We're all about security at my office.
Safety first. Eternal vigilance. Protection prioritized.
I heard a rumor that we might even get new security cameras some day. We used to have one in the waiting room. It was a lifesaver. If you could memorize what kind of shoes your probationer wore, you could tell whether or not they were sitting in the lobby. If they sat in one of the first three chairs from the door, that is.
It was a nifty camera, but it had a terribly shallow angle of focus. We found the way to get maximum coverage of the room was to focus it was on the lower half of the door, below the door handle, and on the first three chairs. Then we could see the legs of anyone entering the building and the hang-dog looks on the faces of people who weren't quick enough to get a chair in the darker corners of the lobby.
Then there were the monitors. They blew themselves out after a year or so. After a few weeks of staring at dark, blank TV screens, we decided we could fix the problem. I drew a cartoon version of the unmoving picture that had previously graced the closed-circuit tubes and we pasted it to the monitor. No more blank screen!
We are all about the security.
Every few years one of us will go to some sort of officer safety seminar as part of the never ending pursuit of continuing education hours. We used to come back all gung-ho about taking precautions to ensure the continued inhale/exhale dichotomy of ourselves and our co-workers. But it never really stuck.
We do have an alarm system. Well, two alarm systems, actually. The new one is every bit as effective as a car alarm and we got tired of the continuous 2:00 a.m. phone calls from the police, who needed us to come verify that all was well with the building after yet another false alarm. We don't even bother to turn it on any more.
The other alarm is an old Sunday school buzzer. Y'all remember those? It's a button wired up at the edge of one of the receptionist's desk. The buzzer sounds in the big open area between our offices, known as the Grand Ballroom. She presses it if they are ever in fear of, well, anything.
In fourteen years, I can only remember one time that they actually used it. That time was pretty fun.
The problem is, we're forever thinking we heard the alarm go off. Usually it goes like this:
"Did you hear that?!"
"I'm not sure. Was it...?"
"I think it was!"
And we take off at a run, bursting through the door into the reception area.
And the secretary says: "Thank God you're here!"
Well, no. That's not what she says. It's more like "What the hell is wrong with y'all?" But I'm pretty sure she really means "Thank God you're here!" Probably.
It inevitably ends with us slinking back to our offices mumbling about how we know we heard something and if it wasn't the buzzer, what the hell was it and we're not really crazy, right?
We're all about security. Technology hasn't worked out all that well for us, so we've come to rely more on our own dauntless powers of observation and intuitive knowledge of human nature. Today was no exception. Witness this instant messaging conversation between myself and Princess Mindy:
She: Did you see that prissy guy that just came back down the hall? Where is he going?
Me: I dunno. I was just fixing to ask you the same thing.
Me: I bet he doesn't think he's prissy.
She: Well, he is. I was just hoping he didn't have a concealed handgun or something.
Me: If he does, it would be an itty bitty handgun.
Me: I'm just sayin'.
She: That's just wrong!
And that was the end of it. I never saw Mr. Prissy again. Don't know where he went, don't know what he did. Hell, he may still be in the office somewhere, for all we know.
Yeah, we're all about the security around here.
*Two weeks after 9-11, our county's safety officer (which is a whole 'nuther story) put a really insipid pamphlet into all our paycheck envelopes on how we could best survive a nefarious attack on the civil service of Fake Cow County. We responded by hanging a large poster with the words "IN CASE OF TERRORIST ATTACK: Walk, Do Not Run, to the Nearest Exit" in our office. He was not amused. Not. at. all.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Sunday, April 1, 2007
My Muse may well be a seventh grade boy...
We have a new Criminal Courts building here in Fake Cow County.
That makes us sound all up town, don’t it?
Well, we ain’t.
It’s actually the old Sears store, a couple of blocks down from the Courthouse. In an excruciatingly slow and bumbling process, one old guy and a passel of jail inmates remodeled it into a courthouse annex. It has been a source of contempt and derision among county employees for a long, long time.
The powers that be decided that such a massive undertaking could only be properly appreciated with an equally massive bit of nomenclature. So they named it after three of our previous judges, whose claim to fame was either going on to bigger and better things or just living for quite a long time. They named it the Jones, Smith and Bob Justice Center. (Or something like that.) They prefer we refer to it as The Justice Center.
Not. Bloody. Likely.
For one thing, The Justice Center sounds like somewhere the Super Friends would hang out and wash their tights. No tight washing is going on here, let me tell ya.
