Effluvium for All Good Men

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1.  The Citizen-Commuter Memorial Bridge

Beneath this Modern Bridge Span, America's Earliest Mass Transportation Tragedy took the lives of Seventeen Citizen-Commuters of the City of Cleveland who Perished when a Lift Bridge at this spot Malfunctioned on November 16, 1895.  May their Loss be Remembered, and may this Gateway stand as a Memorial to the Life Blood of All American Cities: People.

Tempest Sketch [circa 2002]

Prospero opens his heart to the world. To spite infection, he has sanitized his theater through both chemical and alchemical means. A massive looking glass is suspended above him as he sits in a simple but comfortable chair. Gazing up at his own reflection, he sees the flesh of his chest pulled back in four diagonal folds. He is focused, but allows his mind to faintly absorb and pass thoughts like lemon water. These diagonals. Since my head points northward, these four compass points of skin correspond to the eighth-corners of my map: northeast, northwest, southeast, southwest. Within the red-sauced diamond of his chest, he sees the ribs temporarily weakened with one of his ingenious salves and bent upwards toward the looking glass. This bone cage within me looks now like one of Caliban's uncooked lamb dinners. Within the two semi-circles of jutting bone, he regards his lungs, still ballooning with everybreath air. The lungs are parted like curtains. Act One, he jokes.

He is now a witness to his own unfathomable life mystery. Am I the first? Are there others with such time on their hands and such tools at their disposal that have crossed this threshold before me? His peering scrutiny moves from the reflection of his sinewy, clenched musculature, painted blue and red with a web of wedded veins and arteries, to the reflection of his own eyes, now dilated from the herbs that will inhibit pain for the duration of his need. Does hubris motivate me? Is it my own inflated self-worth that has put me here? He stares deep into the twin wells of his own eyes, looking for a clue.

"Narcissistic horseshit," he whispers aloud. I am driven by forces beyond myself, external to myself, forces that conspire to lift up the world, and shake off the loose dirt. I am a conduit of these forces, but they are my master as much as I am theirs. Conduits? He glances at the light sources placed around the chair, the light waves travelling up into the looking glass and bouncing back down into the cavity of his chest. He thinks of the blinding filaments within these globes, and the thin copper wires that connect them, and then, of the tubing that connects his laboratory to the music room. Ariel and Caliban are there in the music room now, out of sight and unable to disrupt him, playing the instruments and compositions he has created for them; Ariel's watery strings and woodwinds accompanied by Caliban's restrained percussions. Their music serves the two-fold purpose of aiding his concentration and breathing while informing him of the often troublesome whereabouts of his muse and slave.

Their song sounds something like this.

Ode to Samuel Rosenberg

Fools may find this course unwise,

but Naked is the Best Disguise.

Dolts may shun the author's prize,

but Naked is the Best Disguise.

Conan's toil mists Christie's eyes,

but Naked is the Best Disguise.

Poe's cryptology makes Joyce surmise

that Naked is the Best Disguise.

The Toynbee Conundrum

"The Toynbee Conundrum is not a work of fiction," began Bloomsday at the podium. "It is, however, a factual account that includes multiple works of fiction. Let's begin with facts. Arnold J. Toynbee was born of British aristocracy before the turn of the century. His grandfather was a renowned otorhinolaryngologist (ear/nose/throat doctor) whose death in 1866 is attributed to a mishap during an experiment with chloroform. His granddaughter is currently a prominent journalist and advisor to Britain's Labour Party."

"Toynbee, himself, rose to prominence as a historian. I will do no justice to his dozens of volumes of world history, since I haven't read them. But I do know that his views on the ebb and flow of civilizations, and on the methods of decline and ascent of cultures, set him apart. He talked about how the Sumerians invented irrigation to save themselves from extinction. He talked about the ideas of Christianity and communism and how such ideas transformed the social landscape of the globe. He also believed that Buddhism would someday transform Western Civilization in unprecedented ways. He was, to my mind, a chronicler of paradigm shifts, which makes him something of a paradigm shifter, himself. But that's an opinion, and I'd like to stick to facts for now. Toynbee died in 1975."

"Ray Bradbury is a renowned writer of science fiction and fantasy. Fahrenheit 451 and Something Wicked This Way Comes come to mind. Bradbury immortalized the name, Toynbee, in a short story called The Toynbee Convector. The time travel story was first published in Playboy magazine in 1984, and involves a scientist who misleads people about the world he has visited in the future. His lies about the future motivate and inspire the people of the present to create a future that never existed. When the future finally arrives, it is not the one he visited, but the one he had lied about, created out of the hope from the past."

"Stanley Kubrick directed many complex films, but none as grand in scope as 2001: A Space Odyssey. The 1969 film was a collaboration between Kubrick and sci-fi writer Arthur C. Clarke and posits an alien lifeform that gives pre-humans the gift of sentience, then waits until an evolved humanity develops the technology to travel off the planet. The story's crescendo occurs near Jupiter where the sole survivor on a malfunctioning space station confronts a mysterious monolith that has awaited human arrival for eons. The story contains no obvious references to Toynbee or his writings."

"In 1983, playwright and screenwriter David Mamet published a short play that mentioned Toynbee in a peculiar way. The play, entitled 4:00 a.m., takes place on a late night call-in radio talk show not unlike the halcyon days of Larry King. In the play, a caller encourages the world to support "the theories of Toynbee" as presented in Kubrick's film, then reveals those theories to involve resurrecting all the past dead of Earth on the planet Jupiter. The show's host tries to correct the insistent caller, pointing out that neither 2001: A Space Odyssey nor it's source material, Clarke's The Sentinel, had anything to do with such theories, then points out the practical difficulties of such a mass ressurection."

"Here's another fact: starting in the mid - 1980s, messages have been carved into linoleum tiles and placed in the roads of many American cities referring to this apparently erroneous Toynbee/Kubrick connection. These are collectively known as Toynbee tiles.

"This one, for example at the corner of W. 3rd and Prospect, here in Cleveland." The large screen behind Bloomsday lights up with colorful message. "And another one, on the other side of downtown, at East 12 and Euclid." The screen fills with photo of a second tile, its message partially obscured by tar, but common with the first in its reference to Toynbee and Kubrick and resurrecting the dead on Jupiter. Over a hundred have been found, mostly East of the Mississippi, many seem the work of a common hand, though others appear to be copycat tiles. Freelance investigators have narrowed down suspects, yet tiles continue to appear even though some suspects have died."

