy off the phone. His assistant was not the nicest person, but she was good at getting rid of people, and even the judge – who had told Nixon after their photo shoot that he should “fight his own battles” – was slightly scared of her. But then he remembered that he had given her the afternoon off, just because she asked for it, and he was too afraid to say no.

“I’m tough.” At least, in the courtroom. He had the sign hanging above his desk to prove it.

“But is Laura?” the Clerk asked, referring to the judge’s wife. The judge rarely considered his wife’s perspective on anything career-related, not because she wasn’t smart enough to weigh in, but because she wouldn’t stop weighing in if he let her. “Your decision affects her too, you know. And your kids, too, and grandkids. How old are they now?” His words were careful and measured, as if there was a warning hidden beneath the warning.

“I have to go, Daniel,” the judge said, suddenly becoming eager to end the conversation. It seemed like the Clerk was fishing for something, but the judge wasn’t sure what, and he didn’t want to find out. “Thanks for the heads up.”

The Clerk paused, and after a long silence, wished the judge good luck, and promised to keep the assignment secret until Monday so he could prepare his chambers for the onslaught. The judge hung up, still vaguely unsettled by the call. He supposed he should appreciate the concern, but he refused to condone paranoia, especially not in his courtroom. And after all, the terrorists had better targets than me, he thought. What benefit would they get from killing me? The case would just get transferred to another judge, and they certainly couldn’t kill all the judges in the federal judiciary. Especially not the ones in Texas, who it was rumored carry handguns underneath their robes.

The sun was already setting outside, and it felt like the first snowfall was right around the corner, a bit early in the season but not unheard of in mid-November in New York City. It was on an evening very much like this one, six years earlier, that the ground had shook. Not just the ground under the courthouse; the ground shook under every building in every major metropolitan area in the country. But the courthouse, which was built directly over a bustling subway station, bore the brunt of the impact in this little corner of the universe. The building was closed for five months following the attacks, as the universe reorganized itself into a brave new world. It was a world very similar to, and entirely different from, the one that came before.

“We’re going to catch the monsters who committed these heinous acts,” the President had promised on national television the following evening, even though the killers were also lying in little pieces across the ground, mixed together with little pieces of their victims. But the President didn’t mean the men who had strapped explosives to their bodies and boarded subways, cars, buses, and trains across the country. Those men had turned themselves into walking bombs, and were little more than the sum of the parts they left behind. 

No, the President meant the planners. The brains. The so-called “masterminds,” as if great works of terror require something more than a common goal, and utter desperation. And eventually, the President meant just one man. The mastermind. Salaam.

When the judge was finally allowed back into his chambers after the attacks, he immediately went back to work, and demanded the same from his clerks, often working them through weekends and holidays, weddings and anniversaries, stomach bugs and, even in one unfortunate situation, chemotherapy (he let that clerk go home early once in a while). He didn’t want to make them miserable – well, most of the time, anyway – but he had no other choice. Maybe back in the days of wingtips and bow-ties, judges had time to manage their cases on their own. 

But these days, when every judge has several hundred cases on their docket, when every Joe Six-Pack sued because they were fired from their job, or they broke a leg in front of Burger King, or their coffee was just too hot, dammit – these days, a judge is only as good, or bad, as the clerks who work for him.

The judge unrolled the newspaper and quickly skimmed the first five pages. Everything after those pages was fluff, anyway, and he rarely had time to read anything that didn’t appear above the fold. I need a break, he thought. The case could wait till Monday. It had already waited six years, three more days wouldn’t make a difference. When he came in on Monday though, everyone had better be prepared, on both sides. No one would get a free ride here. As far as the judge was concerned, Salaam was just another defendant, presumed innocent, afforded the same rights and privileges as every other man and woman who had appeared before him in his forty-two years on the bench. Justice is blind, even in the ashes.

And besides, no one could tell him what to do in his courtroom. He was the king of his kingdom, answerable to no one except his own conscience.