Secondly, the building’s decidedly odd design negates any attempt at taking the thing seriously. There are flowerbeds in locations that deny them totally the light of day. There are dead trees imprisoned in concrete, a half city block from any source of water. There are numerous entrances, all but one of which are locked. The jury boxes in both courtrooms hold only 10 chairs instead of 12. The jury rooms are too small to accommodate a table. There are 24 restrooms, but they are ingeniously camouflaged in such a way as to prevent them from being located and accessed by the general public.
I could go on, but you get the idea.
The building was called simply “The Sears Building” for the seven or so years it took to complete. Once it was finally ocupado and its many outstanding features came to light, it came to be known as the Thompson Tabernacle, after its builder and champion, Mr. I.B. Thompson.
However, I think its more permanent name was bestowed by a man who should be played by Tommy Lee Jones in the movie. He - and subsequently the rest of us - named it “Carpet World”.
Evidently, Mr. Thompson got a damn good deal on industrial grade grey carpet. Every floor in the place is covered in it. As are the vast majority of the walls.
Ever tried to vacuum a wall?
It was evidently some sort of noise reduction strategy, one that has seriously backfired. The floor to ceiling carpet does a good job of absorbing ambient noise, making the courtrooms and offices quieter than most tombs when no one is there. You can’t hear the air conditioning or the hum of the electrical lights. There is an almost physical sensation of sound being sucked out of the room by a silent, unseen force.
Then you realize that all other interior sounds are intensely magnified. I can count my heartbeats and hear the blood coursing loudly through my veins when ever I wait in an empty courtroom. The sound of my breathing sometimes becomes obnoxious to my own ears.
When someone else enters the room, you can hear every step, every breath they make. And God forbid they plop down next to you on the pew and start to wax snarkolent about the current state of local politics. Every whispered word is magnified by a power of 50 and plainly audible across the expansive rooms. This has put a serious dent in the courtroom snark. In the past we’d sit in groups and do a quiet play by play analysis of the action on the witness stand or the state of the bailiff’s haircut or some other subject of equal importance.
Not anymore. We sit silent and stone faced. And we write notes.
Friday was my court day, so I got there early to secure a good seat for the morning session. The Court was hearing arraignments, divorces, juvenile hearings and a couple of felony guilty pleas. The place was packed. I sat against the wall on the next to last row of pews. The front two rows were crammed with jail inmates in various shades of orange and impressive entanglements of shackles. They looked like some sort of vaudevillian bondage troupe. Behind them were a couple of lawyers and sheriff’s deputies. I was on the next row, along with a lawyer, his secretary and a malingeringly distraught divorcee. There were several bail bondsmen and an out of town lawyer and his client on the back row.
Just a bit of unsolicited legal advice: Always, Always, ALWAYS hire a local attorney. If you wanna spend yer money on F. Lee Bailey, go ahead, but hire you a local guy to do most of the mouth work. It’s important. Out of town lawyers always suck hind tit. It doesn’t matter how good they are.
Anyway, during one of the juvenile hearings, the County Attorney requested a conference with Counsel at the Judge’s bench. They held a whispered confab at the bench. I was sitting behind the bar, across the room, four rows back. I could hear every word. Every Word.
During that conference, another attorney approached his client, one of the bondage boys on the second row. He whispered to the guy that his case was not being heard that day due to some sort of snafu. He was sorry they brought the guy up to the courthouse for nothing, but hey, at least it was a chance for some fresh air. The guy didn’t say anything.
However, I came to believe that the man was somewhat relieved and relaxed to know that his turn before the bench had been postponed.
No long after the attorney sat down across the aisle, someone’s stomach growled. Long and low and rumbling and downright rough. It was a gastric event of gargantuan proportions. I could tell it had come from the same guy by the way the two men sitting on either side of him whipped their heads around to stare. Then they both scooted in opposite directions down the pew, away from the man in the middle.
I felt kind of sorry for him, until I realized something about the acoustics of the room. For sound to be contained as it is, the very air itself must also be contained. I realized this a few short moments later, right after I realized that what I heard was not a man’s stomach growling.
A noxious green cloud had risen over the spectators and hung, heavy, in the air. You could almost see it. And it had no where to go. My eyes began to water. Several people coughed nauseously. I would have gotten up and run from the courtroom, except for the fact that the room is designed in such a way that the rear doors open directly to the front of the building, which means you can enter the courtroom without going through the metal detector or past the security cameras. The doors are kept locked at all times. The only entrance and exit is right up front, next to the bailiff’s desk.
There was no escape.
I’m starting to hate Carpet World.
That makes us sound all up town, don’t it?
Well, we ain’t.
It’s actually the old Sears store, a couple of blocks down from the Courthouse. In an excruciatingly slow and bumbling process, one old guy and a passel of jail inmates remodeled it into a courthouse annex. It has been a source of contempt and derision among county employees for a long, long time.
