Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  The tattooed man shook his head.

  “Hell yes they will,” said the man across the fire. He shot an angry look.

  “Feathers don’t grow back,” the tattooed man insisted. “They got plucked. It ain’t hair you know.”

  The man across the fire stared at Larkin and his log mate in silence for a moment. “I know it ain’t hair,” he finally said. “But that shit will grow back.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The tattooed man crossed his arms. The southern flag curled and stretched as the bicep flexed. “Shut your mouth, Randy.”

  Uncle Donnie blew a smoke ring into Randy’s face. “Knock it off.”

  Loud footsteps signaled Terry’s return. “She’s going to fix you up, Mr. Monroe. Now,” he sat onto a bit of bench next to Uncle Donnie, forcing him to slide closer to Randy. “How can I help you?”

  Larkin swirled his drink. “You’re actually doing it right now. Other than this, I don’t know. I’m pretty much just screwed.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Randy.

  “Who here ain’t been screwed before?” asked one of the men. Randy smiled. “Not that kind of screwed,” said another.

  “Did he say he was screwed?” asked Uncle Donnie. He leaned in from his spot on the bench. “Why do you feel like you’re screwed? Can’t you do your lawyer thing and get out of it?”

  Larkin stared at the fire.

  “He’ll work his way out of it,” said Terry. “Mr. Monroe is the smartest man I know.”

  “Did you know I’m not even a real lawyer?” asked Larkin. “I didn’t even go to law school.”

  “For real?” asked the tattooed man.

  “I read for the bar. That means I worked for a guy who signed off on this thing that Virginia allows that . . . it was a paper that . . .” Larkin took another sip. “I just never went. No law degree.”

  “So how can you practice law?” asked Uncle Donnie.

  “I have a law license,” said Larkin. “I don’t have a degree from a law school, but I have a license. It’s like this loophole thing in the state law regarding lawyers.”

  “Huh,” said Uncle Donnie with a nod. He puffed on his pipe and nodded. “How long you been practicing law?”

  “Twelve years,” said Larkin, “maybe thirteen.”

  “Huh.”

  “Ain’t that something,” said Randy.

  The man with the long beard who had quietly sat in between Randy and the confederate shook his head. “Tomorrow I’m going to go and get my own law license,” he said.

  Randy laughed. “Who you going to sue?”

  “I’ll start with the post office,” said the man.

  “For real?” asked the tattooed man.

  Randy laughed. “He’s been drinking for hours.”

  Uncle Donnie spat his pipe into his hand, flipped it over, and smacked it against the heel of his palm. He then blew through the mouthpiece. A high-pitched whistle punctuated the night. “So you never went to law school,” said Uncle Donnie as he inspected the empty bowl of the pipe.

  “Right,” said Larkin.

  Uncle Donnie reached into his chest pocket and withdrew a small tightly wound plastic bag. He unfurled it with a flick of his wrist and withdrew a pinch of dark material and stuffed it into the pipe. “You didn’t have to pay for none of that schooling.”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been practicing law for over a decade,” said Uncle Donnie as he flicked his lighter. “Legally. And all because you found some loophole. That sounds like smart lawyering to me.”

  Randy chuckled and nodded his head. “You know, that’s making some sense there,” he said.

  “Not everyone has an eye for that stuff,” said Uncle Donnie.

  Larkin raised his jar of fire water in appreciation and Uncle Donnie reciprocated. The man’s little comment had truly and surprisingly made him feel good inside.

  He took another sip and as the now familiar heat subsided he noticed that Millie had silently appeared next to him. She peered at his leg and shook her head as if what she saw just would not do. “I think it stopped bleeding,” he said.

  “Got ourselves into a fight with a good sharp rock did we?” she asked with a cluck of her tongue.

  “You don’t win those fights,” said Randy. He stood and stretched. “Anyone up for some food?”

  “Paper covers rock,” said the bearded man.

  “You going to cook those burgers up?” someone asked.

