It was late, later than I had planned on it being. It got that way with this case, just no way around the fact that I had no evidence, and that my client wouldn't even really try to exonerate himself; when she walked in.

Tall and sleek, with that short bobbed curl they were all wearing nowadays, breaking with the tradional cold, tight bun, their mothers still enjoyed. She was wearing channel number 5.  She smelled like passion and trouble, and her smile said no different.

"Mr James Louis?" she asked her big brown eyes earnest and expectant. I leaned back in my chair trying not to smirck.

"Who's asking?"

"I'm Bella Ross, with the Balitmore Sun." she said coolly, though her cheeks got pink. She knew enough not to break eye contact, but she was lying through her pearly teeth.

"MM-hmmm," my chair creaked as I leaned furthur back, hands behind my head.

She sat down uninvited, and tried to recover herself. "I'm interested in the Blair King case, with the murdered detective."

"That's the big one."

"I was wondering if it would be at all possible for me to speak with your client, or just to get your opinion." She was breathing a little quick now, and her pen, poised over the little note bad, was shaking. "Do you think it was the mob trying to frame a defectee, or is Blair King still in with the Manzini family."

WHOA! The girl knew more than I gave her credit for. But with her pretty figure I bet the boys down at the station were more than willing to chat her up for a while. I thought about the guys in blue down there talking with this pretty snip of a gal and tried not to laugh.

It occured to me again thought, if she wasn't with the Sun, who was she with? No one that young or pretty was a staff reporter, without sleeping with the boss. And she didn't have that slink to her walk yet, she had morals, she was clean....she was earnest and excited. She was trouble with a capital T.

"Ms. Ross, I'm gonna ask you what I ask everyone who walks through my door." I said easily. "I'm going to ask you to tell the truth, before we we start any sort of relationship."

"The-the truth?"

"the long and the short of it if you please."

 

A man stands on trial for murder, he has a temper and a histoy with bar room brawls. The body has been cold in the grave for less than six months, and the supposed killer could face life in the slammer.

The only defense is an alibi that can only be verifiied by the beloved fiancee who tends to break down on the stand, and a reciept for a chocolate bar timed ninety  minutes before the murder.

I am the denfense attorney, the man assigned by the state to give this guy a fair shot. And in my professional opinion we're fucked.

I've nothing to go on, appereantly there are mob ties involved here that my esteemed and throughly non-communicative client is hesitant to reveal. He feels that his life and the life of his blonde bomb shell are in jeopardy. In a nut shell he's claiming he was framed.

I can't say I like defending the guilty, but I've done so on more than one occasion. It's a pay check.

But it's more than that too, ya see I believe in the law. I believe that guilty men, whether I defend them or not are sent to a place where they can't get out. I know jurys aren't unbiased and that judges are sometimes bought. I know too, that innocent men can be condemned and punished for crimes they've never even imagined in their quiet lives. Those days it's hard to believe in Lady Justice.

But if history has taught me anything, it that she's one hell of a braod. Blind as a peeping Tom and a little more crafty, Justice has a way of getting to the bottom of things, and making the right man pay.  If it's in a back alley vigilanty shooting, an accidental stabbing in a bar, guilty men don't walk long.

But that's the thing; my client isn't guilty and I've no case to make him free. It's hopel;ess, he won't talk, his girlfriend can only seem to incriminate him, and there's nothing else to verify his testimony...other than his police records, and semi-frequent jail stays...

Come on Justice where are you today?

She sat behind the counter talking sweetly to the costumer. He was older, with a white beard and genial disposition. He was asking her about her unique name, and what she was doing in such a place, and why she was so employed. In short he was a flirt.

The girl recognized it, and played along, he was at least funny, and interested in what she had to say. They parted when the transaction was over, and she smiled to the next man in line. "How are you doing today Sir?"

He glared at her, and said in a murderous tone "I was two seconds from walking out the door, and never to come the fuck back! What kind of inefficient shit hole is this, with only one teller?"

The blood drained from her face, the happy energy the previous man had left her was swept away in a single moment. And she, the young woman, was left feeling deeply chastied and empty.  She apologized meekly, and he ripped back with "Yeah right, you look so apologetic."

Maybe apologetic involoved knee groveling where he came from, but the young woman only fell into herself more. She didn't throw him the pitch about this new fangled contraption, she jumped over the part where she asked for his zip code and handed him the reciept, and apologized a third time.