The judge stuffed a few briefs in his satchel – he might be taking it easy this weeknd, but he still needed something to read while his wife knitted, during their lovely, silent Sundays – and headed out of his chambers, passing the clerks as he went.

“Have a good weekend,” he said to shocked faces. The judge was leaving at 5:30pm? NYU almost asked him the reason, but even he had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

“And Allison – be here bright and early on Monday, please. I need you at the top of your game, from here on out.”

It was slightly cruel of the judge to leave with those parting words, which would surely cause the clerk to spend the next two days reading every scrap of paper in every one of those boxes. But in fact, he did need her to be fully prepared as soon as possible, because like it or not, Salaam’s fate hung not only in the hands of the judge and jurors, but in hers as well. These pseudo-adults, who only a few years ago were working at ice cream parlors and smoking pot in their parents’ basements, now largely controlled the judicial system. And there was nothing the judge – or anyone else – could do about it, except trust them to do the job he just didn’t have enough time to do himself.

The security guards politely smiled as the judge exited the main courthouse doors, and entered the frigid Chinatown air. Other judges preferred to use a special entrance designated only for them, choosing to avoid possible encounters with prosecutors or defense attorneys who appeared before them, but Judge Glassman welcomed the opportunity to catch people off-guard, and maybe overhear conversations about him between disgruntled attorneys. It’s not what people say to your face that really counts, but what they don’t say. Besides, he still hadn’t figured out who had hung the sign that now hung over his desk; what’s more, he wasn’t sure what he would do with the culprit if he did figure it out, whether he would buy him a drink or have him disbarred. It would be a spur of the moment decision.

The street was bustling with activity, and the judge instantly cursed his decision to travel during rush hour. But then again, it’s always rush hour in New York City, regardless of the time. The judge walked past his favorite lunch spot and waved to the owner inside, who waved back. He used to wave to the owner and his wife, but his wife was killed in the attacks, so now the owner waved alone.

If it hadn’t been physically impossible for a bullet to magically appear in a person’s chest, no one would have even noticed the shot. The pain itself was negligible; if a woman hadn’t screamed for a doctor, the judge might have just walked it off. But then he grew very tired very quickly, and the warm spot behind his shoulder became hot and then burned through his body, as he fell against the glass of his favorite lunch spot.

The owner of the restaurant rushed out, and propped the judge’s head up on his lap, shouting something in Chinese, or maybe English, it all sounded the same at this point. The urgency seemed excessive, though. This too shall pass. Everything does.

He saw his wife, kids, and grandkids, one at a time and all at once; he saw his chambers and his home, Disneyworld, the Galapagos and the Grand Canyon; and he thought of his assistant, who would probably retire now, since no one else would put up with her mood swings; of the Clerk of the Court, and his curious words of warning; of the bag of personal lubricants in his office, and the shock on the face of whoever found them; of underage escorts, and walking bombs, and the alignment of the stars.

And before he closed his eyes to rest, Judge Steven P. Glassman thought of the dozen or so boxes, still sitting in his office un-opened, and of the next judge – and clerk – who would be responsible for vindicating the living, and avenging the dead.

Necessary and Sufficient

This one is for you.

************************

Ethan and I went to see a movie last weekend.  Or, I went to a movie, while Ethan played with his cell phone and occasionally napped.  His ability to fall asleep in any environment is one of the things I envy most about him, along with his strong cheekbones and steel-like digestive system.  But that night, I wasn't envious, I was just annoyed.

"You couldn't stay awake for two hours?" I asked him, as we walked back to his apartment in the rain.  He had brought an umbrella, but I forgot mine, as I usually do.  I squatted under his umbrella on the way to the movies, but on the way home I refused to share his personal space, which I assumed was fine with him, given his general belief that two men should keep at least five feet apart at all times while in public.  It took quite a bit of cajoling to get him to sit next to me in the movie theater, but I bribed him with a box of Junior Mints and a promise that I would not share his armrest.

