by Sierra Hill
As I sift through some of the photos, trying to place them back in some semblance of order, Mr. Forsberg points down to them.
“I’m missing my Martha today,” he murmurs, by way of explanation to the overturned box of memories. “It would have been our sixtieth wedding anniversary today. I was looking for the picture on our wedding day. My beautiful, young bride. She made me the envy of every man in our town. Martha could have had anyone – and any of them far more handsome than me. But for some reason, she chose me. Made me the happiest man alive for fifty-five years.”
I keep my head down, sorting through the pile in search of a picture of their wedding day. I don’t want Simon to see me with tears in my eyes. His sweet words, so full of love and adoration, make my heart ache for something. I just don’t know what. I have no idea what that emotion even feels like, because I’ve never had it. But Simon experienced it while Martha was alive on this earth, and now knows the anguish of loss.
I’ve never seen a love like that before. Never heard a man speak of a woman with such reverence. I’ve never been in love, nor have I seen it firsthand. My mother never had a boyfriend or husband long enough to even celebrate a six-month anniversary. We had food in our fridge that lasted longer than most of her relationships. And certainly none of those losers would have ever expressed such tender emotions toward her.
Simon’s sentiments made me realize that maybe there were men out there that did have a heart. Who possessed strength in character. Who treated a woman the way she deserved to be treated.
Not that it makes any difference to me.
I don’t want a man. I’m just fine with how things are in my life, and the last thing I have time for is some stupid boy.
2
Cade
I literally got busted with my pants down.
The situation is a massive shit show and there is no two-ways about it. I fucked up. Royally. And it is much bigger than any of the other stupid stuff I’ve pulled over the last three years of college. This was possibly the biggest mistake of my life, that could cost me everything I’d worked so hard to achieve since I was ten-years-old.
My future education, my college basketball career, and maybe even my undetermined professional life, is now lying in the hands of a judge and jury – the Maricopa County Court judge, the Dean of Students, my parents, and Coach Welby.
It had all started three nights ago, on Tuesday night, when Carver coaxed me into going out for a pre-birthday dinner, because my twenty-first was in six days. I’d initially told him no, because I wasn’t feeling much like partying with the mounds of schoolwork already sitting untouched on my desk. It’s still early in the school year, and I already feel behind. I was fairly certain I had a bio-chem test the next day, and a paper due in a week. I really couldn’t afford another night out.
But it was Twofer-Tuesday at Casa de Frida, the little Mexican hole-in-the-wall down the street from our off-campus apartment. It was kind of a tradition that Carver and Lance, my two roommates, and I shared. So I gave in to Carver’s incessant whining and we went to grab some chips and salsa, burritos and margaritas. It started out just the three of us, but before I realized it, we had a group of fifteen friends, and a plethora of chicks, all throwing back shots of tequila. And from the third shot on, things go a little fuzzy.
I had started chatting up this chick, Calista. I think that was her name. She had sidled up to me at the table and was a pretty blonde with really big tits. Had we been anywhere other than a restaurant, I might have insisted on doing body shots between her boobs. That would’ve been hot as fuck.
Anyway, since me and my pals are all starting seniors on the men’s basketball team, we draw a lot of attention. Which means, a lot of pretty pussy. So there I was, talking to Calista – or maybe it was Calinda. Well, whatever. She was laughing. We were all drinking. Having a great time. And then I felt her hand make its way down the front of my gym shorts, and just like that, I was sporting wood. She leaned in, tilted her head up to my ear (‘cause I’m six-five), and told me she wants to blow me.
Now, I’m not an idiot. Well, not usually. Truth is, I’ve hooked up with plenty of hoops hunnies at parties and other gatherings in my time. So I’m not unaccustomed to this type of come on. When a hot chick says she wants to give you a blowjob, you don’t ask questions. You don’t think too hard about it. You just get right on that shit. What drunk dude is gonna say no to that?
Not this one.
We stumbled out of the booth, I wrapped my arm around her tiny waist to keep her from falling, and we went out to my parked car in the restaurant lot.
Not too classy, I’ll admit, but I’m not a sleazy asshole. Not usually. I could’ve taken her to my apartment a few blocks away, but I knew better than to drive in my condition. I was just feeling pretty fucking happy that I had a car in the lot at all, because at least it would afford us a little privacy, even if it was in the middle of a dimly lit parking lot. I wasn’t overly bothered by the location or being seen by passers-by because it was late and my windows were tinted. My initial scan of the lot proved that I was right – no one around. Score. My raging hard on was quite pleased, so life was good.
I opened the door and let what’s-her-face get cozy in the front seat. She started going at it – slipping her hand down my shorts, pulling out my hard cock, and bending over my lap to suck me deep inside her mouth. I remember looking down at the top of her head, watching her slide my dick in and out between her lips, thinking that it was really hot.
Not sexy-hot, but heat-hot. It was hotter than a brick oven inside my car. I couldn’t roll the windows down, as to not compromise our privacy, so I stuck the keys in the ignition and turned on the air to cool things down.