Ten minutes later the young woman was hauled into the office and reprimanded for not throwing the pitch she was instructed to, and for not asking for the man's zip code...she was actually written up for this...No light wrist slap, a full fledged write up that was sent to the higher ups, and their higher ups.

At this point she bit her lip, and trudged back out into the waiting jaws of the capitalist machine...To be verbally abused, emotionally scarred, and made to acquiese to the ignorant.

Her shift was finally over, and all she had yet to do was, clean...but the line had never died down, and the cleaing list that one normally finsihed over several hours, lazily doing whatever, with fellow workers was now her responsibility alone...The enitre list that included vaccuming, and dusting and garbage bins, and stocking took her the next hour and ten minutes...she skipped the shitty dusting stuff...

By the end of the worst day ever, she went into her car, pulled out her double barrelled sawed off shot gun, and began blowing holes in the building, no one was there to be hurt however since she was the last one to leave the store...her frustrated homicidal outburst was wasted on concrete and pavement. Her useless tears were spent on the windshield of her fucking frosted over car...

 

Thank you working world, for showing this young woman exactly why she intends to be a reclusive writer in a foriegn country!

Sitting on the egde of the bed, he wondered whether or not he should lift the covers and crawl in.  She hadn't forbidden him from the bedroom, nor the house, but the equilibrium had not been restored.  He had stormed out not wanting his emotions to over run his rational mind.

She on the other hand, had yelled and screamed and said exactly what came to her mind. She was a red a head and had an Irish temper to match.  No bowls had been broken, but her cheeks had been aflame, and he would have put money on the fact that she had slammed the door after he left.

She hated his rock hard control, felt as though he was lording that control over her. He was the benevolent husband merely tolerant of her passionate outbursts, never deinging to come down to a screaming match.

So when things got wild he left...and she slammed the door behind him. It didn't matter now, as he sat at the edge of the bed, what the fight had been about...but somehow when the kissing and the making up part didn't happen...one didn't know where one stood.

He hadn't so muched as moved when she murmured, "If you don't get under the covers soon, you'll start shivering."

He gave a breathy laugh, "oh yeah?"

"Yeah I turned the heat down to save money."

"Or is it an elborate scheme to seduce me?"

"Maybe," she whispered

"Still mad?" he asked climbing under the covers, almost touching her.

She slid her hands along his chest. "No, I wish you hadn't stormed out though...you're always so damn calm."

"Storming out is calm?"

"Look who you're married to."

"Right."

She stood in front of the tie rack staring at the artfully designed display. She couldn't decide whether or not to ruin the whole thing by removing the only purple tie on the shelf. She wanted it for the man in her life, but it seemed like artistic sabotage to willfully ruin the display in front of her.

Several sales clerks had walked by slowly asking if she needed any help, and she had graciously declined. She knew what she wanted, she just didn't know how to get it without feeling like an insensitive prick. She sighed. Did the tie need to be purple? She asked herself for the thirty-second time, coming again to the invariable decsion that yes it did.

Purple stood out, purple proclaimed one's individuality and confiedence. It bespoke volumes to a would be employer, and she wanted him to have it for his big review at the hospital.

He had nice ties, but none were special, none were more than nice. She wanted something subtly dazzling, that would make the subconscious of the viewer dance with delgiht. It was this very tie in front of her. But the display! Her heart cried.

The nice sales clerk came back, "Need anything?" he asked.

"How about your opinion..."

"On?"

"Life."

"Excuse me?" he asked his overly helpful smile wavering.

"I can either take this tie," she pointed, "Buy it for my husband, he'll get the job he wants, become a big wig at the hospital performing small mircales every day and in every way, becoming the idol of all pretty nurses everywhere. And I'll ruin this lovely display. Or I could go for this royal blue tie, it's nice, but un-unique and sub-special. He'll be rated therefore on his good qualities, but won't stand out in the crowd, may not get his promotion and still perform minor mircales but not save the world."

"Or be the god of every pretty nurse's idoltry?"

She looked at him like a deer caught in the head lights. "I'll tell you this Ma'am we've another purple tie in the back, you need not worry about the display."

"That's a help." she sighed thanking him.

"What's his favorite color?"

"Blue."

"And yours?"