"So those are the facts. And what are we to make of these facts? Anyone have a suggestion?" Bloomsday inquires of his puzzled audience.

The Ghosts Among Us

Four Men in a Cub

by Roger, Over and Out, Hurley (1936-1995)

T'was on a Black Friday

The Thirteenth of May

Four Stouthearted Fishermen

Went up, up and away.

Their last name was Hurley

I've forgotten their first.

They'd another thing in common:

An unquenchable thirst

For whiskey and gin

And for beer on the wing,

For adventure, excitement

And for one great big fling.

They took off from a cornfield

All carefree and gay

And flew 'cross Lake Erie

Northeast t'ward Tate's Bay.

Both their engines were humming

As they drifted along.

They cooly played euchre

since nothing was wrong.

Then all of a sudden

Three knocks did they hear

On the side of the fuselage

Which caused them to fear.

They youngest among them spoke,

Ed was his name.

"What the hell was that?"

He was heard to exclaim.

Then came three more knocks

From the opposite wing

And the Hurley named Fred said,

"Let's get out of this thing!"

But the eldest among them

Was no longer afraid

He sat there and smiled

While the other three prayed.

Old Bill was his name

And he finally spoke out.

He said, "Boys, don't you know

What those knocks are about?"

"From the left side knocked Steve

and old Al from the right.

They're letting us know

That they're guiding our flight."

So they all had a swig

From a bottle of gin

And the plane flew itself

And took itself in.

They all landed safely

And caught lots of fish

And they had good times

Beyond their fondest wish.

But they never forgot

While having their fling

That they might not have made it

Without help on each wing.

I'm lathering my crucifixion in the shower on the 33rd floor of the Minneapolis Hilton when I hear my beloved Molly enter the bathroom to prep at the sink.

"I'm kinda surprised they don't have a toothbrush holder here," says Molly.

"The world is your toothbrush holder, love," I say through the shower curtain.

We are here in this broad, beautiful twin city on the west bank of the Mississippi for the latest in a series of ceremonies designed to send Molly's college maidens into the world betrothed. We were the first, nearly five years ago. Since then, I've watched, teary-eyed and avuncular, as each walked past. I've known and loved them all since their teens. Now they've all hit thirty. It is a continual joy and privilege to watch their lives unfold like this, like...magnolias.

Molly rips open the plastic curtain with slasher speed, wielding her toothbrush. "Are you mocking me?"

"No, love, no!" I say, startled out of my nostalgia, suddenly afraid she might brush me with tiny, circular, scrubby motions. "I remember our vows clearly: to love and to honor, to have toothbrushes and to hold toothbrushes, in hangover and in health, all the days of our lives, until death do us part and then all bets are off, love."

I am standing at the podium in the center of a crowded courtroom, engaged in improvisational moral theater when my cell phone goes off. I slap my pockets to find it and silence the incongruous musical strain that has captured the attention of everyone.

"Sorry, Judge. That won't happen again."

"Mr. Bloomsday," the judge looks sternly at me. "Is your ringtone Billy Squire's Everybody Wants You?"

"Yessir." I turn and wiggle my eyebrows to the gallery.

"You are a curious fellow, sir." The judge paused in reflection. "Remember that video for Rock Me Tonight, with him traipsing around a loft apartment tearing off his Flashdance sweatsuit?"

"What a feeling, your honor."

"Keep believing, Mr. Bloomsday."

The Sins of the Father

My experience with the beloved Sisters of St. Ruth began when, while jogging through their ravine access to the Cuyahoga River valley, I found a large bone less than 50 feet from a cemetery for nuns on the property. I took the muddy bone to the Convent. I told the sister who greeted me exactly where I had found it, and it didn’t seem right to leave it there, especially if a forensic expert thought it was human. She asked for my name and number, and I gave it. A few weeks later, I got a call.


FRIDAY  8:25 a.m.

“Mr. Bloomsday?”
“Yes,” I said into my cell phone in the crick of my neck, as I fumbled for my office key with a Grande Mild in one hand and a dozen criminal files in the other.
“I have an update on the bone you found. It created some excitement around here, so we asked a butcher who told us it was from a large animal, probably something thrown in the trash and taken into the woods by raccoons, he said. He said it was sawed.”
“Ah, the mystery solved,” I said.
“Yes, mystery, indeed!” She sounded like Julie Andrews. Was this nun faking a British accent? “It caused quite a stir, thinking that it was lost, somehow. The bone, I mean. It is now filed in our archives, with your name and number, and a brief explanation of how it was found and what our resources have told us.”
“Resources?” I asked.
“The butcher, I mean,” she clarified.
“Yes,” I said. “Butchers are good resources. As are plumbers. And carpenters.”
“Definitely carpenters!! Ha-ha” she laughed.
“Well, I must tell you I very much enjoy your property and I hope my running through it to get down to the jogging path in the valley is o.k. It’s been a healthy habit. And I do love cemeteries.”
“We welcome the use of our land for enjoyment of its beauty, for recreation, and for prayer. We also have composting, our vehicles run on natural gas, we do paper recycling, and we have a wind turbine powered generator coming soon.”
“Very impressive, Sister.”
“You’re a lawyer, Mr. Bloomsday?”
“Yes, but I only work for people who don’t have money to hire a real lawyer. I’m an advocate for the poor.”
“Well, we don’t have money because we take a vow of poverty.”
“Are you saying you need a lawyer, Sister? You do qualify for my services.”
“No, not I. But perhaps you could stop in during one of your jogs and talk with someone here. They have legal questions.”
“I’ll jog over after work. Who shall I ask for?”
“Ask for Sister Beatrice or Bernice.”
We hung up. I went and took a piss, gathered files from my office and headed to the loony bin.

9:45 a.m.

I’m at the Cleveland loony bin, about to talk to a dangerous mental patient. I take a dump in a clean bathroom, thanks to the kindness of a shuffling, limping hospital staffer. A black man in his sixties. Morgan Freeman in the movie.