At this point, I was totally in my happy place. Getting my knob polished by a young, eager hoops hunny, feeling a great buzz humming through my veins from the alcohol (or maybe it was from the little throaty hum that the chick had going on) – and I was settling back because things were just getting good. I could feel my balls tightening up, signaling the oncoming orgasm - that sweet little tingle of bliss as my cock goes rigid. I was just about to blow my load down this girl’s throat when a bright light hits me square in the face from the driver’s side of my car.
My eyes flew open in a disgruntled rage. At first, I was pissed as hell that one of my buddies thought it would be funny to take a video of the action going down in my car. I was just about to let them have it when I hear the tap, tap, tap on the window glass, and the loud booming voice that’s attached to it.
“This is the Tempe PD. Please turn off engine and step out of the car with your hands up.”
Everything in that moment turned to slow mo. Like the instant replay during a televised basketball game. You know the one – where the player goes up for a dunk and comes down wrong. ESPN plays the loop over and over again, as you watch with scrutinized empathy as the guy holds onto his leg, his face is contorted in agony. And that’s exactly what it had felt like in my car in that moment.
The girl dropped my cock out of her mouth like it was on fire, jerking back into her seat with a garbled shriek of terror. I turned my head first toward her, where she was taking in large quantities of air as if she’d just run five miles. Then I dropped my head to my pants, where my exposed, semi-hard dick dangled in confusion over what was going on.
Holy shit. This is not good.
I somehow complied with the officer’s orders to turn off my car engine and opened the door handle to get out.
“Get out of the car nice and easy, sir.”
Jesus, did this guy think I was going to jump him, and clobber him with my dick as a line of defense? The thought had me wanting to burst out in laughter. But I didn’t, because this was some serious shit.
I moved as slowly as I could, but also took haste in sticking my dick back in my pants and straightening up to my full height. Cowering isn’t my style.
A pair of strong hands took hold of my shoulders, turned me around and shoved
me down to the hood of my car. My head collapsed against the hot metal, my cheek burning against the heat. The officer kicked at my ankles to spread my legs.
I let out a grunt of displeasure. One minute I had been just about to come down a girl’s throat, and the next I was spread eagle being frisked by an intimidating civil servant.
“Do you have any concealed weapons on you, sir?”
I stammered, but it came out slurred. “N-noooo, sir.”
“Have you been drinking tonight?”
Okay, the first response that popped into my head had been a very drunken, sarcastic one. Luckily, I wasn’t too far gone that I couldn’t stop myself from making a complete fool of myself.
During that minute, a thousand thoughts ran through my head. And none of them were bound to end well for me.
I had been drinking, in a public restaurant and I wasn’t of legal drinking age yet.
I was in the possession of a fake ID.
I was in the midst of receiving a blow job in the front seat of my car. In a public parking lot.
Could it get any worse?
Yes…yes it could.
Turns out, I’d broken more than a few laws that night. FML.
“Sir, you’re under arrest for public indecency, as well as driving under the influence and underage consumption.”
So here I sit, three days later, in a courtroom in the Maricopa County courthouse, waiting the fate that will be handed down to me for my error in judgment and utter stupidity that one night.
I want to blame Carver for making me go out. I want to be pissed at that girl Clarissa (shit, see? I’m no good with names), for being so easy. I want to confront the officer who busted me and ask him why me? Why’d he choose me to make an example of, when there were rapists, criminals and jay walkers to go after?
But in truth, the only one to blame is me. And now I await the punishment and consequences of my actions.
I look to my right, where my lawyer, Gerry Winger, is sitting in his thousand-dollar custom suit, shuffling some papers. He looks confident and self-assured based on the smug smirk he has across his mouth.
Just behind the attorney sit my mom and dad. My mother, Kristine, looks elegant as always in her crisp lavender blouse with her pearl necklace - a standard accessory - draped around her neck. If it weren’t for the look of complete and utter helplessness, she’d seem like she belonged there. Part of the scenery. Blending in and becoming whatever she needed to be for her family.
Poor mom. Her only son – her golden boy – has gone and tarnished his image. And this time it had nothing to do with trying to make her and my dad look bad. Although that’s exactly the reason my father thinks I did it. To get back at him for leaving us.
My dad, Allen, sits next to my mother, his body tensed tightly in his own custom-made pinstripe. He’s aged in the last two years. More gray hair and small lines across his forehead showing his age. He wears the same stern and serious look he normally does. The one that tells everyone ‘Don’t fuck with me. I’ll eat you for breakfast.’
Not a lot of love lost there. Maybe he loved me at some point in my life. Liked me even. But somewhere between moving from boy to manhood, my dad got it in his head that every dumb thing I did was intentionally done to humiliate him – t make him look bad – in front of his friends, his neighbors, his colleagues. Like I even thought about his lame-ass co-workers when I pulled the crap I did. It was laughable that he thinks I have anyone else on my mind other than myself most of the time. For that matter, I’m a pretty typical, self-involved, college guy.
When I called my father from jail that Tuesday night, I was prepared for yelling and screaming, ranting over my idiocy and juvenile behavior. Instead, I got the silent treatment. He went right into protective-mode, calling in favors with his lawyer partners and co-workers, to bust me out on bail. And before I was even out of the slammer, my dad had contacted my basketball coach, the Dean of Students, my frat president – and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear even my Bible school teacher was notified. The man is nothing if not efficient, I’ll give him that.
