“What you got there? Looking at porn on the job?”
He awkwardly laughs. “Nah, man, cleaning up a few things.” He disconnects a small USB flash drive from his desktop.
“Flash drive? Downloading porn?” I say.
“No, work. Don’t worry about it.”
“Girl-girl? Boy-girl-animal?”
“Not porn. You really need to get some ass and get your mind off porn.”
He’s downloading right from our pension database. “What are you gonna do with those retiree profiles?”
He motions for me to keep my voice down. Then, he exhales before he looks up into the sky like he always does when I force him to tell me something. He moves his body from covering the screen. “Okay,” he whispers, as he looks to make sure there’s no one around us. “I’ve found a guy who’ll pay for the Social Security numbers, addresses, and direct-deposit accounts of retirees.”
“You playing, right?” I say.
“Nope. It’s supplementing my income,” he replies.
“Wow, this is a new low for you.”
“Don’t judge.”
“I’m not, but you’re actually taking food off the plates of little old grandmothers,” I say, laughing.
“You can look at it that way. I prefer not to,” he says. “Now what? You gonna tell on me?”
“Why would I do that? Do I look like I give a fuck?”
“That’s why I always know I can trust you,” he says as he extends his fist for a pound.
“But I’m concerned you need a role model,” I say. “This is some lowdown deviant shit.”
“They don’t pay us enough anyway. It’s kinda like me getting my honest salary,” he says.
It makes sense . . . sort of. “I feel you, but there’s nothing honest about that.”
Jake holds up the flash drive. “Whatever, I gotta meet my guy. Don’t forget to think about my plan. You staying here late ain’t gonna get you that promotion. Especially after you cost us a big client and cursed out Ginny.” He laughs. “You are one big asshole. Can’t get out of your own way.”
“How’d you hear about that?” I made a conscious effort not to tell him to avoid the ridicule.
“Man, I hear about everything. And everyone has heard about that.” He gets up, grabs his bag, and rushes out. “Now, you’re gonna make me late, bullshitting with you. Later.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I hope I’m not here all day. I’ve got too much to do at work. Wait a minute, I’m turning into a model employee. Old me would’ve wished and campaigned to be in court all day. Shit, a few days, in fact. As I sit in the courtroom, something doesn’t sit right with me. There are a lot of cameras, boom mics, and assorted equipment in here. I don’t even see Alexis. Maybe she doesn’t show and I can go on with my day. I might get to make that trip to Fun-2-Sea Land I planned on the drive in. She probably realized she has nothing to sue me for. It’s not like we were married. Can you sue someone when you were supposed to be married?
The bailiff, a tall, stocky bald white man with a bushy red mustache, motions for me to come closer. “Kevin Taylor?” he says.
“That’s me.”
“Can you come with me?”
“Sure.”
I follow him out of the courtroom. I’m assuming my case got dismissed, because she’s a no-show. I wonder if I’ll get some sort of parting gift for all of the inconvenience of today. Nothing big. A hat or maybe a frosty beer mug.
“Is this your first time in court?” the bailiff continues.
I nod.
“First time on TV?”
“Yes . . . what?” I say.
“Television,” he says.
“Yes, I know what TV is an abbreviation for. What do you mean by my first time on TV?”
“You don’t know what this is?” The bailiff points around to the courtroom. I begin to recognize the room, like I’ve been here before, but I don’t remember when. “You did sign the waiver, right?”
I nervously nod.
Then, a small man pops up and interrupts our conversation. “You’re on in three . . . two . . .” He walks backward and holds up one finger. Then, he points for us to go. The door to the courtroom reopens, and I hear an announcer.
“The defendant, Kevin Taylor, is being sued for wrongfully keeping the plaintiff’s possessions and other damages.”