"Sorry."  We walked for a few minutes, while I waited for the rest of his answer, which I knew would follow shortly.  It isn't quite like pulling teeth; it's more like waiting for them to fall out of your mouth.  

"It was just not the kind of movie I like," he said, trying to shield me with his umbrella from the falling rain.  I was having none of it, however, and ended up walking the rest of the way back in the ditch, just to send him a message.  True passive-aggressives suffer for their art.

Of course it wasn't the kind of movie he liked.  Ethan doesn't like most of the movies I like.  In fact, we agree on almost nothing when it comes to movies, television, music, art, literature, politics, international relations, interior design, fashion, coffee talk, toilet paper, tomato-based products, and pretty much anything else that people do in their daily lives.  I didn't really expect him to like the movie, but everyone else I knew had already seen it so I needed to go with him.  The alternative -- going by myself -- was unthinkable.  I hadn't gone to a movie by myself since I was 16, when I snuck into that movie where Rosie O'Donnell played an S&M hooker.  Perhaps not so coincidentally, the following day I had phone sex with a man for the first time.

After a year, though, I had mostly grown accustomed to our differences.  When I found a new television show, or song, or movie that I liked, I just assumed Ethan wouldn't like it.  But instead of trying to change him -- my parents weren't great role models for healthy relationships, but at least they taught me how to avoid an unhealthy one -- I just resigned myself to a future of quiet, tomato-free, dinners.

That night, though, the sacrifice loomed larger than usual.  I wasn't sure why, though I suspected it had something to do with the coffee I'd had earlier with my friend Mark and his fiancee Lauren.  He had recently proposed to her, or she had recently proposed to him, I still wasn't sure who did the proposing.  It didn't matter anyway.  They were pretty much just extensions of one another, completely lacking in discernible boundaries.  One of them should have donated their organs to medical science.  It seemed selfish for one person to occupy two, healthy bodies.

The conversation naturally turned towards Ethan, as it always did with my friends lately, either out of morbid curiosity or judgmental concern.

"I knew this was going someplace bad from day one," Mark said.  Or Lauren did.  They moved their lips in unison, as they shared a banana nut muffin and a latte.  Being both lawyers, they could have afforded two banana nut muffins and two lattes, but then they wouldn't get to share, and sharing is the most important part of a relationship.

"Sharing is the most important of a relationship," Lauren said.  Or Mark did.  I tried to move the conversation away from Ethan, onto more comfortable topics, like my recently diagnosed diverticulitis, and human migration.  They both had a keen interest in migrating populations.  Because the individual is always less important than the collective.

The conversation lagged, after we had sufficiently delved into the regularity of my bowel habits and the plight of the Yamama Indians.  I sipped my orange juice, acutely aware of the vacant chair next to me.  Ethan didn't want to come to coffee.  There was some kind of sports game on television.  There was always some kind of sports game on television.  Jocks are as jocks do.

"So Ethan couldn't join us?" Lauren asked, or Mark did, fully aware of the answer.  "Couldn't even meet your friends for coffee," they said, shaking their heads.  I had a momentary impulse to punch one of them, but I couldn't choose which one, so I settled for the mental imagery.

"It's not so bad," I said, signaling for the check, while Mark indicated to Lauren that she had milk on her top lip.  It felt vaguely pornographic to even sit there with them.  They weren't being sexual at all, or even overly affectionate -- I'd hope my fiancee would tell me when I have milk on my top lip, too -- but somehow they were managing to have sex right in front of me.

"I know he's attractive, Jonah," Mark began, and I knew what was coming next.  It wasn't anything I hadn't heard before.  I concocted a relationship out of physical attraction.  I was making up for my drama-geek adolescence by sleeping with the quarterback of the football team.  I needed to work out these self-confidence issues in therapy.  I wasn't a full human being.  Not like Mark and Lauren, who could survive on one banana nut muffin.