The powers that be decided that such a massive undertaking could only be properly appreciated with an equally massive bit of nomenclature. So they named it after three of our previous judges, whose claim to fame was either going on to bigger and better things or just living for quite a long time. They named it the Jones, Smith and Bob Justice Center. (Or something like that.) They prefer we refer to it as The Justice Center.
Not. Bloody. Likely.
For one thing, The Justice Center sounds like somewhere the Super Friends would hang out and wash their tights. No tight washing is going on here, let me tell ya.
Secondly, the building’s decidedly odd design negates any attempt at taking the thing seriously. There are flowerbeds in locations that deny them totally the light of day. There are dead trees imprisoned in concrete, a half city block from any source of water. There are numerous entrances, all but one of which are locked. The jury boxes in both courtrooms hold only 10 chairs instead of 12. The jury rooms are too small to accommodate a table. There are 24 restrooms, but they are ingeniously camouflaged in such a way as to prevent them from being located and accessed by the general public.
I could go on, but you get the idea.
The building was called simply “The Sears Building” for the seven or so years it took to complete. Once it was finally ocupado and its many outstanding features came to light, it came to be known as the Thompson Tabernacle, after its builder and champion, Mr. I.B. Thompson.
However, I think its more permanent name was bestowed by a man who should be played by Tommy Lee Jones in the movie. He - and subsequently the rest of us - named it “Carpet World”.
Evidently, Mr. Thompson got a damn good deal on industrial grade grey carpet. Every floor in the place is covered in it. As are the vast majority of the walls.
Ever tried to vacuum a wall?
It was evidently some sort of noise reduction strategy, one that has seriously backfired. The floor to ceiling carpet does a good job of absorbing ambient noise, making the courtrooms and offices quieter than most tombs when no one is there. You can’t hear the air conditioning or the hum of the electrical lights. There is an almost physical sensation of sound being sucked out of the room by a silent, unseen force.
Then you realize that all other interior sounds are intensely magnified. I can count my heartbeats and hear the blood coursing loudly through my veins when ever I wait in an empty courtroom. The sound of my breathing sometimes becomes obnoxious to my own ears.
When someone else enters the room, you can hear every step, every breath they make. And God forbid they plop down next to you on the pew and start to wax snarkolent about the current state of local politics. Every whispered word is magnified by a power of 50 and plainly audible across the expansive rooms. This has put a serious dent in the courtroom snark. In the past we’d sit in groups and do a quiet play by play analysis of the action on the witness stand or the state of the bailiff’s haircut or some other subject of equal importance.
Not anymore. We sit silent and stone faced. And we write notes.
Friday was my court day, so I got there early to secure a good seat for the morning session. The Court was hearing arraignments, divorces, juvenile hearings and a couple of felony guilty pleas. The place was packed. I sat against the wall on the next to last row of pews. The front two rows were crammed with jail inmates in various shades of orange and impressive entanglements of shackles. They looked like some sort of vaudevillian bondage troupe. Behind them were a couple of lawyers and sheriff’s deputies. I was on the next row, along with a lawyer, his secretary and a malingeringly distraught divorcee. There were several bail bondsmen and an out of town lawyer and his client on the back row.
Just a bit of unsolicited legal advice: Always, Always, ALWAYS hire a local attorney. If you wanna spend yer money on F. Lee Bailey, go ahead, but hire you a local guy to do most of the mouth work. It’s important. Out of town lawyers always suck hind tit. It doesn’t matter how good they are.
Anyway, during one of the juvenile hearings, the County Attorney requested a conference with Counsel at the Judge’s bench. They held a whispered confab at the bench. I was sitting behind the bar, across the room, four rows back. I could hear every word. Every Word.
During that conference, another attorney approached his client, one of the bondage boys on the second row. He whispered to the guy that his case was not being heard that day due to some sort of snafu. He was sorry they brought the guy up to the courthouse for nothing, but hey, at least it was a chance for some fresh air. The guy didn’t say anything.
However, I came to believe that the man was somewhat relieved and relaxed to know that his turn before the bench had been postponed.
No long after the attorney sat down across the aisle, someone’s stomach growled. Long and low and rumbling and downright rough. It was a gastric event of gargantuan proportions. I could tell it had come from the same guy by the way the two men sitting on either side of him whipped their heads around to stare. Then they both scooted in opposite directions down the pew, away from the man in the middle.
I felt kind of sorry for him, until I realized something about the acoustics of the room. For sound to be contained as it is, the very air itself must also be contained. I realized this a few short moments later, right after I realized that what I heard was not a man’s stomach growling.