  Terry pointed to Larkin’s drink as Mille kneeled to the ground. She pulled some items from her apron pocket but Larkin could not see what she had brought. “You’re going to want to sip that faster,” he said to Larkin. A smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “Why’s that?” he asked. “And I don’t like your face right now.”

  Millie spat into her left hand and appeared to knead something dark and soft. “Because when I put on this poultice,” she said, “it’s going to hurt like all get out for about twenty seconds before the oils set in.”

  “Poultice? You’re going to put a poultice on my leg?”

  “It will stop the bleeding, disinfect the wound, and knock that pain right away. Course Terry is right. Drinking helps.”

  “Amen,” said the man in the beard. He raised his jar and saluted the fire.

  Randy nodded and turned. “Shout if you want a burger before I come back,” he said.

  “I want two,” said the bearded man.

  “Done and done,” said Randy as he disappeared from view.

  “No!” shouted the bearded man. “Medium! In fact, make that medium rare.” He looked at Uncle Donnie. “Rare for the blood you know.”

  “But what for the brain?” Uncle Donnie asked the fire.

  “So what’s in the poultice?” asked Larkin. “Other than your spit.”

  “Cayenne to clot the blood,” said Millie as she worked the poultice furiously with her fingertips. “Valerian for the pain. Some other things.”

  “You’re going to put cayenne pepper on an open wound?” His hand brought the mason jar to his lips as if in reflex, but he did not move his leg. It could have been exhaustion or sheer apathy. He was at the bottom of a deep well of misery. Given his circumstances, what was the point in complaining about someone seasoning him up a bit?

  “That’ll sting like a son of a bitch,” said Uncle Donnie.

  “Mmm hmmm,” nodded Terry. “Like a bunch of little ole bee stings. Drink up, Mr. Monroe.”

  Larkin obliged Terry and swallowed a large gulp of apple pie.

  “Also, some other things,” continued Mille. “Some extracts, some mushrooms I thought I’d done used up, and some other things.” She looked up and gave him a wink. “Don’t worry your tail off. I’ve been making poultices for a long time.” She held up her hand. In the center of her strong outstretched fingers lay a mound of dark moist material. “Take a smell of that.”

  “I think the apple pie burned out my nose.” His rejection was of no use. Millie forced the poultice upon him, her fingers nearly in his nostrils. Larkin fought against it, but the mound of dirt and spit was just too pungent. “Jesus,” said Larkin.

  “What’s it smell like?” asked the tattooed man.

  Larkin’s eyes watered. “I don’t know. Fear?”

  Mille shrugged and kneaded the poultice just a few more times before gripping Larkin’s right ankle with the strength of an iron manacle. “Don’t you go and kick me in the fire now.”

  Larkin held his breath and closed his eyes as he waited for the pain to begin. A strange metallic squeaking noise became audible and then increased in volume. His curiosity got the best of him and he opened his eyes to see Randy pushing a beaten up, wire framed shopping cart literally onto the fire. He was about to ask when Millie slapped the poultice onto his leg. She pressed the moist clod deep into the wound and refused to lessen the pressure despite his screams begging the contrary. Eyes streamed tears and teeth gnashed. He did try to kick Mill
ie into the fire, but the woman was made of strong and sturdy stuff. She did not budge.

  “What did he say?” asked Uncle Donnie.

  “I don’t know,” said Terry. “But I bet it’s that cayenne pepper talking.”

  “Don’t get tossed in the fire now,” said Uncle Donnie.

  “Shit,” said Terry. “Mr. Monroe is a badass but he ain’t got an inch on Millie.”

  Close to twenty seconds later, the flesh-eating sensation subsided followed by a sudden burst of cooling as if he had just dipped his leg into a mountain stream.

  He opened his eyes, but the world swam behind an inch of tears. Millie stood, clapped her hands with a bit of dramatic flair and stepped back to consider her work. “That looks like it will hold. You keep your leg upright like that for at least thirty if not forty-five minutes. When it’s all said and done, you won’t be bleeding or feeling a thing.”