"Ethan and I are going to the movies tonight," I said somewhat proudly.  See, Ethan was going with me to the movies, it couldn't be all bad.  It wasn't hopeless.  But their four eyes bore into me, suspecting that there was more to the story.  "Well, Ethan doesn't really want to go, but he said he'd go with me," I added, berating myself for my compulsive honesty.  Contrary to popular belief, honesty is not always the best policy, especially when you're lying to yourself.

Mark asked me what we were going to see, or Lauren did, just as the obviously homosexual waiter brought us the check.

"Oh, I've been wanting to see that forever!" the waiter said, brightly, apparently fishing for more than just a tip.  I hurried off, before Mark and Lauren could point out the obvious.

Ethan and I spent the remainder of the walk back to his studio apartment in silence.  I stopped trying to avoid the puddles, figuring that the wetter I got, the more guilty he would feel for his behavior at the movies.  It didn't work, or at least, he didn't express any further remorse.  Of course, he could have been beating himself up inside, but that didn't do me much good.

I sat down in the living room/bedroom/kitchen, soaking his couch in the process.  It wasn't part of his punishment -- I only take my anger out on personal electronics, not home furnishings -- but I didn't have any dry clothes to change into.  Ethan never let me leave anything in his apartment.

"I just don't feel comfortable with it," he said, handing me a sealed Ziploc with my toothbrush in it, as if I had left a stack of kiddie porn in his bathroom.  "What if someone comes over and sees two toothbrushes?  They might start asking questions."  

Sensing my displeasure, he promised to keep a full stock of new toothbrushes for me to use.  Sure enough, the next time I came over, I found several rows of toothbrushes in his medicine cabinet, of varying colors and types.  "I wasn't sure what kind you liked," he said, and I forgave him instantly.

But I only had so many instant pardons in me, and it felt lately like I was running low.

"I'm sorry I didn't like the movie," he said, handing me a towel.  The towel smelled fresh and clean, like it had never been used.  His whole apartment looked fresh and clean, and except for a Simpsons magnet that I had given him for Christmas, lacked any indication of my existence.  He had permitted the Simpsons magnet to remain, since it was something he would buy himself, so it didn't invite any unnecessary questions.

Mark and Lauren's faces danced in front of me.  What were they doing right now?  Probably huddled under a hand-weaved Afghan, sipping out of the same Egyptian tea cup and watching a documentary about Sudanese refugees together.  Or maybe even adopting a Sudanese refugee themselves.  I wondered if they'd send seven cents a day, or double it, because technically there were two of them.

Ethan went to take a shower, and I scanned his magazines, which ranged from moderately offensive capitalistic fodder to moderately offensive mysoginistic fodder.  He knew how I felt about the latter, but it didn't stop him from continuing to read them, or saving them under his television stand.  Occasionally I would throw one away behind his back, but usually I just tried to cover them with the one issue of U.S. News and World Report that he owned, so I could effectively fool myself into forgetting their presence.

I wasn't in any of the pictures on his walls.  My clothes weren't in his drawers.  His friends and family didn't know I existed.  I could disappear tomorrow, and nothing would change in his life, except a cell phone number that could be easily deleted, and a wet spot on his couch.

"Hey, I think your cell phone is ringing!" Ethan called from inside the bathroom.  He had an excellent sense of hearing, probably honed while on high alert for potential FBI raids of his apartment, looking for strange men's toothbrushes.  

It was my mother.  After debating for a moment, I picked it up.  It was usually better to speak to her when I was already in a bad mood, because I'd be in one by the end of the conversation anyway.

"Yeah, your grandmother is driving me crazy," she said, before I could even say hello.  "I should never have moved so close to her!"

After my parents' divorce, my mother moved in next door to my grandmother and her second husband, Stan.  The arrangement wasn't too unhealthy, as long as Stan was around -- my mother didn't care too much for Stan, so she avoided going over to their apartment too often, usually only stopping by when Stan was simonizing his car -- an activity which could take a full afternoon -- or when she ran out of food (somehow, after the divorce, my mother forgot how to operate a stove).  But when Stan died a few years later, my mother and my grandmother were free to pick up where they had left off at the end of my mother's own dysfunctional childhood.  