I pace behind him as he slowly keys through door after metal door until we reach the Cuckoo’s nest. “How is Mr. Zeppinger these days?” I ask. I know that he has threatened to kill judges and doctors and cops, that he has been wrestled to the ground in court by six thick-necked bailiffs. I know that he’s as high and drunk and crazy and violent and dumb as can be.
“Aw, he O.K. He’ll be happy to see you, though,” says Mulney as he turns another key down this corridor to my client.
“Oh, he doesn’t know I’m coming,” I say.
“Yeah, but you gettin’ him outta group. He’s in group right now and he’ll be all happy as a sissy in Boy’s Town to get a visitor during group.”
“Francis Assisi?”
“Huh?”
“Nevermind.”
We arrive at the end of the corridor in a wide ward with chairs around televisions and chalkboards. “Zeppinger! Got a visitor!” A man with his head down on his folded arms on the table looks up at Mulney. “Zeppinger. Lawyer’s here.”
Zeppinger speaks: “HE CAN SHA-ZIZZLE MY PUH-ZIZZLE!”
“I’m Bloomsday, from the public defender’s office. I have some important legal matters to discuss with you.” He caught my eyes and I smiled. He stood up and politely walked around the remaining group members toward me and Mulney. I shook his hand hard, like he’d just won an election. Mulney slowly, almost processional in his limp Kevin Spacey way, led us to a “media room,” stuffed with televisions on push carts, two computer terminals, DVD and stereo players, and even a digital camera on a tri-pod. We sat at ends of a small wooden table in the center of all this technology. Mulney left and locked us in.
“Good morning, Mr. Zeppinger. My name is Ulysses Bloomsday. I am the attorney assigned to defend those who cannot afford to hire counsel. I have now been appointed to your case. I want to, first, so that we are on the same page, explain where your case is at. You are at an unusual point in the context of criminal proceedings, and you may want to take advantage of that. You were arrested and charged with assault and aggravated disorderly conduct, each charge a misdemeanor of the first degree, punishable up to six months in jail and a thousand dollar fine. Do you remember getting arrested?”
“Yeah, that was all bullshit, though. I talked back. I talked back and they pushed me around and arrested me. I ain’t do shit.”
“I have no reason to doubt you. I know cops can be assholes, even liars. But you are no stranger to aggressive behavior. Didn’t you threaten to kill the judge the last time you were in court?”
“Yeah, but that lady rub me the wrong way. She like an evil voodoo priestess.”
“O.K., that comment brings me to my next point. The judge ordered you be held to determine your competence to stand trial. Do you remember talking to a doctor about that?”
“Yeah.”
“And then, the doctor decided that you were not competent, but that they would try to restore you to competence here, at the Cleveland Behavioral Center. But then you threatened to kill the doctors and even pushed one up against a wall here. So the doctors now say that you are incompetent, non-restorable. They say you will never be competent enough to stand trial. That means they can’t prosecute you. The criminal charges will be dismissed and the county probate system will handle the matter. The law requires you reside in the least restrictive setting, which, given your past behavior, means Western Reserve Mental Hospital, where you’ll undergo 90-day reviews to determine when they cut you loose.
“You know, your momma’s out there, writing letters to the judge, begging her to get you help. You’re momma thinks you gonna get killed in here. She thinks this hospital is filled with crazy violent people who may threaten your safety.”
Zeppinger rolls his eyes. “My momma. She don’t understand shit. So you sayin’ I don’t ever have to see the voodoo priestess again?”
“Yes.”
“You sayin’ I’m going to Western Reserve instead of city jail?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I just got moved from coach to first class. Thank you, Mr. Bloomsday.”
“My pleasure, but I hardly did anything. I’m just the messenger.”
“Don’t kill the messenger?” Zeppinger smiles.
“Correct. Do not, under any circumstances, kill the messenger.” I stand and shake his hand. “Any questions?”
He looks at the Styrofoam cup in my hand. “Can I have the rest of your coffee?”

10:45 a.m.

I leave the loony bin with time to spare before my 11:30 conference with The Birdlady of Archwood Avenue, so I decide to head to Tremont for a fresh cup of coffee. The Onion domes of St. Theodosius loom, sun soaked green, above the gallery/café, Kitchen Synchronicity. The wooden screen door cracks closed behind me as I enter.
“Mr. Bloomsday, medium-medium?”
“Yes, thank you, Sadie.” Sadie opens the place at 6:30 a.m., and cashes out at 2:30 p.m., a dentist’s favorite time.
“I was wondering if you were coming in this morning. You’re usually here much earlier.”
“Yes, well, I had a field interview or two scheduled today.”
“Ah, yes. I understand.” Her joyous almond eyes reflect the light from the under lit pastries. “I wanted to ask you a legal question about my dog.” She hands me my coffee and I take the first sip.
“Woof,” I say.

3:45 p.m.

I ring the buzzer of the 19th century Victorian mansion across the alley from the church. A pleasant female voice allows me in. I cross the threshold. “I’m here to see Tim?” I ask.
“Oh, one moment.” The sister turns and murmurs into an intercom, “Father Tim, you have a visitor.” A pause. “He’ll be with you in a moment.”
I gravitate to the veranda. “I’ll be outside, admiring the veranda, if you don’t mind.”
She looks at me in my Atticus suspenders, slightly puzzled. “O.K.”
The door closes behind me and I am on a wide, deep corridor that wraps around the outside of the house. Across the street is Lincoln Park, a civil war encampment turned urban oasis with chess tables. Bums and whores congregate for the daily lunches supplied by the church. I’m pinching the paw of a disinterested cat when Father Tim comes out. He looks more like a Manson worshipper than a priest. I hide my surprise at his dirty Michael Landon mane, his bony, leathery face, and his floods as I stick out my hand to shake his. “Ulysses Bloomsday.”
“Sister Beatrice or Bernice told me you were someone who could answer some questions I have about civil disobedience. Would you like to head to the park and talk?” I agree and we cross the street to the park and find a bench.
“Some friends of mine have this idea to protest the war and the administration. Labor Day. The air show, downtown. I’ll be talking with them about this in days to come and I hoped you could give some advice.”
“First of all, I can’t advise anyone to break the law. I can only advise you of the consequences of your decisions. What to expect. What your rights are. Possibilities and probabilities and potentialities.”
“That sounds rather mathy,” says Father Tim.
“Mathy?” I say.
“Possibilities, probabilities, potentialities: aren’t those calculus terms?”
“Oh, yes. There is a calculus to what I do. There is science in the law. But it is a heretical science, Father. Some call it alchemy.”
“Are you confessing that you are a heretic, Mr. Bloomsday?”
“I don’t have to confess, Father. I am in a state of perpetual absolution.”
“Oh, so you are a heretic.” A broad smile crossed his face.
“I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, Father.” I went on to advise the priest on the laws of civil disobedience, trespass, free speech, aggravated disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, as well as procedural matters relating to court appearances, pleas and bond. “Ultimately, whenever one of your friends winds up in court answering to a charge, I’ll know about it and I’ll be there.”
Father Tim studies me. He hesitates before asking, “Are all these stories about you true, Mr. Bloomsday? There seems to be quite a mythology about you.”
The church bells signal noon. As the dregs shuffle through the summer effluvium toward their free meals, I can’t seem to muster a response.
"Are you familiar with the concept of Sanctuary?" Father Tim asks.
"Victor Hugo, Hunchback, 'Sanctuary! Sanctuary!' Of course." I reply. "Not much legal bite to it.  Churches get raided by the FBI often enough, I suppose.  Remember the Branch Davidians?  It's a nice idea, though:  civil society grudgingly respecting the boundaries of ecclesiastical property."  
"Do you know the last time police entered a church in Cleveland to execute a search warrant or arrest warrant, Mr. Bloomsday?"
"I confess I do not."
"Never.  I know.  I've checked."  Father Tim lights a cigarette.  "It's a topic of great interest to me, since I've been on the lamb for most of my life."
"...Sounds like you're about to confess a sin of your own, father.  Perhaps you shouldn't."
"Oh, it's all very silly, really.  No one got hurt.  But perhaps you're right, Bloomsday."
"Listen, I've got someone in mind to help you with your situation. My intuition tells me that I can help you more if I don't know what you're talking about.  May I arrange a meeting?"
"I'd love to talk to someone about this."
"Done," I say, standing and shaking his hand. "As in, 'In the name of the father, the done, and the holy spirit.'"
"That sounds more like stately, plumb Buck Milligan than Bloomsday," he laughs.
For the first time in a long time, Bloomsday feels his audience has fully understood his joke.