A noxious green cloud had risen over the spectators and hung, heavy, in the air. You could almost see it. And it had no where to go. My eyes began to water. Several people coughed nauseously. I would have gotten up and run from the courtroom, except for the fact that the room is designed in such a way that the rear doors open directly to the front of the building, which means you can enter the courtroom without going through the metal detector or past the security cameras. The doors are kept locked at all times. The only entrance and exit is right up front, next to the bailiff’s desk.
There was no escape.
I’m starting to hate Carpet World.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Cheese Chronicles II
So, where were we?
Cheese and Cheeto headed out to Auto Zone. Cheese bought a couple of simple tools. One can be found in every tool box and one is useful for auto body repair. Then they drove across town to the address of the car's owner.
Cheese spent about 20 seconds getting the car started and another minute getting inside the locked car. He drove it to the car lot.
Cheeto's boss came out front, amazed that they were back so soon. In fact, he was so thrilled that he told Cheese he'd pay him $150 for every car he could repossess for them.
I asked Cheese where he'd acquired these special skills.
He said he paid attention in auto shop. It was evidently part of the curriculum. He told me the really simple way to use his two tools to start a car. I am dying to try it! But I'm also pretty sure I'd really mess something up. So, no life of crime for me just yet.
A couple of days later, Cheeto called again. This time he was supposed to repo a car from a lady who lives in a totally disreputable neighborhood. He really didn't want to try to take the car off the street in front of her house.
Cheese met his brother at the car lot and asked to see the owner's paperwork. He noted the name and address of her employer and told Cheese to drive him there.
As they drove by the business, Cheeto started whining that the car wasn't there.
"You gonna have to drive through the parking lot, not around it, fool!" Cheese told him. "You're in the dealership's car - they ain't gonna know who you are!"
They found the car sandwiched between two huge trucks in a back corner of the lot. They had to look close to see it. It was a tight fit. They got out to inspect the vehicle.
"Can you do it, Cheese?"
"Hell yeah, fool. But you gonna have to drive it."
"Why?"
"Cause that door is only gonna open a few inches and I can't fit inside!"
In another 15 minutes they were back at the car lot. The boss was ecstatic. He told Cheese he wanted him full-time. Cheese told him that was cool, but he didn't want to do grunt work, he wanted to sell cars.
The boss was fine with that, but explained that everyone started at the bottom. He could start out washing cars for $5.15 an hour plus a $30 bonus for every repo. Cheese laughed.
"You offered me $150 to do repos. Now you wanna pay me minimum? I don't think so!"
The boss looked Cheese over. Cheese is about 5"10 and weighs probably 320 pounds. He wears sagging shorts that reach to the tops of his socks and his expensive tennis shoes. He usually has on a huge silky sports jersey that matches whatever shorts he's got on. It generally covers his massive girth and reaches down to his knees. He wears bling in both ears and around his neck. "How are you gonna sell cars looking like that Cheese? You don't look like you could sell anything except drugs. You can't dress like a gangster. My salesmen have to wear khakis and polo shirts."
"I got those clothes. Those are my church clothes, man. I can look nice if I gotta."
"You go to church?"
"Hell yeah I got to church! I'm livin' straight man!"
"Well, I don't know. You have to do something about the way you talk. And can you read?"
"Can I read? Can I read?! Of course I can read! And I can speak right, too!"
Cheese and Cheeto headed out to Auto Zone. Cheese bought a couple of simple tools. One can be found in every tool box and one is useful for auto body repair. Then they drove across town to the address of the car's owner.
Cheese spent about 20 seconds getting the car started and another minute getting inside the locked car. He drove it to the car lot.
Cheeto's boss came out front, amazed that they were back so soon. In fact, he was so thrilled that he told Cheese he'd pay him $150 for every car he could repossess for them.
I asked Cheese where he'd acquired these special skills.
He said he paid attention in auto shop. It was evidently part of the curriculum. He told me the really simple way to use his two tools to start a car. I am dying to try it! But I'm also pretty sure I'd really mess something up. So, no life of crime for me just yet.
A couple of days later, Cheeto called again. This time he was supposed to repo a car from a lady who lives in a totally disreputable neighborhood. He really didn't want to try to take the car off the street in front of her house.
Cheese met his brother at the car lot and asked to see the owner's paperwork. He noted the name and address of her employer and told Cheese to drive him there.
As they drove by the business, Cheeto started whining that the car wasn't there.
"You gonna have to drive through the parking lot, not around it, fool!" Cheese told him. "You're in the dealership's car - they ain't gonna know who you are!"
They found the car sandwiched between two huge trucks in a back corner of the lot. They had to look close to see it. It was a tight fit. They got out to inspect the vehicle.