"She's getting nuts about your cousin Jason again."  

"Ma, Jason is her grandson, and he's a drug addict, of course she gets upset about him," I replied, pointing out what would be obvious to anyone else.  There was often a significant amount of grey area between what was obvious to anyone else, and what was obvious to my mother.

"But why does she have to get nuts!"  

I stepped outside into the hallway, sensing that this was going to be a long and potentially voice-raising, hair-pulling conversation.  Of course, the hair would be only my own, so once I got into the hall I cupped the phone between my ear and my shoulder, and sat on my hands.  I was already treading the delicate line between a maturing hairline and male pattern baldness, and precautions needed to be taken.

While my mother ticked off a detailed list of the flaws of her mother (a pasttime with which I was intimately familiar), I felt Stan's absence more than ever.  He was a natural boundary between them, inadvertently protecting them from the spiral of codependence, the bottom of which they still had not found after years of screaming matches and dueling insults.  Unfortunately, his utility went unacknowledged while he was alive.  

"He's such a cheap loser," my uncle complained about him repeatedly, as my mother vigorously agreed.  My mother vigorously agreed with pretty much anything my uncle said, but especially when it came to Stan, who they both intensely disliked, though they usually had the good sense not to bring their distaste to my grandmother's attention.  "I don't know what she sees in him."

"She's his slave," was my mother's usual reply.  "It's a marriage of convenience, it's convenient for him."

And although I didn't dislike Stan myself -- save his occasional diatribe against my compulsive television viewing, and his odd competitiveness during shuffleboard -- even as a kid, I understood what they meant.  My grandmother liked the opera, and reading classic literature, and debating about politics.  Stan liked simonizing his car, and napping during the day.  My grandmother was fashionable and glamorous (a trait she has not abandoned to this day -- she's probably the only 85 year old woman who doesn't wear reflective clothing).  Stan wore his pants up to his chest, and refused to cut the little hair he had until my grandmother would bribe him with a lamb chop dinner.  And even if she wasn't technically a slave -- Stan, like any other member of the family, would kowtow to her when the situation demanded -- their partnership did appear to be somewhat one-sided.  My grandmother would cook the banana nut muffins, and Stan would eat them all himself.

When my uncle died, Stan didn't seem overly upset.  Not that he was celebrating, either.  He just seemed to observe the proceedings, like an outsider, not like a step-father or husband.  I figured that the animosity between them had been less understated than I originally thought.  But then again, maybe my uncle had been right.  Maybe Stan and my grandmother were just too different for their marriage to be anything more than one of mostly convenience, occasional companionship, and frequent early-bird dinners.

I didn't see my grandmother much in the days immediately after my uncle died.  We all stayed in his apartment for a week after he died, and we tried to console each other as best we could, but making each other feel better was not our forte.  We were better at the opposite.  The opposite doesn't require hugging, or touching, or closeness.  It only requires a loud voice, and an intimate knowledge of profanities.  So mostly we just stayed out of each other's way, because that was the most respectful thing we could do for one another at the time.

My grandmother and Stan slept in my uncle's bedroom, while the rest of us slept in the living room, making sure that there was at least four feet between each other.  The night before the funeral, no one was saying anything at all.  My mother sat by the window, painting and re-painting her nails, because none of the colors seemed just right.  My sister talked on the phone in the kitchen with a friend from college, where she had found a family of her own, one that didn't need four feet of distance at all times.  It seemed like a perfect time to catch up on a little television for me.  When the television goes on, I go off.  

Unfortunately, I couldn't find the remote control, and my uncle owned one of those televisions that are unoperable by human hands, the modern day version of the sword in the stone.  So I went to my uncle's room to ask my grandmother where the remote was, since my grandmother usually had all the answers.