8:30 p.m.

Love of Chair, Bloomsday remembers. That was the name of the mock soap opera on the old PBS kids show, The Electric Company.

He scans the crowd of legal elites attending the gala. A newly annointed Supreme Court Justice is here tonight as the guest speaker for the annual banquet of the Legal Aid Society of Cleveland.  Hundreds of lawyers, dignitaries, rootily-poos.  He sees no sign of his ersatz confidant, nor his arch-nemesis. "...And what about Naiomi," the mock announcer intoned in his drifting 70's memories.

He makes eye contact with a few key players, a humbled waive "hi."  His boss is engaged with his labor problems.  A politician not yet touched by scandal, but possibly worried, sits sifting through mashed potatoes. The grande dame of federal court escorts her legendary lawyer husband to the bar.

"Hey, Bloomsday!"  his fellow advocate whispers from behind.  He turns around to find Cherry Osgood, looking inebriated.  "I just saw Judge Fuckitty-Fuck picking her nose in the ladies' room."  Bloomsday happens to respect and admire Judge Fuckitty-Fuck, but knows that Cherry holds a grudge.

"I just straiffed past a prosecutors' table." Bloomsday confesses.

Us poverty advocates are lowly people, out of our element in high society.  We have an even more peculiar affect around legal high society:  the rich lawyers. They dismiss us as proletariat. I respond that they are bourgeoisie.  There is certain common ground among us.  The Constitution, for example.  The rights of all citizens.  "I ensured the rights of 37 citizens, today.  How about you?" Bloomsday thinks.

We are both architects of society, I suppose.  They clean up loose ends, ensure all parties have their ducks in a row. The fixers. The closers. "Michael Claytons, are we?"  We're all dressed like him, tonight.  At least I am.

"Status of operations?" Bloomsday asks Cherry.

"Well, no sign of The Problem, but Johnny Ipod Lawyer says he's coming."  Higbee Gaines is The Problem. He is one of their deepest friends.  Booze and pills used to be The Problem that we all talked about behind his back.  Now, he, himself is known as The Problem, personified. He is scheduled to join us at our banquet table, clean and sober after a 30 day stint in rehab.

Just then, with Jungian verve, he spots Higbee entering the ballroom.  He's fattened up a it, and looks well in the low light.  They make a bee line for each other and hug. "Do you get conjugal visits in rehab?

"Sure," says Higbee. "Daily conjugal visits with my hand."

"Hourly, probably.  With both hands.  I know if I was in rehab, I'd just gloomily masturbate all day."

"Nah. They keep you busy. Try to help you put a positive spin on things."

"Have you been keeping up with the corruption scandal?" Bloomsday asks.

"Every fucking word." he says. "Priceless."

Bloomsday has not heard this verbal crutch of Higbee's for months. It sounds different when he's sober.

"By the way," Higbee continues. "They also had a Wii wth Netflix. I watched every episode of Kolchak: The Night Stalker and Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries.  I also watched most of Dark Shadows, too."

"I'm impressed. And you weren't stoned or drunk for it? That sounds like progress. I presume you're prepared to rejoin the League of Extraordinary Lawyers, again?  Your membership dues are paid in full."

"Ready. Prepared."  This answer is a reference to an old joke about lawyers. Civil attorneys versus criminal attorneys.  Civil attorneys are always prepared for trial but are never quite ready for trial.  Criminal attorneys are always ready for trial, but never quite prepared.

"There are protocols for re-entry.  You must submit to trial by fire.  I have a case I need your help on."

"I'm in," he pledges.

I tell him about the renegade jesuit hobo sitting in sanctuary at the Convent of St. Ruth's.  I don't tell him the outlaw priest who needs assistance is clean and sober, too.

"...and what about Naiomi?" Bloomsday poses the question.


SATURDAY 7:50 p.m.

I take the family out for "Sad Bookstore Night," which includes a trip, first, to a decent, stinky-carpeted used bookstore in a strip-mall, then to a garishly named, cavernous, big box mega-budget bookmart just down the road. I'm relieved to find a few comrades milling the aisles of the former, and a vast, empty parking lot moating the latter.

My hunt for a couple of specific short stories turns up cold, but I find several Cliffordian odysseys that will prove big, red and useful. As Amonymous meanders the empty aisles of the bookmart, and I follow in classic Kubrick steadycam tradition, I notice several displays that trouble me: new trade-sized editions of dozens of L. Ron Hubbard books, with inky, sexy, retro sci-fi comic covers; vast rows of milky white Ayn Rand reprints, austere art deco lettering and all.