"Can you do it, Cheese?"
"Hell yeah, fool. But you gonna have to drive it."
"Why?"
"Cause that door is only gonna open a few inches and I can't fit inside!"
In another 15 minutes they were back at the car lot. The boss was ecstatic. He told Cheese he wanted him full-time. Cheese told him that was cool, but he didn't want to do grunt work, he wanted to sell cars.
The boss was fine with that, but explained that everyone started at the bottom. He could start out washing cars for $5.15 an hour plus a $30 bonus for every repo. Cheese laughed.
"You offered me $150 to do repos. Now you wanna pay me minimum? I don't think so!"
The boss looked Cheese over. Cheese is about 5"10 and weighs probably 320 pounds. He wears sagging shorts that reach to the tops of his socks and his expensive tennis shoes. He usually has on a huge silky sports jersey that matches whatever shorts he's got on. It generally covers his massive girth and reaches down to his knees. He wears bling in both ears and around his neck. "How are you gonna sell cars looking like that Cheese? You don't look like you could sell anything except drugs. You can't dress like a gangster. My salesmen have to wear khakis and polo shirts."
"I got those clothes. Those are my church clothes, man. I can look nice if I gotta."
"You go to church?"
"Hell yeah I got to church! I'm livin' straight man!"
"Well, I don't know. You have to do something about the way you talk. And can you read?"
"Can I read? Can I read?! Of course I can read! And I can speak right, too!"
Cheese and the boss are still negotiating. I'm betting Cheese will end up with whatever he asks for.
He was most offended that the boss questioned whether or not he could read. Cheese told me he never liked it before, but now he reads everything he can get his hands on. He actually likes it. Cheese said "I learned how to speak from reading. When you talk, people hear you. But when you speak, people listen."
Edited to add: Its been a week now and I haven't heard anything from Cheese, so I don't know if he got the job. But I do know that no matter what happens, Cheese is gonna make it.
And if I cross-stitched, I would so be hanging a read=speak=hear "sampler" on my wall right now.
And I swear by all that is even remotely holy, if blogger doesn't fix this stupid line break problem that makes my paragraphs run together, I'm gonna hurt someone or something.
Monday, February 12, 2007
The Cheese Chronicles
One sad day, Cheese is going to get off probation. I may be hard up for material at that point. Sometimes Cheese believes his own hype, and sometimes he thinks he's worthless. Just when you think you've figured him out, he surprises the hell out of you.
Cheese was going to quit the Sonic a couple of months ago. You may remember the story? He ended up staying because his new job was only for 3 or 4 hours a week. I don't know why restaurant managers think its even worth doing the paperwork to hire someone for such a pitiable amount of time, but it happens. Cheese kept both jobs stringing along, but he's gotten tired of it.
Cheese has a younger brother. His name is Cheeto, remember? Cheeto got a job at a used car lot. Its a shark pit. Cheeto started out washing cars. Now he's a salesman. Sort of.
He's been bugging Cheese to come down and buy a car from him. Everyday he comes home from work in a different car that he wants Cheese to look at and buy. Every day Cheese makes Cheeto show him the car, tell him the features, drive him around and negotiate financing. Every day Cheese tells him "Hell, no, fool! I ain't buyin' yo car."
Cheeto keeps trying.
Last week their mother's van broke down. Their dad has a car to get back and forth to work, but mom's got no wheels - she's afoot. Cheeto dragged her down to the car lot to look at their selection. He showed her several cars and made lots of promises. In the end she shook her head and said, "No, Cheeto. I'm not buying your car."
Cheese finally asked Cheeto "How many cars have you sold, fool?"
"What, this month?"
"This month or ever, fool!"
"Well, none," Cheeto admitted. But he had plans. He had cars. He was going to make it big at any moment.
Cheese started hanging out at the car lot, watching his brother. He gave Cheeto tips on how to talk to people. "Don't talk with your hands so much - people don't trust you when you wave your hands like that." "Don't start pushing cars at people the minute they get here. Let them walk around, see what you have before you start selling." "And shut the f*** up! You never stop talking - give people some room, fool!"
Cheeto still wasn't getting it. After all, he'd failed to sell a car to his own pedestrianized mother.
One day when Cheese stopped by the car lot, Cheeto came running to him for help. He had a customer who needed a car badly and she'd just gotten her tax refund. She was ready to buy. Cheeto was ready to screw it up. Cheese said he would make the sale, but he wasn't doing it for free. They quickly agreed that Cheese would get 10% of the commission. Cheese feed him the lines, a la Cyrano de Bergerac, and Cheeto made the sale. Cheeto was ecstatic. Cheese made some cash. He told Cheeto that each time he helped him, his commission would increase by 10%.