I knocked, and when no one answered, I opened the door.  My grandmother laid on my uncle's bed, curled into a ball and sobbing quietly, while Stan laid next to her, stroking her hair.  I had never seen my grandmother cry before.  But while I was almost appalled by the scene -- how dare this woman, who just lost her only son, show such extreme emotion -- Stan's expression showed nothing except compassion.  He didn't tell her to stop crying, or push her away, or pretend not to hear her.  He didn't paint his nails, or talk on the phone with his friends, or mindlessly stare at the television.  He just dabbed her eyes occasionally with a tissue, and laid next to her, pulling her closer with each sob.  And she didn't protest.  She just laid there, and let him take care of her, and her hand rested on his arm, like it was protecting her from something that was too big and too unimaginable to survive.  But she survived it, and he survived it, because they survived it together.

I never told them what I had seen, and Stan passed away a few years later, leaving my grandmother to once again survive on her own.  My mother still dropped occasional insults about him, whenever she ran out of other things to insult, but I stood up for him.  I thought it was the least I could do, especially considering I had beaten him at our last-ever shuffleboard game.

And once again, I found myself outside Ethan's apartment, thinking about painted nails and strong arms and unacknowledged protectors in our lives.

"I just can't stand your grandmother when she's like this," my mother said, for the fifth time in the conversation.  The conversation went on for a while longer, though it was more of a monologue from her side of the telephone with the occasional affirmation from my side of the telephone, which is all my mother really wanted anyway.  After a cursory inquiry into my life -- "so you've been feeling ok?" "yes" -- my mother had to go, because she and my grandmother were going to a Mexican spa the next morning.  I thought about alerting the Mexican authorities, but didn't want to be the inadvertent cause of more illegal immigration when the spa's employees fled toward the border.

By the time I came back inside the apartment, Ethan was already in bed.  The lights were off, and he was laying with his back to the room, which was fine with me.  Mark and Lauren were probably just beginning a post-coital walk down memory lane -- "remember when I proposed to you, honey?" "you proposed? I thought I did!" giggle giggle -- but I had had enough of the miserable, banana nut-filled day.

I stripped off my clothes, which were still wet, and quietly crawled into bed, trying not to wake Ethan in the process. I ran through the conversation with my mother in my mind again, trying to find the spots where I could have made everything better, if I had only said this, or I could have helped her, if only I had said that, or I could have brought my uncle back to life or cured my mother's manic depression or erased my entire childhood in one fell swoop, if only I had done the right thing.  And as hard as I tried to remain still, I trembled slightly, as if my body was working overtime to expel a septic infection.  To the casual observer, the trembling was almost imperceptible, perhaps the result of a slight chill in the room.

Ethan, though, knew better.  His eyes opened slightly, and he tilted his head towards me.  I turned to face the wall, unable to meet his gaze.  The trembling worsened, so that the whole bed was shaking.  I was ashamed at my own weakness, and my shame only made me tremble more.

"It'll be ok," he said softly, half-asleep, as he turned over and pulled himself close to me.  His arm found its way across my chest, and in a moment, all the toothbrushes in his cabinet, and magazines in his television stand, and pictures on his walls, they all dropped away, so there was nothing else in the world except his arm, and my hand, and his breath on the back of my neck.  

My trembling subsided, and I began to doze off, wondering whether Mark and Lauren had finally figured out who had proposed to who.  And as I fell asleep, laying in his arms, I couldn't even remember the name of the movie we had seen that night.

We were on a break!!!

Who can tell me the source of that quote? There's no prize if you can, except my respect, which really isn't worth much at all. In fact, you're probably better off without it.

Anyway, just wanted to tell all of you the same thing that I tell my mother during our monthly phone calls -- don't worry, I'm still alive. New job, new city, and 230 panic attacks later, I think I can start writing again. So I'll be back soon with a new story.

And like I tell my mother during our monthly calls, if you make me feel guilty for being MIA lately, I'll put you in a home.

