(Hemingway nailed on it on the head with that quote. This is a fictional short story/work-in-progress with no title yet. I've ignored it for months, but know that if I put it out there, I'll be forced to finish it. Êtes-vous d'accord?)
I lost a bet.
And for six, very long hours, I didn't make good on that bet during an incarceration that would test the patience of angels. Then again, I didn't expect to get stuck in an elevator with my soon-to-be-ex-sister-in-law.
I don't know how the winner of the bet can force me to make good; it would put them in the rather awkward position of telling another person how loathed they are. The winner would only end up losing...face. But I can't decide which is the lesser evil; having a rep of abusing bet-debts, or telling someone who bore my nieces that she was never good enough for my brother.
But there I was, in that elevator, allowing the future ex-SIL to believe I thought things were still good between us....
And for six, very long hours, I didn't make good on that bet during an incarceration that would test the patience of angels. Then again, I didn't expect to get stuck in an elevator with my soon-to-be-ex-sister-in-law.
I don't know how the winner of the bet can force me to make good; it would put them in the rather awkward position of telling another person how loathed they are. The winner would only end up losing...face. But I can't decide which is the lesser evil; having a rep of abusing bet-debts, or telling someone who bore my nieces that she was never good enough for my brother.
But there I was, in that elevator, allowing the future ex-SIL to believe I thought things were still good between us....
"I can't believe the schmucks that run this building don't have engineers on speed-dial!" Sil spat.
I raised an eyebrow. "Is speed-dialing even a thing, anymore? Don't people just go to 'contacts' to call or text the on-site mechanics?"
She gives me a tight smile that screams what she'd really like to say to my borderline snarky response. It's been two hours, and the elevator car is warm. The first fifteen minutes weren't so bad. I really did think we'd be out of here by then. I stopped sipping from my take-away coffee cup after forty-five minutes, just in case.
"So, what d'ya think of that defendant? His lawyer looked like an undertaker, but his cologne was okay."
Sil eventually crumpled on the floor of the car and took off her shoes. I don't know what possessed her to wear peep-toed Vera Wang heels. Who the hell goes out of their way to impress during jury selection? But that's Sil. She likes to dress like she has money. I know she doesn't, and she secretly resents anyone that has that information. I don’t know designer shoes, but I do know she buys clearance rack items.
"We're not supposed to talk about the case, remember?" she bit back, rubbing a foot. I wore my comfy Reeboks, so I'm just squatting with my back against the wall.
"I know. But even the prosecutor would know by now that we're likely talking about it."
I know it's killing her to sit on the floor of the elevator. I also know if I don't talk about the case I'm not supposed to talk about, then she'll start moaning about having to take her T.J. Maxx-purchased slacks to the cleaners.
She’d managed to get out of her first two jury obligations, which is why ‘Hizzonor’ insisted she be present for this one. Meanwhile, it’s my first, and I can’t help my curiosity. I was honest with the judge about my relationship with another jurist. He didn’t see it as an issue, and neither did the defendant’s attorney.
She sighed and let her head fall back against the car wall,
emoting that she’ll give a little.
“Yeah, that cologne has a nice musk to it. Expensive. But his wardrobe…I think he’s trying to hide that he’s got money.”
I’m a little surprised at her observation. “Well, then he’s doing a really good job of it. His suit looks like it was thrown together with the best Kmart had to offer. And his attorney sweats like he’s afraid.”
Sil snerks. “He is afraid. He’s a storefront esquire.” She gestured with air-quotes on esquire. “He’s window-dressing for the real marionettes pulling the strings. Mr. ‘I’m innocent’ likely has the best legal minds advising the undertaker, as you put it. That’s the strategy. Make the defendant look broke, innocent, and desperate for vindication. But that cologne…I know I recognize it from somewhere.”
“Yeah, that cologne has a nice musk to it. Expensive. But his wardrobe…I think he’s trying to hide that he’s got money.”
I’m a little surprised at her observation. “Well, then he’s doing a really good job of it. His suit looks like it was thrown together with the best Kmart had to offer. And his attorney sweats like he’s afraid.”
Sil snerks. “He is afraid. He’s a storefront esquire.” She gestured with air-quotes on esquire. “He’s window-dressing for the real marionettes pulling the strings. Mr. ‘I’m innocent’ likely has the best legal minds advising the undertaker, as you put it. That’s the strategy. Make the defendant look broke, innocent, and desperate for vindication. But that cologne…I know I recognize it from somewhere.”
Twenty minutes of squatting is starting to ache my knees, so I sat
on the car’s floor, also. I chose silence for a time, making impulsive reaches
for my coffee before stopping myself. It smells good, but I don’t dare.
I also don’t dare let my guard down with Sil. I’ve discovered through my brother that she’s been sneaky. I know attorneys have their purpose, and I would never take up Shakespeare’s suggestion, ''…let's kill all the lawyers…''. But I’ve never met one that suggested having my nieces wear wrist-watches with added GPS devices inside.
I also don’t dare let my guard down with Sil. I’ve discovered through my brother that she’s been sneaky. I know attorneys have their purpose, and I would never take up Shakespeare’s suggestion, ''…let's kill all the lawyers…''. But I’ve never met one that suggested having my nieces wear wrist-watches with added GPS devices inside.
My brother isn’t the type to abduct his daughters and go into hiding. That wasn’t how he was brought up. But Sil is choosing to practice paranoia, thanks to her bottom-feeding shark. My family suspects he knows we’re good people, but will still milk the divorce to pad his tab.
To be continued...
To be continued...