Amonymous settles in on a bin display of Chinese-made toys, wind-up scuba divers, rubber balls with glitter, mooing cans...He picks up an item that is shaped like a microphone or an ice cream cone and presses a conveniently placed button with his thumb. Inside the plastic globe at its top, small gears whirl into motion and tiny lights spin in glorious patterns. Amonymous gazes.

A store worker tries to look busy nearby, and gives a benign "how cute" to the tableau of my son staring mindlessly into toy. "It's a time-travel machine!" I say to Amonymous. "It sends you several seconds into the future!" He looks up at me, then back to the whirring toy in his hand. "See? It works!"

The store worker chuckles. But I'm not interested in her commiserations. "It was invented by L. Ron Hubbard," I continue, "with help from his girlfriend Ayn Rand..." The store worker looks confused. "...before they invented the second half of the twentieth century and turned America into an Amway distributorship for decades."

The worker walks away nervously. I continue, louder, "Thank god we put them in a box together and sent them into space so they couldn't stick their hands in our pockets while we stared at little whirring Chinese made toys anymore!" Amonymous is still gazing at the stupid thing. He turns to me to ask if he can have it, but before a syllable comes out I boom, "NO." He puts it down without a fight.

As we leave the store, I pass a garish poster of the lipsticked whore, her eyes fixed on the future, like a propagandist photo, and another of that mental patient talkshow host dressed as...as...Generalissimo Francisco Franco? Really?

"Say goodbye to this place, Amonymous. We'll never come back." A Bloomsday pox upon thee.

MONDAY  9:05 a.m.

Bloomsday's gait is different now that each step is tinged with a short, sharp shock of pain, the product of a weekend home improvement injury.  How could he have known that, with kitchen cupboards removed for the installation of new hinges, his opening of a waist high drawer would unleash an avalanche of pots and pans, beneath?  His big toe, victimized.  Such dubious cause and effect, this jostling of things beneath.  There are hazards to nesting, too, I suppose, muses Bloomsday as he limps to work in odd syncopation. If there is a lesson it is this:  Don't do chores in your bare feet, asshole.

Bloomsday feels the watery vibration of his cell phone against his crucifixion. He pulls the phone out of his breast pocket to see that he is already engaged in a call with his newly-sober friend, Higbee Gaines.  "Hey, oops, I must have nipple dialed you..." Bloomsday apologizes.

"No, I called you, but I heard you call someone an asshole just now."

"Oh, yeah, me. I was talking to myself."

"Again? At any rate, I wanted to talk to you about that renegade priest you asked me to talk to. Do you know why he's a renegade?" asks Higbee.

"I'm on a need to know basis. No. I never thought to ask Sister Beatrice or Bernice."

"Well, you definitely need to know this:  he blew up The Thinker."

This jostling of things beneath, indeed, Bloomsday muses. "I have know idea what you're talking about, but if I did, I certainly wouldn't be talking about it on my cell phone, sir.  Meet me at the Rock Hall.  Behind it, where the skate park was."

Bloomsday hates talking on the cell phone about anything important.  He is inclined to face to face interactions.  Much can be gained from face to face interactions.  Much can be lost in a telephone call.

"Listen.  It's not like that.  They know where he is.  They just haven't bothered arresting him.  They want him underground.  If they arrest him, he'll just be a martyr.  So they leave him alone.  But they won't let him preside over mass.  That's his punishment.  Handed down by the Cleveland Police and the Catholic church."

"You're suggesting he's on the Holy Lamb?"

"Yeah, since March 24, 1970."

Bloomsday was a gurgling babe, then.  Borne amid the clamor of lunar landings and crazed hippie cult murders, The Thinker was desecrated with explosives the same Spring as shots rang out in the Kent State sky.


TUESDAY 9:08 a.m.

Bloomsday shuts the car door and checks his pockets.  He fumbles with the ear bud wires of his music content delivery system, then walks briskly up the parking lot incline toward Cleveland Browns Stadium.  The cheapest walking distance with a view.

The giant LED on its west side shows the time:  9:08.  Technically late. Practically, not.

Bloomsday bisects the Jesse Owens/Police Memorial Plaza, at the northeast corner of Sheriff McPoodley-Roo's Way.  As he approaches a cannon, aimed squarely at him in the center of the square, he see's something he hasn't before.  Two men in European suits and sunglasses waiting for him.

"Dobry den," one says to him.  "Are you not Bloomsday?"

Bloomsday recognizes that accent.  "Dobry den.  You'll have to follow me.  I'm late."  The two men suddenly spring into action, placing themselves on either side, tripping to keep up.

"We understand you are a man of the people."

"Sure," I say.  "Aren't you?"

"Well, yes, but not the American People.  I was born in Czechoslovakia.  I now live in the Czech Republic. I never moved."

"That's funny." I say. The other man is suspiciously silent.  I stop outside the doors of the justice center. "Gotta go, guys.  What can I do for you?"

"We are here on behalf of the Government of the Czech Republic.  We wish to make you an Honorary Ambassador to our country, and extend membership in our Order of the Finicky Eaters."

"Excuse me?"

"That's not it's real name.  Only members know the real name."

"Why me?"

"Because you're on television, dummy."

"Oh, you know your Paddy Chayefsky."

"Actually, I know my Ned Beatty."

"So, I'm in. Great. What do I have to do?"

"You'll be invited to Prague for a ceremony. There is an award. You give a speech. We pay you."

"I feel that there's something you're not telling me.  What's the catch?"

"Our government has taken great interest in the story of The Thinker. We think you are an excellent resource on the topic."

"Yeah, me and Sister Wendy."

"Who?"

"Nevermind.  This is getting a little Kafkaesque."

"That's funny you should say that. Prague and all.  Cleveland's a lot like Prague."

"Yes, but we have no Kafka."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Mr. Bloomsday."  He lean's heavily into me, as if casting a spell.  I recognize him.  Years ago.  The Stinky Puppeteer.  It was a puppet production of Eurydice.  Orpheus. Our second night in Prague. The tiny, cramped theater stunk of the unwashed.  It was him above the tangle of strings.

"You're creepin' me out fellas. Gimme some time to think about this."  He pushes his way through the revolving door of the justice center, leaving his new friends in the cold.

4:45 p.m.

Bloomsday drafts a closing argument on a treadmill at the Lakewood Y. His musical menu includes: Brand New Day by Sting with Stevie on harmonica (warm up); the album, Eraser, by Thom York (hard momentum running, intermittent hard walk); selected songs from Todd Rundgeren (cool down). For shits 'n giggles, he rocks out to Prince's When U Were Mine and I Feel 4 U on the way home and blasts Darking Nikki in the driveway.