  Larkin wanted to ask what the hell was wrong with a band-aid and an ibuprofen, but he merely wiped the tears from his eyes. As his vision cleared, the bizarre scene in front of him took shape. Randy stood atop the log bench and stretched his left arm over the shopping cart.

  “Watch yourself,” said Uncle Donnie as he grabbed the back of Randy’s belt. Randy leaned further and liberally sprayed the blackened center of the shopping cart with cooking spray. The fire flared and Randy leaned back as the heat threatened to singe more than just his fingertips.

  “Dumbass,” said Larkin’s log-mate. “You’re supposed to spray the cart before putting it over the fire.”

  Satisfied with his performance, Randy hopped off of the log and stooped low to the ground. He picked up a plate stacked with ground beef patties. A long spatula protruded from his front pocket. With great precision he began placing the patties onto the wire-frame center of the cart. “You want a burger, counselor?”

  “Is that a Weber grill?” Larkin asked.

  “Big Lots,” said Uncle Donnie.

  “Burger,” repeated Larkin, though he did not know why. He stared at the fire. His muscles felt unusual. He was exhausted, that was obvious. But an energy flowed through him. Though he had run for most of the night, he suddenly felt as if he could vault the shopping cart grill if he really wanted. His skin tingled. He repeatedly stroked the fabric of his jeans.

  The energy reached his brain and quickened his thoughts and played with his vision. Where the fire had earlier seemed merely a blend of oranges and reds, he now saw small sparks of gold and silver twinkling between the flames. “What’s that?” he asked, transfixed by the light. “Did someone throw something in the fire?”

  “Randy’s just cooking up some burgers on the cart,” said Terry.

  “No,” said Larkin. “Right there,” he said as he pointed to the fireworks display beneath the cart. “It’s getting brighter.” Several of the sparks flew into each other, coalesced, and then burst into copper-colored carnations of light. “Wow. Did you see that?”

  Terry squinted and peered into fire. “I don’t . . .” He shook his head.

  “Damn!” shouted Larkin as he elbowed the confederate flag to his left. The sparks showered as if a demon welder was hard at work at the base of the fire. “My God, that’s something to see right there.”

  The scene went quiet except for the sizzling of the burgers and the sounds of grown men scratching their heads and beards. Somewhere in the distance, a naked chicken clucked.

  Larkin was hypnotized. The fire had come alive, a swirling slurry of exploding lights and small indescribable objects that must have been torn from heaven. It seemed so radiant, everything that surrounded it had no life, no importance. It was just the fire. “It’s just the fire.”

  “How much of the shine did the lawyer have?” asked Uncle Donnie.

  “He’s hardly had half,” said the bearded man.

  The men continued to speak, but Larkin paid no mind. He was away, far away. His heart thumped like a drum and his muscles were electrified. A light in the distance shimmered.

  “Hope,” he whispered as he stood. He would find the light.

  “Aw hell,” said Uncle Donnie.

  130 Proof

  The office phone rang. Larkin re-scattered the mountain range of documents on his desk.

  “Phone,” Larkin called, projecting his voice toward his office door and the hallway that led to Charisma’s desk. A manila folder poked out from beneath a stack of Virginia Lawyer’s Weekly newspapers. He gripped the corner with his fingers and pulled. The periodicals tumbled to the floor. The folder was bare. The phone rang.

  “Charisma, phone!”

  He picked up his expired edition of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure and tossed it aside revealing a fifty-page judicial opinion from the Court of Appeals. He stared at it for a moment. When he felt convinced that he had already seen it, he discarded it on the floor.

  “Christ,” he spat. The phone rang. “Phone!”

  “Don’t be taking his name like that,” snapped Charisma. “He heard it and he don’t like it.” Her frame took up the majority of space in the doorway.

  “I’ll say or not say whatever the hell you want if you pick up the damn phone,” said Larkin.

  “It ain’t ringing, Larkin,” said Charisma.

  Larkin looked up. “What?”

  “Check your desk.”

  Larkin straightened himself and then took a step away. The documents appeared to have multiplied. The newspapers had seemingly reappeared. “The Franklin case,” said Larry. “I need the Franklin case. I also had a motion to compel here too . . . somewhere.”