A couple of days later, Cheeto called Cheese at home. "Come meet me at work," he said. When Cheese got there he learned that Cheeto's boss told him to go repossess a car. He had no idea what to do or how to do it, but he knew he could call Cheese. Cheese told him "Get in the car, fool. We're going to Auto Zone."
To be continued...
Cheese was going to quit the Sonic a couple of months ago. You may remember the story? He ended up staying because his new job was only for 3 or 4 hours a week. I don't know why restaurant managers think its even worth doing the paperwork to hire someone for such a pitiable amount of time, but it happens. Cheese kept both jobs stringing along, but he's gotten tired of it.
Cheese has a younger brother. His name is Cheeto, remember? Cheeto got a job at a used car lot. Its a shark pit. Cheeto started out washing cars. Now he's a salesman. Sort of.
He's been bugging Cheese to come down and buy a car from him. Everyday he comes home from work in a different car that he wants Cheese to look at and buy. Every day Cheese makes Cheeto show him the car, tell him the features, drive him around and negotiate financing. Every day Cheese tells him "Hell, no, fool! I ain't buyin' yo car."
Cheeto keeps trying.
Last week their mother's van broke down. Their dad has a car to get back and forth to work, but mom's got no wheels - she's afoot. Cheeto dragged her down to the car lot to look at their selection. He showed her several cars and made lots of promises. In the end she shook her head and said, "No, Cheeto. I'm not buying your car."
Cheese finally asked Cheeto "How many cars have you sold, fool?"
"What, this month?"
"This month or ever, fool!"
"Well, none," Cheeto admitted. But he had plans. He had cars. He was going to make it big at any moment.
Cheese started hanging out at the car lot, watching his brother. He gave Cheeto tips on how to talk to people. "Don't talk with your hands so much - people don't trust you when you wave your hands like that." "Don't start pushing cars at people the minute they get here. Let them walk around, see what you have before you start selling." "And shut the f*** up! You never stop talking - give people some room, fool!"
Cheeto still wasn't getting it. After all, he'd failed to sell a car to his own pedestrianized mother.
One day when Cheese stopped by the car lot, Cheeto came running to him for help. He had a customer who needed a car badly and she'd just gotten her tax refund. She was ready to buy. Cheeto was ready to screw it up. Cheese said he would make the sale, but he wasn't doing it for free. They quickly agreed that Cheese would get 10% of the commission. Cheese feed him the lines, a la Cyrano de Bergerac, and Cheeto made the sale. Cheeto was ecstatic. Cheese made some cash. He told Cheeto that each time he helped him, his commission would increase by 10%.
A couple of days later, Cheeto called Cheese at home. "Come meet me at work," he said. When Cheese got there he learned that Cheeto's boss told him to go repossess a car. He had no idea what to do or how to do it, but he knew he could call Cheese. Cheese told him "Get in the car, fool. We're going to Auto Zone."
To be continued...
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Judge Thurgood
I went to a funeral last week.
Judge Thurgood was one of the district judges when I was hired. We have two district judges and they are resposible for administering their juvenile and adult probation departments. At that time the two judges split those duties and Judge Thurgood was "our judge".
I was in awe of Judge Thurgood. He was like the Perry Mason of Judges. He was brilliant, tough and had frighteningly powerful eyes. Have you ever watched any of Billy Graham's early crusades? Judge Thurgood had eyes like Graham's. If you got caught in the Judge's gaze and he told you to drink the kool-aid, you'd do it and ask for more. We could pretty well predict the future of whatever schmuck was before the court by gaging the waggling of his eyebrows. If they rose on the outside and gnarled together in the middle, it was time to kiss your momma goodbye.
Judge Thurgood was a fair man. He was a man with high expectations of anyone he came into contact with, whether defendant, attorney or other court officers. He hated unneccessary delay. We grumbled about this frequently when we worked late into the evening dealing with people he was sending to us from his court. He worked until the job was done. Hopefully that happened by 5:00, but if not, so be it.
One day I waited on a court hearing in a hallway teeming with lawyers. You hear lots of interesting stuff in those situations. A couple of lawyers from Big Flat City were gossiping next to me.
"Did you hear about the Saturday court?"
"Yeah, I got my letter from Judge 'God' Thurgood!"
When the Judge couldn't get attorneys to bring their cases to court in what he felt was a timely manner, he would hold court on Saturday. This way none of the attorney's could claim other court duties as a reason to request a continuance.