Oh shit, I’m on the Judge Mad Dog Show, a syndicated court TV show for people who have issues that can’t be resolved without looking like complete assholes in front of the country. And the star of the show is Judge JoJo “Mad Dog” Dupree, a textbook jive-talking loudmouthed caricature of a black man. He sports a dated flat-top haircut and a bushy mustache that looks like Steve Harvey’s mustache made love to Isaac from The Love Boat’s mustache and spawned an even more ultimate and genetically enhanced mustache. He wears black sunglasses in court, like a blues harmonica player, and is known for talking loud and making a spectacle of himself and everyone who comes before him. He comes complete with catch phrases and all. Basically, he’s what white people think of when they close their eyes and think of what a black judge is going to act like. Not a respectable, sane man like Thurgood Marshall, of course, but Judge Mad Dog.
How the fuck could she call me onto this show? I don’t even have anything of hers. This is beyond fucked-up. I’m sure I should win easily, but this show is showed all over the world, and it’s one of top-rated programs in syndication.
I sit down at my table, and then Alexis trots out, looking sorrowful, wearing a cheap-looking wrinkled sundress, with her hair a mess. She’s met with moans from the audience. Those sad puppy-dog eyes used to work on me, and have struck a chord with the unsuspecting audience. She’s followed by her beau, Robbie.
“Now, now, what do we have here today?” Judge Mad Dog says in his trademark too-loud-for-the-room volume.
Alexis gets up and starts to give her take on the story. I guess this is when I find out why I’m being sued.
“Your Honor, I’ve spent the last four years in a relationship with that man sitting over there,” she says as she timidly points to me. “There were some good times, but the bad times far outnumbered them.”
“Excuse me, little mama, but can you please cut to the chase? I got a tasty order of Donte’s spareribs waiting for me in the judge’s quarters, and I don’t want it to get cold,” he says. The audience laughs; he smiles at them as he mimics licking his fingers. “Honey hickory sauce and hush puppies, baby!” I’m glad he can see right through her bullshit.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor.”
“Don’t be sorry, be about the law,” he yells. His elevated pitch startles her.
“Okay, well, during our relationship I paid for mostly everything. And he verbally and mentally abused me.”
“How so?” he says.
“He would always call me a fat pig and say he knows he can do better.”
Judge Mad Dog stares me down. “Did you say that to this nice tasty pastry treat?”
I’m thrown off by his word choice at first. Then, I reply, “No. Not at all.”
“Because I don’t think you can do better. You should be lucky she let you tap that in the first place,” he says.
The crowd claps and cheers, even though what he said was outstandingly inappropriate. I even hear an old black woman say “Ummm-hmmm” as if she were sitting front row in a hot Southern Methodist church on Sunday.
“She’s lying to you, Your Honor,” I say. “You can’t believe a word she says.”
“I’m not supposed to pick sides in cases like this,” he says. “But I’m taking her side with this one. She seems less full of shit. You seem to be brimming with bullshit.” I didn’t even know he could curse, since this was going to be on TV. I guess they bleep it out or edit those parts. But having a judge cursing at you is a stark reality check. “Now, it’s nothing you said or done exactly, but just by the looks of you.”
A judge can do that? By the looks of me? Should I object? Overrul
e? Will I get held in contempt? Do I know any other court terms from watching Law & Order?
He continues, “It’s a look in your eyes that shows you can be a huge asshole. A leech. A master manipulator. A huge agitator. A chronic masturbator. And a devilish instigator.” He’s known to dip into spells of speaking in rhyme like a minister speaks in tongues, even though what either of them says never makes sense. “Taking advantage of this poor young woman. Robbing her of her youth and inner beauty. You are a jive-turkey son of a bitch.”
Now, everyone is cheering and clapping. The bailiff starts to dance and ends it with a spin. People in the crowd are egging the judge to keep on. The fat black lady who I suspect was the one with the “ummm-hmmm” earlier jumps out of her seat and pretends to faint, or maybe she actually faints. I really hope she’s dead. I hate her and her theatrics.
I have to save myself somewhat. “Judge.” There’s no honor in him, so I’m done with referring him to as “Your Honor.” “Does she have any evidence? Right now, these are only unproven allegations.”