"Purple."

"Can I ask you how you met?"

She looked at him quzically. "Psych major." he told her shrugging. "It's just a simple question."

"It was a car accident." She told him a little smile tugging on her lips. "I'm not the world's best driver, you see, and I become easily distracted when songs come on the radio, it was raining...Fleetwood Mac came on and next thing I knew I had re-ended this car." she laughed, "We pulled off to the side, he wasn't mad or anything, in fact he was asking me if I was ok...so like him...I gave him my information really shaken you know? And a few days later he called, 'hey it's that jerk in the road who stops for no reason.' And that was it."

"Are you a lot a like?"

"Not even a tiny bit..." she laughed.

"How long have you been together?"

"It's been eight years since the accident... five years since the wedding."

"Any major bumps?" He asked delicately. She smiled tolerantly.

"First thing marriage taught me was you can't quit. It's this contract that you've signed and committed to for the next fitfy years...barring abuse or infedility...I changed he changed, but when we took divorce off the table it didn't much matter who we became because ultimatly it was still the ditz in the car, and the responsible victim...."

"And you're worried about nurses?"

"No," she sighed, "He's not the cheating kind, he doesn't even notice when people are hitting on him...I just am removed so much from his life at the hospital...I'm not savoy to math or science, best I can do is remember names for Christmas parties..."

"And if he get's the promotion?"

"More late nights, more cold dinners, forgotten birthdays....He doesn't mean to make me secondary, it just sort of happens when you're saving lives..." She smiled, "I don't mind, some of his fan mail is addressed to me..."

"When you were first dating, what did you plan for yourself...?"

"A high school history teacher."

"Really?" he asked bewildered. "What did you think singer? Writer? Crazy Lady?" She nodded, "Everyone does."

"Why that major then?"

"I originally wanted to be a writer, but it was deemed impractical by everyone except the good doctor I married, and then I accidentally got pregnant and couldn't really keep going to school and working at the same time."

"How many kids do you have?"

"147 this year." She told him not skipping a beat. He smiled, and was about to tell her what he really meant when she put her hand up, "I know what you meant...I was accidentally pregnant, went into early labor...way early labor...too early...a little girl, didn't survive the night."

He wanted to tell her he was sorry, wanted to express his grief over the baby, and suddenly he wished he hadn't started the conversation. Too late now.

"A rough point in your marriage?"

She looked at him over the memories of grief, over the fights that ended with phrases like 'your fault'. She stared at this young psych major who didn't know what hope could do, who didn't know what the death of that hope could do...He didn't know what it was to live with someone and feel surrounded by no one, he didn't recognize the feelings of loss and seperation that accompanies an accident. he didn't know the shame of wanting to unsay words that built stone walls in homes, he didn't know what it took to tear those walls down...And he didn't know that when the rubble was cleared, that you had to start all over again, as though you had only just met.

She smiled at the young man, "You think purple?"

"Yeah I do."

"Me too."

 

She got home that night, and went into the living room expecting to see the t.v. on and her sleeping husband, too tired from work to even say 'hello'.  Instead she found a single pink daisy on the kitchen counter, she picked it up and smiled. "Hon?" she called. He slipped his arms around her.

"I came home early to see you..." he whispered in her ear. "But you were out."

"I was buying you a new tie." She told him wrapping her arms around the ones that held her. "It's purple."

"Your favorite," he laughed.

"Yeah and you love it for that reason."

"I can neither confirm nor deny that alleged accusation." He began kissing her neck.

"And to think of the career you could've had in politics."

"I think I make a good doctor."

She turned to face him, her eyes full of everything that lay between them, her lips near quivering with the mountains of words she wished to say. She managed a truthful, "Yes you are," before she kissed the breath from his body.

"Good day, then?"

"I've got you don't I?"

"Only always."

 

A man sat on a park bench contemplating the nature of life. He had been sitting for the better part of the afternoon, letting his thoughts meander in any and all directions. The city walked by him, and the sky began to turn into the colors of evening. He knew that soon his cell would invariably ring, and that his wife would remind him to pick up the milk (skim if you don't mind dear).