The Judge was a powerful presence on the bench. Never before or since have I known anyone who could gnaw on a person like he could. If you were convicted of a crime in his court, he made sure you knew how society felt about your particular misdeed. My favorite of his speeches was the Lonesome Dove speech. It started with him pointing out a window and asking the defendant "Do you see that tree out there?"
Oddly enough, one thing I will always remember about Judge Thurgood is his handwrighting. He had the most gorgeous penmanship I have ever seen. His handwritten notes looked like the Declaration of Independence. ChevyPickup and I spent hours learning how to mimic his incredible signature. After all, forgery is the sincerest form of flattery.
Judge Thurgood was a survivor. He'd had hodgskin's disease 25 years ago. One day, several years ago, he left the bench following a court hearing, saying he didn't feel well. Within moments he'd suffered a major heart attack. He recovered from the heart attack, but not from the heart surgery. The cancer treatment he underwent years before had ravaged his body and he could not heal. Eventually he had to step down from office.
I didn't see him for several years after that. He became a sought-after visiting Judge all over this half of the state. He eventually retired from that and went into private practice in Big Flat City.
I hated it when he represented one of my people. Truthfully, I'm still in awe of him and being on the opposite side of the table from him could be pretty stressful. Despite his stooped, white-headed body and the ever present oxygen bottle, he still had those powerful eyes. Everytime I ran into him, he would smile, his eyes would sparkle and he'd say "We sure had a good thing going back then, didn't we?"
We sure did, Judge.
Judge Thurgood was one of the district judges when I was hired. We have two district judges and they are resposible for administering their juvenile and adult probation departments. At that time the two judges split those duties and Judge Thurgood was "our judge".
I was in awe of Judge Thurgood. He was like the Perry Mason of Judges. He was brilliant, tough and had frighteningly powerful eyes. Have you ever watched any of Billy Graham's early crusades? Judge Thurgood had eyes like Graham's. If you got caught in the Judge's gaze and he told you to drink the kool-aid, you'd do it and ask for more. We could pretty well predict the future of whatever schmuck was before the court by gaging the waggling of his eyebrows. If they rose on the outside and gnarled together in the middle, it was time to kiss your momma goodbye.
Judge Thurgood was a fair man. He was a man with high expectations of anyone he came into contact with, whether defendant, attorney or other court officers. He hated unneccessary delay. We grumbled about this frequently when we worked late into the evening dealing with people he was sending to us from his court. He worked until the job was done. Hopefully that happened by 5:00, but if not, so be it.
One day I waited on a court hearing in a hallway teeming with lawyers. You hear lots of interesting stuff in those situations. A couple of lawyers from Big Flat City were gossiping next to me.
"Did you hear about the Saturday court?"
"Yeah, I got my letter from Judge 'God' Thurgood!"
When the Judge couldn't get attorneys to bring their cases to court in what he felt was a timely manner, he would hold court on Saturday. This way none of the attorney's could claim other court duties as a reason to request a continuance.
The Judge was a powerful presence on the bench. Never before or since have I known anyone who could gnaw on a person like he could. If you were convicted of a crime in his court, he made sure you knew how society felt about your particular misdeed. My favorite of his speeches was the Lonesome Dove speech. It started with him pointing out a window and asking the defendant "Do you see that tree out there?"
Oddly enough, one thing I will always remember about Judge Thurgood is his handwrighting. He had the most gorgeous penmanship I have ever seen. His handwritten notes looked like the Declaration of Independence. ChevyPickup and I spent hours learning how to mimic his incredible signature. After all, forgery is the sincerest form of flattery.
Judge Thurgood was a survivor. He'd had hodgskin's disease 25 years ago. One day, several years ago, he left the bench following a court hearing, saying he didn't feel well. Within moments he'd suffered a major heart attack. He recovered from the heart attack, but not from the heart surgery. The cancer treatment he underwent years before had ravaged his body and he could not heal. Eventually he had to step down from office.
I didn't see him for several years after that. He became a sought-after visiting Judge all over this half of the state. He eventually retired from that and went into private practice in Big Flat City.
I hated it when he represented one of my people. Truthfully, I'm still in awe of him and being on the opposite side of the table from him could be pretty stressful. Despite his stooped, white-headed body and the ever present oxygen bottle, he still had those powerful eyes. Everytime I ran into him, he would smile, his eyes would sparkle and he'd say "We sure had a good thing going back then, didn't we?"
We sure did, Judge.
Monday, January 8, 2007
Whalloped by a Trollop
"There are girls who manage to sell themselves whom no one would take as gifts" - Nicholas de Chamfort
I had to make a quick stop at Wally World on my way to work this morning. I was out of hair product. (This had nothing to do with the sparking nun, by the way.) As I was rushing down the aisles I almost tripped over an old whore.