This throws him back a minute. He lowers his shades to get a good look at me. This silences the commotion in the courtroom. “Oh, what do we have here? A smarty-art Johnny Cochran brotha, huh? Johnny Cock-head, please tell me how to run my court. Oh, please tell me. You want to do this?” He holds out his gavel to me. “I wish you would grab this. I’d bust you in the head if you try to touch my gavel.”
I would definitely do a better job than him, but I’m not falling for his trick.
The judge continues, “Ms. Martin, do you have any of this evidence to appease Mr. Taylor? I and everyone else here have already made up our minds, but he wants his evidence.”
Robbie hands her a manila envelope that’s jam-packed with papers. “Yes, Your Honor. I have telephone bills, cable bills, restaurant receipts, movie receipts, bills from my doctor, bills from my psychiatrist—”
“Wait, baby girl, he sent you to a shrink?” Judge Mad Dog interrupts.
“Yes, he’s caused me so much emotional turmoil. The type that’s too deep and will take years of expensive therapy to heal.” The judge shakes his head at me.
“She dumped me. Right after I proposed to her. And she was cheating on me with my friend.” I turn to the audience. No one cares about me.
“I can’t blame her, son. Who would want to be married to you and take part in this abusive relationship?” he says. “Sounds like she came to her senses and found a man who’d treat her right. Give her that good loving she needs. Not a punk in the bedroom. Knows how to throw that wood around.” He stands up for a second and does some pelvic thrusts. Then, he sits back down.
“Wait, she didn’t say anything about me performing in the bedroom,” I say.
“She didn’t have to, son. She didn’t have to,” he says. “I can tell, when it comes to the pucker, you go out like a sucka.”
The crowd roars.
“I also have bills from my gynecologist for all of the urinary-tract infections caused by Mr. Taylor,” she continues. I hear a consensus “eww” from the crowd.
He stares at me. “You’s a nasty muthafucka.” Judges are allowed to curse directly and emphatically at you now, apparently.
“I also have a bill for the furniture we picked out prior to our breakup,” she says.
“But I paid for the furniture,” I say to her, and look at the judge. He doesn’t respond. “And you took the furniture.” I look at both of them again. The judge shrugs.
“That’s not the point,” she says. The judge agrees.
“And I have an appraisal of the engagement ring,” she says.
“You also kept the ring.”
“Well, you did offer it to me,” she says.
“To marry me. The least you can do is give it back.”
“No, the least you can do is give it to her for all the trouble,” the judge says. “You were cruel to her for the entire duration of the relationship, it sounds.”
“Don’t be cruel . . . don’t be, don’t be baby,” Robbie continues. He’s gotten up and is dancing with people in the audience. The bailiff goes over to get him, or so I thought, but joins them in dancing. The old fat black lady is dancing with Robbie. He’s shaking his head in between her massive bosom while she screams with glee. “Don’t be cruel . . . don’t be, don’t be baby. ‘Cuz I would never be that cruel to you,” he continues. I turn back around to the front of the courtroom and see the judge is dancing too.
When Robbie’s impromptu mini-performance settles down, which seemed to take forever, Judge Mad Dog awards Alexis with the engagement ring as compensation for all of the “damages” I caused her. I’m not even sure if this is a real court. So when I get home, I’m gonna look to see if I can appeal. I’ll probably forget to research that and take a nap or something. On my way out, Alexis and I make eye contact. She shrugs her shoulders and mouths the words I’m sorry. I’m not sure whether she is sincere or not, but I go home believing she was.
Working hard for nothing. That’s how I can sum up most of my days. I do the same thing over and over again in a place that’s unbearable, with people I predominantly despise for one reason or another. And I spend more time with these people in this place than with anyone or anywhere else. If that’s not pathetic, then I don’t know what is. I have to answer questions and act subordinate to people who I’m substantially smarter than. Talk about unfair. Somehow on this journey to adulthood our roles have changed, and I can’t pinpoint where or how the shift happened.
I used to think there were only two kinds of employees: happy ones and ones who bring the happy ones down. But that’s not the case. There are no happy ones. Only pretenders. And they annoy me the most.