XOXO,
Jonah

Golden Apples...and Teddy Bears

Don't get your hopes up...this is not a full story, just a little anecdote I thought I'd share with you all...I just sent it around to the attorneys at my firm on my last day here (as you know, I don't write about work, but just to relieve some of the guilt you've been making me feel at not posting for a while, fyi I'm changing jobs and moving cities...tomorrow...so I've been somewhat of a decapitated chicken lately). Hope this holds you all over till the next one is done!

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A few weeks ago I was having dinner with my friend Lisa, who is somewhat older than me (but don't tell her I said that, as I'm pretty sure her Pilates-trained arms could turn me into a pretzel) and very accomplished in her career. It's not important what her career is; suffice to say, getting to where she is today was a risky venture and her success was not at all assured. After a drink or two had loosened my tongue a bit -- it doesn't take much alcohol to do that these days, not that it usually takes any alcohol to make me ask vaguely inappropriate questions -- I asked her how she dealt with the fear of failure in pursuing her dreams (or, in my vaguely inappropriate way, "how the ____ did you get where you are today without freaking out everyday of your life?").

"When I was 28, my grandfather passed away," she said, in between bites of clams casino (apparently her career was not the only area in which Lisa preferred to take risks). "In his will, he left me a painting that had been in his basement for decades. When I took it to get appraised, the appraiser told me that it was an original Picasso, and worth several million dollars."

At the time, Lisa was working in a job she didn't like very much, living in a city she didn't care for, and looking forward to a life that, while not entirely unpleasant, was not what she really wanted.

"But when I found out that I owned a painting worth several million dollars, all that changed. I quit my job, moved to a new city, and started a new life," she said, now ordering two different types of cheesecake, both for her to eat alone as I had forgotten to take my Lactaid that morning. I worried a bit how the two pieces of cheesecake would sit with a large helping of clams casino, but she seemed to know what she was doing.

Lisa continued her story, telling me about how she struggled for several years before she broke through in her new career.

"It was tough, sure," she said, again in between bites of cheesecake, "but knowing that I had that painting under my bed made it possible. I never worried, because I knew that if worst came to worst, I'd be ok."

After several minutes of my berating her for keeping a multi-million dollar painting under her bed ("have you ever heard of burglars? fires? alien invasions?"), Lisa finished dessert and called for the check.

"Well, thank god for that painting," I said, marvelling at her apparent good health after the binge fest I had just witnessed. I also thought to myself how the story sounded somewhat smug -- anyone can take chances when they have something like a multi-million fortune to fall back on -- but luckily I had stopped drinking by that point, and so retained a modicum of tact and kept my mouth shut. Still, I found myself supremely jealous at Lisa's good luck, and had begun to settle into a kind of simmering discontent as we walked out of the restaurant.

"Yeah, but a few years ago I took the painting to another appraiser," she said, as we stopped for ice cream (or, she stopped for ice cream and I watched her eat it), "a world-famous, Antiques Roadshow-kind of bigwig -- and he said the painting was a forgery, and it was actually worth $50." She laughed, as chocolate ice cream dribbled down her shirt. "Imagine if I had known that years ago, who knows where I'd be right now?"

When I got home that night, after looking up the recipe for clams casino on the internet (she really seemed to enjoy it), I thought about Lisa's story, and the security she thought she had that never really existed, except in her own head. Except, that's really the only place security can exist, because at any moment you can find out that the original Picasso under your bed was really just a forgery.

I went into my bedroom and found my most prized possession, a teddy bear that my grandmother had bought for me when I was 2 years old.

"This teddy bear is worth $4 million," I repeated to myself several times. I said it so many times, I started to believe it. And now each morning I get up and say "this teddy bear is worth $4 million," and each morning I convince myself a little more that it's true.

May you all live like you have a teddy bear stuffed with gold on top of your bed, or an original Picasso under it. But if you do have an original Picasso, keep it in a safe deposit box. There's calculated risk, and then there's stupidity.