He was not opposed to this domestic picture; he had crafted it himself. Working for years, and painstakingly choosing colors like beige, and pale blue ties. It was not unpleasent, he in fact did seem to enjoy the 'simple pleasures' that suburbia afforded. He liked to mow his little lawn, and he liked to grill burgers for inquisitve if not annoying neighbors. He had a lovely wife he loved, and was equally loved by her. They had a healthy brood, thriving children, all helplessly spoiled, but not in the bratty way.

Then why, why was he sitting alone on a park bench? Good question. He was turning forty, and he wanted a motorcycle, he wanted to dye his greying hair, and above all he wanted to grab his guitar out of storage in the basement and play. He wasn't sure if his fingers remembered the cords, but his heart did. That old red guitar he had saved for, with the amp he had inherited from his brother. That out of key ticket to chicks and fame, languished in the basement of his house.

His wife, as he remebered, had been awful keen on that same guitar, had even learned to strum a few Carol King songs. But they would eventually become distracted by other things than correct notes....

Two degrees, two careers, one marriage, one mortage, and fours kids later, here he was. He wore a suit, was part of the larger functioning society, he was the man, God what a joke that was.  All those years opposing government oppression, and being SOOO fulll of conviction and feeling so outraged at the system. And now here was in a three piece, with a pale blue tie. He wanted to laugh.

His cell rang, he looked down from the coming sun set, it was the woman in his life.

"Honey don't forget the milk..."

"Covered," he told her with a smile, "Know what today is?"

"Tuesday?"

"Besides that."

"The 23rd?"

"Yeah, the 23rd of April, know why that's special?"

"Nope."

"It's the day I got my guitar."

"What guitar?" and then she laughed, "That old piece of crap red whatever you had all through college? Oh jeeze you loved that thing."

"My first guitar." He said with a sigh.

"Hon you've only had one guitar."

"Not any more."

"Is this because you just turned 40?" she asked quietly hoping that this was not the begining of the spiral that would end with a twiggy blonde bombshell.

"No, I want to play my guitar, and woo my woman in true style,"

"Did you buy an amp?"

"I love you too."

So there I was sitting quietly minding my own buisness when as ASS sitting behind me starts to snigger. I pay no attention, focus on the reading I've been given and continue in my way to make a dent in my homework. He taps my shoulder.

"Is it true?" he asks with teeth bleached snow.

"Is what true?" I asked more than annoyed, as his scent of bod or whatever wafted my way (seriously he is the poster child of how to market to teens).

"Are you dating the president of the chess club?" he begins to laugh like a jack ass as my face turns red. "You are!" he proclaimed, thinking I was embarressed.

"Yeah," I said agreeing, "I am."

He choked on his adam's apple and turned back to me, "Why would you date him? His levels below you."

"You don't know me." I retorted.

"You at least know what sex is," he proclaimed, His voice lowered and suddenly I felt as though his eyes had stripped me of my clothes, "At least you look like you do."

Right here is where in my head I hit him in the face, and watch him squeal in agony. Right at this moment is where I kick him til it hurts and tell him that 'Hell yeah am I dating that dorky chess club guy, who treats me like gold, and tells me I'm beautiful and holds the damn door open, and just loves to hold me! Hell yeah I'm dating a guy that treats me like I have worth, have more to offer than my body! Hell yeah I'm dating that kid you're laughing at because you know what Ass hole? He's a better person than you can ever dreaming of being.'

Alas dear readers I am not that quick, he got the last seeming laugh, and I stood up as the bell rang and walked out the door seething.

Granted I am more experienced (thanks to you know who (laughs)), and granted he is a dork.. but he's levels above me when it comes to Chemistry and Star Wars trivia. I was leagues behind Aaron in a lot of respects, (and in a lot of ways he was inexperienced). Levels are lame ways of judging someone, and just because I flaunt my physcial attributes doesn't mean I don't have emotional or metal ones... Moral of the story...leave me and my personal life the f*** alone if you don't know me.

It happens sometimes that you misjudge people, not in a bad way, but you peg them for other than they are, and then you never bother to get to know them...It happens like that sometimes, and we forget that others peg us, as we do them.

I was walking away from the library on Friday, moving to my next class, when a very nice guy stopped to say hello. He's nice, and when I say nice, that's all I have to say. My opinion wasn't ever bad, in fact I liked him as a person, but he wasn't exactly exciting. You don't date oatmeal.