  “No you do not. That was a case you needed years ago. You filed the motion too. Over and done with, dear. Dead as Tuesday. Don’t you remember?” The phone rang.

  “Just get the phone, would you?

  “Stop!” Charisma clapped her strong hands together. She appeared as she always did: an ample blouse of flowery fabric to cover her curves, a head full of store-bought curls - - but the expensive kind - - and vivid brown eyes that could hug you at twenty yards. “You don’t have a phone.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Show me where. Where is your phone, Larkin? Find it for me.”

  Again, Larkin looked down at his desk. He stopped thinking of the case and his motion and tried to identify his familiar gray office phone among the ruins of his desktop filing system. He shifted enough papers to be sure. “It’s not here.”

  “That’s because there isn’t a phone, honey.”

  “Then what the hell is ringing?”

  “I don’t hear any ringing.” Charisma raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. The office was silent. She smirked. It was the same expression she made every time she knew something that he didn’t. It was a face he had often seen.

  “That’s . . . odd,” he finally said. His fingers ran through his hair.

  “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “What would you have me say?”

  Charisma rolled her eyes. “How about, ‘Hi, Charisma, the greatest secretary I’ve ever had, it is so nice to see you,’ or, ‘wow Charisma, you look good for being dead these long years.’ You know I don’t like to break rules, either.”

  Larkin nodded. “That’s for sure. Dotted your I’s and crossed those T’s.”

  “Don’t you forget it. How long have I been dead anyway?”

  Larkin thought for a moment. “Two years.”

  “Well then you know how good I look.” She inspected her blouse and scowled. “But this.” She tugged at the fabric. “I never ever wore this.”

  “You loved that shirt.”

  “It’s hideous. No. Hideous doesn’t have enough syllables. It’s . . . whatever that word is.”

  “That’s your . . . green and yellow flower shirt,” said Larkin. He smiled and pointed to the golden hibiscus blossoming above her left breast. “It’s your favorite shirt. Isn’t it?” He shook his head. “No. I know it. That’s your favorite shirt.”

  “You crazy. Turn that finger towa
rd the corner.”

  “What?”

  Charisma pointed to the refrigerator. “You poisoned your mind. Wine, both old and new, shall rob my people of their senses.”

  Larkin nodded. “A poisoned mind is better than a poisoned heart.”

  Charisma smiled. “Amen. But you don’t even know what that means. It just sounds good. Wise as all get out if you knew what it meant. And you don’t. But that was always your thing.”

  “What?” asked Larkin. “Tap dancing?”

  “In a way.” She cocked her head again and a long curled lock of someone else’s hair dangled across her face. She brushed it away as she shook her head. “No. I take that back. That’s what you think. A dancer just follows the steps, right? You don’t follow anything.”

  Larkin grinned. “Would you like to waltz?”

  “Hush. But that’s what I mean. What you do is more than that. It ain’t just dancing. You hit just the right words.” She smacked her hands together again. “Hammer on the nail. All the time. Never a miss.”

  “Thanks,” said Larkin.

  “Oh, don’t you give me that tone.”

  “What tone?”

  She crossed her arms.

  Larkin crossed his. “I don’t need a pep talk, Charisma.”

  “You’re right on that. What you need is pep boot camp. But you ain’t going to get it. This is it.”

  Larkin sat in his chair. Both he and the leather sighed.

  “Oh,” said Charisma. “I see.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m listening,” said Larkin and waved his hand.

  “No you’re not. You’re hearing me out. I ain’t one of your clients.”

  Larkin said nothing. He rocked a bit in his chair.

  “It’s a blessing, Larkin. A god-given gift. You could talk a snail out of his shell in a salt mine.”

  “Thanks, Charisma. And I mean that.”

  Charisma shook her head. “I know. You’ve heard this before haven’t you?”

  Larkin shrugged.

  “Exactly, you have heard this before, but you never listened. If you had, you wouldn’t still be in this place. You just go on hearing people out.”

  “I thought you liked this office,” said Larkin.