Inside the stone colonial, Molly and Luna snuggle like hamsters, awaiting papa.  He gathers his effects from the car and sees he has missed a phone call.  The number is not familar, with an unknown area code.  Suddenly, his hand vibrates as a new text message arrives.  It's a tweet.  "@BloomsdayDevice: How was U'r workout?"

Bloomsday's first thought is, Prince is tweeting me. But reason prevails. Another text arrives: "I'm in the cab down the street."  Bloomsday turns and looks and sees a cab parked, lurking, suspicious.  No one takes cabs in Cleveland.

He takes to the cab, walking tall. Two passengers emerge.  The stinky puppeteer and his silent companion. "Dobry den," he says.

"Dobry den," Bloomsday replies. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No hurry. We had waffles at Gene's Place. Delicious, I'd say."

"I believe the technical term is delicioso."

"Pardon?"

"Nevermind.  Look, I'd invite you in, but I got a new baby and a tired momma in the house. How about you take me in the cab to the destination of my choice."

"Excellent idea. We need just a half our of your time."

"Fuck that.  Your taking me to bloodymaryville.  You fly, you buy."

The stinky puppeteer surmises.  "I think I understand."

"To the Park View, cabbie!" Bloomsday commands.

MLK

Fridays are always slow in the courthouse, but today is downright desolate in anticipation of an icy three day weekend in January. Monday is Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. When I arrive at the empty courtroom, I shake off the subzero chill and check the docket to find only two cases. One case is a probation violation hearing set for a guy who hasn’t shown up to his probation officer in months. In fact, he never went to the probation office at all, not even a first time. There is exactly no chance that this guy will show up for the scheduled hearing. Why would he? He knows he’d go to jail. He hasn’t responded to his probation officer’s warning letters, so why would he heed a summons to see the judge? He is now in “those fuckers’ll have to find me” mode. Many of my clients find themselves living like this, either before or after I meet them. On the lamb.

The other case is a competency hearing. A month ago, the client was sent to Cleveland’s mental hospital to determine if he was competent to stand trial. I have never met him. Another public defender was here when the competency referral was made. I skim the psychiatrist’s report and find that, despite some mental limitations, Mr. Azzolina is (a) capable of appreciating the nature of the proceedings against him, and is (b) capable of assisting his lawyer in preparing a defense.

These reports are often wrong. I once met a client who was convinced that he had a dead son, buried in his backyard, who had been named after me. Despite his genuine concern that he was rapidly loosing the use of his individual body parts – eyes, fingers, toes – the psych clinic gave him a clean bill of health and deemed him ready for trial. The report contained nothing about his active, psychotic delusions. After I called the doctor out on his recommendations, he reevaluated the guy and sheepishly told me I was right and that he had missed it.

I review the court file on Mr. Azzolina. He is charged with criminal activity on school property, criminal trespass and disorderly conduct. He is seventy years old. He has been held for the past two months: first, in city jail for a few days, then in the Cleveland workhouse for a few weeks, then, at the mental hospital for a month and a half after concerns about his competency arose, and now, another few days back at the city jail. According to the probable cause statement in the court file, the allegations stem from an incident in the schoolyard behind Holy Rosary Catholic Church in Cleveland’s Little Italy neighborhood, across the street from Mr. Azzolina’s home. There, he allegedly berated some little black girls playing after school and spit at their parents when they arrived to pick up the girls. This is a crime, especially when foul language and threats are used. Basically, my client is charged with being a bigoted, grumpy old man.

Seventy-year-olds rarely get arrested for things, but when the do, the possibility of jail terrifies them to the point of incoherence. They may also be blind without glasses, deaf without a hearing aid, and physically disabled without a cane. Old folks are special needs cases. You must not make any assumptions about what they know or don’t know, what they can or cannot comprehend. Each conversation is a step-by-step process, and you may have to retrace your steps without seeming frustrated. You need to gain their confidence while gauging their abilities. I am thinking about this as I ask the deputy to key me into the holding cell where I will meet Mr. Azzolina.

In the low, yellow light, a little man shuffles towards me. He’s shy of five feet tall, wearing a green sweatsuit and tennis shoes with no laces. He is bald, but for a few wisps at his temples. He has enormous nostrils filled with peppered hair that matches his eyebrows. “Who are you?” he looks up at me, his hands stretched out, steadying himself like he’s walking a tightrope.
“I’m Bloomsday. I’m your new lawyer. I’m here to try to get you out of jail today.” I reach out to shake his hand and he clasps both of his around mine.
“Thank you! Thanks, Mr. Bloomsday! They got me on a trespassin’ but I been locked up long enough! I wanna get outta here, already…” He reassumes the tightrope walker posture, reaching out for balance. I notice he still has his teeth, which means that he’s taken care of himself in this respect.
“Mr. Azzolina, I need to talk with you about a couple of things, first. I need to get clear about a couple of things before we talk to the judge.”
“Oh, yeah, sure…whaddayya need to know?”
“Well, they sent you out to the mental hospital to see if you were competent to stand trial. That means that, at some point, someone thought that you were having a tough time understanding what was going on, or that you might not be able to help a lawyer with you case.”
“Nah! All’s I know is it was mistaken identity! I didn’t do anything and then they come and arrest me…”
“Well, we’ll talk about your case in a few minutes, but first I need to see how you’re doing. I need to make sure you understand what’s going on here. The judge is going to want to make sure you are O.K., you know, that you’re O.K. in the head. Now, you’ve been charged with a couple of things. The most serious charge is something called criminal activity on school property—“
“Nah! It wasn’t nothing like that! I was just there, on the playground in my neighborhood, it was way after school was over. Nobody there but me. I took first communion at that church, Holy Rosary! I was three years old! Father Peligrino is a friend of mine! I was an altar boy there! And Sister Rose, too. She knows me!”
I must redirect. “We’ll talk about that later, but I need you to tell me that you understand the charges against you. I’m not asking if you did it or not. I just want to make sure you understand the charges.”
“Oh. Yes. Criminal activity on school property. And trespassin’.
“Yes. There’s a third charge, disorderly conduct, but don’t worry about that right now. So, you understand the charges. You should know that criminal activity on school property is a misdemeanor of the first degree, which means that a judge could keep someone in jail for six months on a charge like that…”
He looks predictably horrified.
“…but I don’t think that will happen here. I’m just telling you that the maximum penalty could be up to six months. As your lawyer, I need to tell you about all possibilities, even the worst-case scenario, but I don’t think he’ll keep you in jail for six months. In fact, I think I can get you out today if you play your cards right. Know what I mean?”
“Oh, O.K., I got it. Yeah.” He exhales a couple of times and seems winded, like he’s just jogged a mile in his green sweat suit and sneakers sans laces. He leans forward with his hands on his thighs.
“Mr. Azzolina, are you feeling O.K.? Do you need to sit down?”
“Nah. I’m fine. Just restin’.” He stands upright, sniffs and faces me, still winded.
“So now what do we do?”
“Well, we first have to show the judge that you understand the proceedings against you and that you can work with me on defending you. Once we do that, then you’re going to have to make a choice: you can either set this case for a trial or I can try to work out a plea where you get out as long as you promise to stay away from the school yard for a while.”
His hands are now cupped behind his ears as I talk, funneling my words into his ears filled with wiry hairs that match his nose and eyebrows. “I just wanna get this done with! I’m tired of this!” “I know, Mr. Azzolina, but you’ve got to believe me when I tell you that, first things first, we gotta show the judge that you’re clear-headed and can help me with your case. We don’t want him to think you’re some loose cannon who doesn’t know what’s going on or how to behave in the courtroom. Right? Because then he might believe that you are exactly the kind of guy who would do what you’re charged with. You know?”
A light flickers on above his liverspotted head. “Oh, yeah, I got ya!” He grins, and winks and gives an O.K. sign. “You’re on my side, Bloomsday! I like that!”