So we chatted, and it came to our mutual attention that we both intended to go to the musical by ourselves. I remedied this quickly by inviting him to go with me to the matinee. He agreed and I thought nothing more...you don't think about oatmeal like that.

Saturday night he called to make sure I was still going, and then this seventeen year old guy said (and I quote) "Is it too much to presume to ask you for ice cream after the show?"
My jaw hit the floor. I like words, I like English especially, but no one had ever gone so gallant over the phone with me. I was floored, and very impressed. I admit that I laughed afterwards, and after laughing was frightened.

I was obviously more expierenced than this particular president of the chess club, and vice president of the philosphy club. (Though not as expierenced as some) I have a personality that begs to be challenged, it's firey and it's obnoxious, and gets me into trouble when I say things I shouldn't...Oatmeal doesn't say things it shouldn't. I was suddenly frightened that this boy was attracted to my passionate ways, because he seemed to lack that luster, and then I thought that he would be burned by my very person. And that was not a good thought.

So I worried, got dressed, and did my best to dress in a way that not so loudly me. I figured if I were to make him understand me, give him a crash course let's say, I might as well not try to send him into a coma.

So I get to the play, and he's already bought my ticket, I graciously thank him and ask him how much I owe him, he refuses to tell me, I get irked (i am after all a modern woman) and awkward conversation insues. The show was excellent, and a pleasure to watch. Afterwards we went down to mingle with his friends and congragulate them on a job well done.

He knew everyone, and everyone was so happy to see him...and so utterly surprised to see me. It was strange to know no-one and yet know that everyone knew who I was with, and vaguely knew me. he was kind, introduced me formaly to those I did not know, and then we left for ice cream.

Two and a half hours later we were still talking.

He likes Star Trek, he owns McGavier, and he loves to read. He plays piano, and listens to good music, he loves his parents, and his younger sisters. He wants to be a doctor. He takes six APs!! He was funny, and charming, and nervous, and completely unexpected. He likes capture flag and Risk, wherein some of my very best memories lie. he doesn't like organized religion, he wants to learn to fence...and after all this I said very clearly.
"You are so different than I expected..."
"Is that bad?"
"You're so much better," I told him honestly, truly delighting in this found person. 

We talked about personalities at one point, because I wanted to make sure that he knew what I was, and that he wouldn't be surprised if he saw me lose my temper, "I keep to the middle of the road," he said, "Pretty even keel, no really low lows, and not very high highs...I'm never more than mildly surprised."
"I'm not like that at all," I told him. " My lows can knock my on my ass (and have) and my highs can make me ecstatic..." I thought for a moment. "So I keep an even keel too, just never at the same moment..." He thought that was funny.

Near the end of this utterly out of the blue date type situation, I asked him three questions; "What is your favorite flavor of ice cream? What is your greatest fear? And what is your favorite color?"
"Chocolate and strawberry, being out of control of situation...where my life is no longer in my hands, and blue..." he looked at me expectantly.
"Chocolate, don't care what's in it as long as chocolate is the base, I fear being annoyomous," I said and he didn't laugh...He merely smiled and said that I could never be annoyomous even if I tried...

I would like the world to know that nice can be so much more than you expect, it can be dazzling and hilarious, and interped, and creative, and sweet. It's rare I'm happy to be wrong, but I've never been happier to be so completely away from right...

I’m a white, Christian, American woman. I’ve never been held back from anything, I’ve never been subjugated, or repressed. Never lead to believe the words ‘could not’ applied to me. As a modern woman, in these troubled modern times, I felt it my duty to learn and experience the religion that seemed to be at the crux of the media. I was lucky enough to have friends who practiced Islam.

They told me to enter through the delegated door for women, and I tried not to let my surprise show. I knew I was ignorant, and I guess on a base level I knew of the separation of the sexes in this religion. But as a spectator, somehow these ancient laws should not have applied to me. After that all my bets were off. I dressed in long skin covering clothes, somber colors, and my mother’s black hat she wore for funerals. I felt good leaving my home, thinking yeah I can do this, I can play this part. I had a rude awakening.

I got to the Mosque and had an immediate problem; which door was for the women? The friends who had invited me, were unable to be there due to appendicitis. I had two options; stay or run. I stayed twenty minutes and then ran to my car. But those twenty minutes changed my life.