It was Georgia Amore. She looks to be about 70, but she's probably not a day over 69. Georgia and I spent a couple of years together in the early 90's when she was on my caseload. She was on probation for a DWI. She was a grouchy old crone, even then, and she gave me fits!
Georgia was riding in one of those Wally-Carts and had someone with her who looked like a paid care-giver. I'm not sure whether or not she recognized me. I certainly recognized her, even though her normally coal black hair was in a flaming red beehive.
We used to make the raids on the local night clubs, looking for probationers. Since Fake Cow County is dry, only private clubs are allowed to sell alcohol. To become a member of a club, all you had to do was sign a list normally kept in a spiral notebook by the door. Georgia Amore was the only one of my people who would sign in using her real name. I always stopped by the door to read the list when we went into a club.
We would invariably find Georgia ensconsed in a corner table in some dark dive. She always wore heavy-duty blue eye-shadow and spangly, curiously twisted shirts with silky gold pants. She also always had her gimpy leg propped up on a chair next to her. Every time we caught her she was pretty toasted and never really quite sure who we were and what we wanted.
I could never understand why anyone would want to purchase her services - a limping, wrinkled old lady with really od fashion sense.
Stupid me.
I'd watched too much television. The 80's cop shows painted much to elegant a picture of your average prostitute. My first real eye-opener was the time I talked with a girl who, like most, was prostituting for drugs. If real life had been like Hunter, she would have been using the money to feed her baby and keep her elderly aunt out of a crummy nursing home. And maybe even putting a few dollars in the bank so they couldn't forclose on the family farm and turn it into a parking lot.
Not so in real life. This girl's main income came from working a back room at crack parties. There would be a house full of people drinking and smoking crack and pot. She would be in a back room somewhere, doing blowjobs for $2.00.
Two dollars.
She'd earn enough to buy a couple of rocks, which she would use that day and be back "at work" when the high wore off. This wasn't the Stephen J. Cannel version of the oldest profession.
I never questioned Georgia about the particulars of her professional life. There are some things I just don't have to know. I wonder what Georgia's up to these days. She probably didn't have much of a retirement plan. But she's still got her fashion sense and evidently no shortage of blue eye-shadow.
I had to make a quick stop at Wally World on my way to work this morning. I was out of hair product. (This had nothing to do with the sparking nun, by the way.) As I was rushing down the aisles I almost tripped over an old whore.
It was Georgia Amore. She looks to be about 70, but she's probably not a day over 69. Georgia and I spent a couple of years together in the early 90's when she was on my caseload. She was on probation for a DWI. She was a grouchy old crone, even then, and she gave me fits!
Georgia was riding in one of those Wally-Carts and had someone with her who looked like a paid care-giver. I'm not sure whether or not she recognized me. I certainly recognized her, even though her normally coal black hair was in a flaming red beehive.
We used to make the raids on the local night clubs, looking for probationers. Since Fake Cow County is dry, only private clubs are allowed to sell alcohol. To become a member of a club, all you had to do was sign a list normally kept in a spiral notebook by the door. Georgia Amore was the only one of my people who would sign in using her real name. I always stopped by the door to read the list when we went into a club.
We would invariably find Georgia ensconsed in a corner table in some dark dive. She always wore heavy-duty blue eye-shadow and spangly, curiously twisted shirts with silky gold pants. She also always had her gimpy leg propped up on a chair next to her. Every time we caught her she was pretty toasted and never really quite sure who we were and what we wanted.
I could never understand why anyone would want to purchase her services - a limping, wrinkled old lady with really od fashion sense.
Stupid me.
I'd watched too much television. The 80's cop shows painted much to elegant a picture of your average prostitute. My first real eye-opener was the time I talked with a girl who, like most, was prostituting for drugs. If real life had been like Hunter, she would have been using the money to feed her baby and keep her elderly aunt out of a crummy nursing home. And maybe even putting a few dollars in the bank so they couldn't forclose on the family farm and turn it into a parking lot.
Not so in real life. This girl's main income came from working a back room at crack parties. There would be a house full of people drinking and smoking crack and pot. She would be in a back room somewhere, doing blowjobs for $2.00.
Two dollars.
She'd earn enough to buy a couple of rocks, which she would use that day and be back "at work" when the high wore off. This wasn't the Stephen J. Cannel version of the oldest profession.
I never questioned Georgia about the particulars of her professional life. There are some things I just don't have to know. I wonder what Georgia's up to these days. She probably didn't have much of a retirement plan. But she's still got her fashion sense and evidently no shortage of blue eye-shadow.
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