I ramble on about his constitutional rights and I watch him watching my lips. I lose him on the right against self-incrimination, and he interrupts me to protest his innocence. “I believe you when you tell me you didn’t do what they say, but we’re not talking about that right now. Right now, I’m just telling you what I tell all of my clients. These are your constitutional rights if you chose to have a trial, and I need to know that you understand them. The judge might quiz you on whether you know your rights! So, please, Mr. Azzolina, just listen carefully for a few more minutes. I have a lot I need to tell you before you tell me anything. I just want you to understand what’s going on.”
“Oh, all right. You look like you know what you’re doin’, Mr. Bloomsday.” His crooked hairy-knuckled finger touches my chest.
“Well, I may not have all the answers, Mr. Azzolina, and any lawyer who promises you he’ll win is lying. But I can promise you that I’ll fight for you as hard as I can. O.K.? But you’re going to have to pay attention to what I’m saying and follow my lead. O.K.?”
“That’s really good, Mr. Bloomsday. Thanks. Thanks!” He nods hard and almost tips over. He steadies himself again. He must be missing a cane.
“All right. How do you make a living?”
“I’m retired. I got two checks waitin’ for me. My nephew, Danny, he’s got ‘em. He’s a barber.”
“And what did you do for a living?”
“I was a roofer most of my life, but I also managed a couple a singers.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah, I had a guy named Benny Giamatti. He was a crooner. Had a hit in ’67.” He coughs and steadies himself.
“Now, are you on any medications?”
“Nah.”
“How’s your health. You doing O.K.?”
“Ah, I can’t complain. I ain’t smoked in two months. I miss cigarettes. I smoke Virginia Slims.”
“Now, where do you live?”
“On East 120th. Right by Holy Rosary. I grew up there.”
“Who lives there?”
Just me, now. It’s an up down. I live down. The guy who used to live up moved out, so there’s no one there. My nephew Danny is picking up my mail. He’s a barber.”
“All right. If I get you out of jail today, that’s where you’ll go?”
“Yeah.”
“O.K. Now, if we want the judge to let you out, we have to convince him that, while this case is going on, you won’t go to Holy Rosary—“
“I won’t go anywhere near that place. I will walk around the block to avoid it if I have to, I swear…and I’m a Catholic!”
“Well, you don’t have to convince me. It’s the judge we have to convince.”
“O.K.”

The judge arrives at 10:30. Moments later, the deputy brings Mr. Azzolina from the holding cell into the courtroom. I point to the floor at the spot next to me at the podium where I want him to stand, and he hurries to my side. The judge and I discuss the issue of competency. I explain that I agree with the doctor’s conclusions. I believe that my client is competent. “If the court accepts this finding, then I’d ask for a personal bond so that Mr. Azzolina can come to my office and talk over his case thoroughly in a less-restrictive setting. I have admonished Mr. Azzolina that, if this court is to consider a personal bond, he must have no contact with anyone from Holy Rosary during the pendency of this matter, or he will be jailed again and charged with contempt.” As I say these words I size up the constitutional magnitude of agreeing that my client stay away from this church. If he goes to confess his sins, he will be in contempt of court.

“Does he know how cold it is outside, Mr. Bloomsday? He doesn’t have a coat. It’s the middle of January and it’s a couple of degrees above zero.”
“I got three dollars in my shoe, Judge!” Mr. Azzolina blurts. “I can take the bus.”
My hand reflexively touches his shoulder, a subtle cue to let me do the talking. “Judge, I will personally ensure that he gets home safely.”
“It’s too cold for him to wait for the bus…”
“I understand that, Judge. He will not wait for a bus. I will personally make sure he gets home. I will drive him, I will call a cab, I will contact his nephew…a barber here in town…” I am brainstorming on the record. As I speak, I realize that my low coolant and temperature indicator lights are coming on each time I drive my beater. I had trouble turning it over that morning. I have a leak, somewhere. “I will watch him enter his home.” I don’t trust my own car.
The judge writes for a few minutes. Or is he doodling?
“I’m ordering that he not be released unless it is into your custody, and that you arrange to get him home.”
“Yes, your honor.” I have to hatch a plan.