I first approached two women who were speaking in Arabic. I had an ignorant fear that when I would ask for my friend they’d unable to understand me. They of course knew English quite well, and told me very nicely that my friends had not yet arrived, but that I could wait inside for them. They directed me to the door for women, and told me to stay to the right.

Upon my entry I was assaulted by two sweet and inviting girls. One wearing a pink hajiab and a Mickey Mouse shirt. They asked me what I was doing there, instructed me to take off my shoes, and that I could wait for my friends with them. They began, in their sweet voices, to recite the Koran in Arabic. It was beautiful to watch these up and coming young woman participate in their culture. But the feminist in me was slightly upset.

It would only become more so, for unbeknownst to me, I had stepped from the 21^st century into the 3^rd. After awhile of listening to the young girls, some older ones stepped in and ushered me upstairs to the library. I glimpsed the prayer room, and saw that the women were in back in two rows (there was only room for two rows), separated by a glass wall from the men.

It’s was the holiest month in their religion, and the bearers of life could not actively partake in it. They were cloistered in the back, in different rooms, and away from the men. Inside I was screaming. But the girls I was with merely laughed and joked with one another, they did homework in the back room, teasing each other about chores, and prayers. The life they were leading was not all they knew. They lived America, in fact several had been born here. They knew what American, white, Christian girls got, what society allowed them...but they were content it seemed.

And their contentment was catching. I sat in the room with them, as the prayers were said outside in a language I did not know. I watched these modern, ancient women, and somehow I was out of place and wrong. My clothes were not correct, my skin was not dark enough, and my silly attempt to cover head was met with tolerant smiles. I had showed respect for their customs, and my reward was quiet, and moderate inclusion. I was the anomaly.

I walked out some minutes later, the sounds of Arabic prayer following behind. The language is truly glorious, poetic even. I walked to my car, sat in the seat and wondered. I wondered for a moment what my life would have been had I been born somewhere else, with a different creed. I started engine, and thought no, after all this freedom, all this equality, all these promises of greatness...I would not be content in the back.

It accord to me, that just moments before I had felt out place wanting those things...I soothed myself with the idea that I was a modern woman, seeking answers to the global questions posed. And as modern woman, from a modern world, I found only more questions lurking behind the doors.

"I thought you were on a diet," he said nonchalantly. She barely spared the time to grace him with a glare, too intent was she on the chocolate ice cream.

"When you have a uterus come talk to me." She told him between spoonfuls.

"Must you always be so graphic?" The silence that answered him spoke for itself. The young amn sighed and sat down across from his roommate. "What's wrong?"

She brushed her blonde hair from her face and regarded the man before her. "If I were to tell you that I had just survived the worst day ever, what would you say?"

"Did J.C. Penny's close forever?"

"Very funny, but your sarcasm can do nothing but agitate my wounds." The roomie shook his head, pursued his lips and tried again.

"Want to tell me about it?"

The young woman put the spoon in the cartoon and shut the lid, debating a moment whether or not to leave it out for easy access later. Her friend took away the temptation and placeed the half empty container in the freezer.

"It's October," she began trying not to sound dramatic. Suddenly her friend's face fell, and he swallowed heavily.

"Oh babe," he tried, realizing his callousness was in worse taste than usual.

"it's ok," She told him sadly, "You forgot."

"How many years now?"

"Is that a fair question?"

"Why do you hate your birthday?"

"It's not that I hate it, it's just that I feel obligated to now go forth and cure cancer, or do something worth while, you know?"

"Writing cheesy romantic fiction that makes old ladies horny is a service to mankind." He told her in all seriousness. "No one knows what you really do for them, and their sexually frustrated grandmothers."

"You are sick."

"Who else reads soft porn that you can buy at the groccery store?"

"I'll have you know that 22-29 year olds are my second highest selling demographic."

"You mean the pregnant mothers?"

"Why do you hate me?" she whined, letting her head hit the counter.

"Listen babe, it's me, your best friend. It's ok that write smut, it's even ok that tomorrow you are another year older...you're going to live to 90 anyway..." he could see that his words were having little effect on her. He placed his head in his hands.
"I'll get the ice cream out, if you go put in Dirty Dancing." He said. Her face lite up.

"Nobody puts baby in a corner!" he quoted for her, as she ran to place the beloved dvd in the player.

"I love me some Patrick Swayze." she laughed, "And I love me some chocolate."