And the little things tick me off now. Like I’m tired of saying “good morning” to people. It’s always a fake “good morning,” because I never feel like I’m having a good morning when I’m in this place. And I feel so fake saying it. And my co-workers say it in return, which makes me feel they’re lying right to my face. Or it could be worse: they might mean it. And I feel nothing but sympathy for those that do. How can this be good to them? And when I walk by somebody and they don’t say “good morning,” I get even more upset. Weird, right? But where do they get off not saying anything to me? They can’t be cordial? You can say or do something. Hell, a grunt would even suffice most of the time. Such assholes.
There’s always someone who has a cold and coughs and sneezes everywhere. Then that shit spreads. These morons are simply fucking children. No wonder management treats them like children. When we get rewarded for meeting quarterly goals, it’s with shit like pizza parties. The only thing missing is a furry mascot tying balloon animals for us. So demeaning. Almost as bad as the gifts they sporadically drop off on our desks: fancy pens, little flashlights, water bottles, new mouse pads. All dumb throwaway shit. I have a bottom drawer full of them. And why is someone always bringing in dip for no reason? No occasion at all. No party. They’re compelled to unleash their dip recipe on the office. It makes no damn sense.
No one talks to anyone else either. There’s been times when I’ve sneezed, presumably from catching a cold from one of the germ-riddled, and I’ve received an instant message saying “bless you” from someone sitting near me. I bet if I were choking on a chicken bone someone would instant message me a website link for the Heimlich maneuver, as opposed to getting up to help me. That’s the culture we’ve become.
And these people can’t be granted the simple liberty of thinking for themselves. And I unfortunately get lumped in with them. You give them an inch and they’ll ornately decorate that inch like they do their cubicles. Some of these cubicles either look like a teenager’s bedroom or the living room for a middle-aged woman whose cats outnumber her friends by a five-to-one ratio. I’ve seen temps come in for a week-long assignment and break out the knickknacks and plants to make themselves feel like they’re at home. And some employees even take to having their own personal radio playing all day long, not with head
phones on, mind you. So whoever is in the vicinity is forced to be subjected to their talk-radio bullshit or hits from the seventies or whatever they’re listening to.
Then take something as harmless as Casual Friday, for example. People should know they’re allowed to wear business casual clothes, and to keep it somewhat professional when they do so. But what do these jerk-offs wear to work? They wear sweatpants with catchy sayings like delicious or kiss me on the butt cheeks—always false advertisement—tracksuits like Ukrainian gangsters, baseball hats sometimes turned backward, their alma mater’s apparel, sweatshirts from the schools their children attend, pajama pants, shorts, tank tops, flip-flops. I’ve even seen some dickheads wear slippers to work. Have some fucking self-respect. These people need to be told specifically what to do, what to wear, how to behave. And they need to follow in line. Just like fucking lemmings. I’m not a lemming. I’m not them. I’ll never see the edge of the cliff.
Every time I hear Susan talk about little Tony getting straight A’s on his report card, I fucking cringe. So what he’s getting straight A’s? It’s the fucking second grade. Has he mastered making shapes out of construction paper? It’s almost as bad as the people who bring their kids in on their days off. So you’re gonna tell me you have a day away from this place when you’re getting paid to stay away, and you decide to drive into work so you can parade your child around the office. I don’t give a shit. I don’t really want to play talk to them, saying dumb shit like, “Boy, we’re hiring younger and younger these days” or any of that. Or Mondays, when Wally talks about spending his entire Saturday at the apple orchard picking out “just the bestest Red Delicious apples.” And then spending all of Sunday making pies out of them. They’re pretty good pies, but that’s not the point. I don’t give a fuck about his pie-making hobby. He has to feel how badly I want to tell him he sounds like a gaping vagina. And what’s worse is that the old white ladies often mistake me for Wally. We look nothing alike. The only similarity is I’m black and he’s black. But he’s taller than me, which makes him oafish, dresses in the same clothes an unfashionable eight-year-old would wear, has glasses, and depending on the day of the week, he might be holding an apple pie in his hand. I hate his guts even more when they confuse us. I wonder if that’s what’s holding me back from getting my promotion. People thinking I’m Wally. Fucking Wally.
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