The judge leaves the bench and Mr. Azzolina turns to me. “What does that mean?”
“It means that you get to go home. It’s cold out and you’re seventy years old and you don’t have a coat, so Mr. Azzolina, you and I are going for a ride together, and I’m gonna make sure you get home safely.”
He is processed out by the deputies, and then handed off to me. We take the elevator off the fourteenth floor, me in a blue suit and winter-lined trench coat; he, the tiny man in a green sweat suit. As we step in the elevator, I note the presence of four other suits, affluent civil practitioners.
Mr. Azzolina breaks the elevator silence. “Boy, I haven’t had a good cup of coffee in months,” his fingers rub his mouth, as if he’s salivating for coffee. “I can’t wait to get some good hot coffee.” He’s elated. He claps his hands a couple of times and bounces, the descending elevator sways. “Boy, oh boy…”
“There’s a coffee shop on the fourth floor here. Let’s stop and get some.” I feel the observant silence of the suits behind us. I look back and nod, respectfully. I catch the eyes of one, and he looks away. “There’s a blind man’s stand. A coffee shop run by the blind on the fourth floor.”
“Oh, boy oh boy!” That sounds great, Mr. Bloomsday.” He pauses. “Blind people, Huh? Some people really got it tough…”
When we get to the coffee stand, I order a couple cups. I give two bucks and I pour the half-decent swill into two large paper cups. “Cream?”
“Hi-ho! Yeah!”
“And do you take sugar?”
“Yessir!”
I offer him a lid after he stirs the sugar in, but he rejects it. “I like to drink it with a straw!” He demonstrates, and his gray stubbled cheeks cave in as he sucks the pale coffee through a straw.
“See?”
As I prepare my own coffee, I notice him struggling with his tennis shoe, and I ask if I can help. “I gotta give to the blind,” he says. “I got three dollars…”
“No, no, that’s O.K.” I say, looking nervously at the blind guy wearing one of his roller coaster enthusiast T-shirts. “I already paid for the coffee.”
We sit near a forth floor window view of the frozen concrete tundra over the courthouse atrium. There are huge, human-sized icicles streaming down the corners of the shabbily designed twenty-three story dump. They cascade into frozen drifts of snow. Their weight must be staggering. I think about the atrium beneath them. Mr. Azzolina keeps showing me his progress on drinking his coffee with a straw. “See?” he tilts his cup toward me. “This is great coffee! I’m almost done!”
“You don’t have to hurry, though. Take your time. You just got out of jail, you can relax.” I’ve programmed a cab company number into my cell phone, though I’ve never needed to use it. My life in Cleveland has been cab free, until today.

I must execute our departure from the courthouse safely and smoothly. This goal is impeded by the dangerous cold outside and absurd security measures put in place after 9-11: vast portions of the first level are cordoned off with police ribbons to herd people through metal detectors and there are hastily stamped signs that read NO WAITING IN LOBBY.
As I stand with Mr. Azzolina, looking out at the cold, I notice a deputy approaching.
“Sir, you can’t wait here.”
“I’m this guy’s lawyer, he seventy years old, he’s been locked up for two months, he has no coat, and I have to stay with him while we wait for a cab. This cold is dangerous. I just called a cab and it should be here in a few minutes. Can’t he just wait here for a minute?
“Sir, it’s out of my hands.”
I spot a small corner of the lobby not subject to martial law that still offers a vantage point to the street. Near the George Segal statues of doleful, white plaster people waiting for eternity.
I tell Mr. Azzolina to wait and watch for my signal.

I head outside and stand by the Segal statues, blasted by the iciness in the air. Moment’s later, I see the cab approaching and motion for him to join me outside. He will have to take about a hundred hobbled paces between the courthouse door and the cab in his sweat suit. It is eight degrees outside. I reach the cab first, crouch in and inform the cabbie: “This old-timer coming down the steps without a coat on, we’re waiting for him. I need to get him home without freezing to death.”
Mr. Azzolina arrives at the cab, out of breath, snot dripping from his cavernous nostrils. He climbs in, closes the door and claps his hands with joy, relief and success. “Whoo!” he shouts. “I’m goin’ home!” Cough!
I tell the cabbie the general destination, and as we take off, Mr. Azzolina begins a wet, phlegmmy hacking fit. I see some of the phlegm hit the back seat in front of him and drip to the cab floor. He wipes another large, coffee colored glob on his sweat suit sleeve. I have to try not to gag.
Thankfully, he rolls down the window and lets out a huge hocker. “Sorry about that. I just can’t get rid of this cough!” He struggles to speak, so I start talking about the scenery.
“There’s the new Browns stadium,” I say
“Oh, yeah. I never seen that before. It’s so big!” Wheezing.
“…and there’s the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. You ever been there?”
“No,” he’s recovering. “Oh, boy, [cough] I know rock and roll. I was in the business when it began! All the Italian singers. Bobby Darin. He died. Al Marino, [sic] He’s in The Godfather. Giamatti was my boy, though. He got hit by the three bears behind The Sportsman Bar and Grill, though. He owed a cocaine debt. He was a good singer, though. Peggy Lee, I have all her records." He starts to sing, “Is that all there is? Iiiiiis that all there is? If that’s all there is, my friend, then let’s keep dancing, let’s break all the rules and…” he trails off.

During the cab ride, I call his nephew, the barber, to let him know that Uncle Paul is out of jail. “Is that a good thing?” he asks.
Mr. Azzolina asks to speak with him. I hand my cell phone to this still-hacking seventy year old. The talk about how the nephew should pick him up on Monday morning so that he can cash his social security checks.
I interrupt. “Monday is a holiday. Banks are closed,” I say.
“Oh, my lawyer says banks are closed on Monday. Let’s make it Tuesday.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re near his home but he’s a little lost. We drive around looking for landmarks. “Oh yeah! Popeye’s Chicken. That’s good chicken! A few blocks later, “Oh, and there’s Kentucky Fried Chicken. Lotsa good chicken around here…Oh, wait! This is close! Take a left here.” The cabbie obliges.

We’ve entered Little Italy through a back route I’ve never known before. There is Holy Rosary church, a few blocks from the house where he stops. “This is it! There’s my house!” The cab stops and he gets out. I remind him to stay away from the church and to keep to himself and to call me when he gets settled in. He walks up to the front door, checks his mail, and opens the front door without a key. His front door has been unlocked for the past two months. He waives and closes the door behind him.

On the cab ride back downtown, the cabbie, a black guy in his fifties asks me, “Hey, you told that guy that Monday is a holiday. What holiday is that?”
“It’s Martin Luther King Day,” I say.
“Oh.” He doesn’t say anything else.

I ask him to drop me off at the back entrance of my office. I tip five on a thirty dollar fare. When I get out, I see my boss, the legendary poverty lawyer, C. Lyonel Jones, standing in the second floor window of the smoking lounge, looking down, watching me exit a cab at noon. This must strike him as odd or suspicious, since the courthouse is only a block away. A sexual rendezvous or morning bender during business hours? I ignore him; otherwise I’ll have to explain myself, and that is something that I prefer not to do.