And thank God he has the connections that he does. As an attorney himself, he knows the right people. And the right guy is sitting next to me, looking cool as a cucumber.
Gerry leans over the side of his chair and whispers in my ear. Even though he’s counseled me on everything I needed to know before we got into the courtroom, I guess he figures a dumb twenty-year old jock wouldn’t remember the courtesies that are required to be extended in a court of law.
“Just as a reminder, Kincaid. You’ll stand when the judge comes in, and remain standing until she gives you the go-ahead to take a seat. And then, you’ll only speak when she asks you a direct question. And you’ll always address her as Your Honor, or Judge. Got all that, son?”
Son? What do I look like – a five-year-old Boy Scout? Fine, I’ll show him I can play nice.
“Yes, sir. I think I’ve got it.”
I take a quick glance around the room and upfront where the court reporter and court clerk are both seated.
Just then, a young man I assume is the law clerk walks in and the bailiff calls the court to order.
“Please rise. The court of Maricopa County of the State of Arizona is now in session. The Honorable Judge Hawkins presiding.”
I rise to my feet, my eyes set squarely on the distinguished older woman – probably in her mid-sixties judging by her graying hair – as she exits her chambers, and walks up to her little perch above the courtroom. It’s just like a scene from Law & Order. Except the consequences are a helluva lot more dire and personal.
Perspiration drips from my armpits and down my back, my hands grow clammy, and my knees feel like they are about to cave in from nerves. I haven’t felt this nervous since we made it to the Sweet Sixteen last year and played the unbeatable Gonzaga.
“You may be seated.”
There are a few moments of silent pause as the Judge places her glasses on and reviews what I assume are my transcripts and court docs. I don’t move. I’m not even sure I’m breathing.
“Mr. Griffin.” Her voice is strong and loud, surprising me a little because she’s so short.
“I’ve reviewed the charges against you by the County. I’ve also read through your exemplary history and school records which have been provided to me by your attorney. I’m saddened to see such an unnecessary, and regretful, lapse in judgment by such a promising young man.”
My head hangs low. Talk about kicking me when I’m down. Does she think I don’t already feel like an ass over my mistake? That I wasn’t already filled with remorse over my actions?
But in all fairness, the charges are bogus, and hardly a serious offense if you ask me. It’s not like I drove drunk and killed someone. Christ, I’d never do that. And I didn’t rob a bank or pull a gun and shoot a group of students. There are far more heinous crimes being committed at this very moment than my measly, stupid public indecency.
In my humble opinion, the problem with the charges against me is that they don’t adequately describe what really happened that night. Well, not all of it, at least.
The judge continues her verbal scrutiny of my case.
“I see here that on the night of August Twenty-first, you were charged with public indecency, a DUI, a first-offence, I understand, as well as underage consumption” Judge Hawkins looks up at me from behind her wire-rimmed glasses and I don’t know if I’m supposed to answer her or not. My attorney doesn’t say anything, so I guess it was rhetorical.
She continues. “Driving under the influence is a serious offense, Mr. Griffin. It could have led to an accident, or worse yet, a fatality. Vehicular homicide.”
I want to jump in. To explain that I wasn’t even driving. I had no intentions of driving the car until I sobered up. But under the Arizona law on driving under the influence, because I was intoxicated over the legal limit of .08, and was behind the wheel with the car’s ignition on and in control of the car, it constitutes as drivi
ng. Under the influence. It definitely sucks.
My dad had never been a stickler with drinking. He knew me and my buddies in high school and college drank. And he may have even laughed off the public indecency rap, based on the ‘boys will be boys’ motto. But an underage DUI was well over his tolerance for forgivable. And the way the Judge leans on her elbows, her nose scrunched like she’s smelled the inside of the guys’ locker room after a game, she may not find it forgivable either.
And lest we forget I was using my fake ID while drinking that night. Six mother-fucking days before my twenty-first, and I get caught. All those years using it to get into bars, to clubs. Going to concerts. To sporting events. To frat parties. I’d never gotten busted for drinking. Until now.
Gerry pokes me in the side. I jerk my head and look at him with pleading eyes. Shit. I wasn’t listening.
“Mr. Griffin, I asked if you understood the ramifications of the charges against you? The underage DUI and the public indecency?”
I nod my head, and Gerry speaks on my behalf.
“Your Honor. Mr. Griffin is sincerely regretful for his undeniably irresponsible behavior and reprehensible actions from the night in question. As you may know, Judge Hawkins, Mr. Griffin is a respected athlete, an All-American basketball player, and is in his senior year at ASU. He has a 3.5 grade point average and is slated to graduate this spring with a degree in biomedical engineering. We are prepared to call upon a number of character witnesses to provide testimony related to his unblemished character and moral rectitude.”
Gerry places a well-manicured hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “If it pleases the court, Your Honor, Mr. Griffin had no intentions of operating his vehicle on the roads that night. He was parked in a lot of the restaurant with a female friend, where he had been celebrating the beginning of their final year of school, as well as his upcoming birthday.”